The Strength of Apostasy, a good marina sauce

"A science that strives to understand apostasy as a thoroughly social phenomenon has much to gain by recognizing the members of this curious class [...] for what they are."-- David A Bromley, The Politics of Religious Apostasy, p 116

Ray Liotta's poc-marked projection of shell shocked disembodiment is perfectly diachronic between slumming it with Scorsese in Goofellas, to the complexities of the present day. Nothing is so clearly delineated anymore between our villains, our heroes, our collusions, and though one might grow weary of seeing him parody Machiavellian duplicity until his inevitable murder rectifies the situation, he's done it for so long that he manages to make it a high art in this new high octane series, though we might not take away anything fresh, and J-Lo is as Halle Berry still convincing herself she's the diva cop of yore, retreading Angel Eyes and Enough, as if we haven't seen enough of the tight T-shirt braggadocio to know its keynotes.

Italians have always known this however, even in the classic era. The Republicans assassinate Augustus to "save" the Republic-- in essence to keep power divested, only to initiate the monarchical divine reign of the aristocracy -- which only begins its real death throes in 1945, as opposed to 475 AD.

Perelli's La Piovra, with its grisly lurking cowardice, may no longer be "what it was," according to Wapo, but it is now organic, part of the entire textile which make up Euro-Asian societies as a whole, and it takes a special kind of apostate, one as zealous as Wozniak, to blow the whistle and cleanse procedure once boundaries get too muddied. Did the shock value of the homosexual liaison subvert expectations? Perhaps, but it seemed more like an exploitation fuck which thankfully wasn't overtly faked, the kind which victimizes wheelchair users repeatedly. If we were against Henry Hill in Scorsese's little blood bling, we look at Wozniak, and with secret glee hopes he walks out of a bloodbath with Liotta's trademark "ehnanana" Quite a turn within a quarter century.

Revenge Fantasy

"A Feast for February," is an unpublished constant, a tie to my youth in Dixon Hall, sitting at my desk then in Chester as I am sitting at Tom Reid's desk here on North 23rd street, wishing I could give Riverside's owner a coronary by demolishing his building and perk my engines up after that in a wild chase with federal agents where I'd win, overthrow the constitutional government of the US, to revert to an old idea, the city state, which actually still exists, beneath the surface, if we take the Vatican as the Medieval model for regional principalities. "February" was written before Philadelphia made its substantial contribution, other than medical and institutional torture, to my well endowed social fear, based on the same premise as Quindlen's book, as Michael Apted adapted it in Enough. My protagonist kills a taxi driver in New York who was stalking her. Violently. I don't explain certain things in the story, but like many things when I am on, it was a driven piece, fueled by the hatred of the damage done by the scum my mother allowed to damage her children, fueled by my hatred of knowing I'd never snare a good hippie. A later editor who later changed her mind liked how I depicted violence against women in the piece, hence whatever Trudy Richardson and Ken Cantrell think they observe in my antagonism toward them as rental agents attempting to put me in another institutional portfolio has always been there. I'm simply older, more ready to illustrate my contempt for black competency, regardless of how offensive this is to minorities. Many blacks openly tell me to my face they think I'm possessed, and you do not see that.

J-lo's character goes off grid and wins, kills the misogynist, who has the ability to do what he does to her through the convenience of privilege, and Apted gets canned for a sharply delineated film with a beneath the radar approach-- but he isn't wrong. The law cannot rectify the punishment battered women sustain. Me? I get stalked by Debra Horne and her assessment team, who insist I return to receiving services through a corrupt disability center which expurgates as many people as it lifts, and then I ratchet up the volume, and dare to deny Trudy Richardson a fifth inspection of my unit in as many months, and play a game of send in the clowns with Department of Health civil servants who apparently like naked spastic women. Must get them off, maybe they have a vested interest in fetish porn. 

Apted's solution for Jennifer's working class doormat is a mechanism, a vicarious pleasure for those who cannot create a careful plan for departure. The only thing I can do is seek self-reliant alliances, fall on deaf ears, or sacrifice myself in a noble death, or give up and go wait to die in a home like Inglis. Such options make terrorism appealing, especially when one knows the clock is ticking. If viewers find that frightening, I never had a say in what orthopedic surgeons did to my body. My little brother, relenting to be one of my followers, had some years to get conceived when I was defecating and being deformed in plaster casts, and I've earned the right to end my last viable years as I see fit, even if this means I force the state to kill me.