"Me? I'm just another cop."-- Falk's first episode
Levinson wasn't that progressive with his Jewish American Maigret. The closest Falk gets to a psychotic homosexual antagonist is McDowell's histrionic chemist, another episode which relies more or less on psychological cheating. Back then we didn't have bomb signature forensics fed to an increasingly mistrustful audience. Falk's audience believed in him, there was no doubt about that, though they may have believed slightly less in Gene Barry.
Spastic recognizes her error, and understands Blogger's indirect data conversation: Barry was the Burke's Law puzzle solver, and what I was looking at was the 67 pilot which I mistook-- at least I think. Barry looks relatively aged in "Prescription," and I'm not so literate on my parents decade that I remember Barry's run as the Playboy bunny captain. The Jack Cassidy pilot is superior, at least with Spielberg's taunt pace. Why can't I be more like screen guild writers and pull a few fast ones?
Chair is charged, three quarters of urine obeyed (unlike poor little kimmy) and stayed mainly in my bursting bladder when I rolled up and transferred without so much as a blink. Christmas present to self shall soon be new urinal. The old one is far too cracked for me to bleach clean. I can hear God fearing nuns recoil at my indifference to coliform. But the moral here: Frank's urinals were always clean. Frank is dead. For a dowager on the midline to sixty, medically, I am fairly stable, meaning the dirty cripple meme may not be as bad as we think.
I'm so paranoid I am afraid to telephone the Department of Corrections for research. I don't need to see women in scrubs having their behavior controlled. I have documentary footage memory, I have Christ knows how many prison films and Orange Is The New Black articles in my head, along with St. Elsewhere lesbianism yanking Howie Mandel's chain-- but, in returning to a fiction I've always cared about, I was about to use a 21st century facility, an anachronism I would not necessarily wish to justify as a post modern conceit, so I'm pulling a fast one too, of a slightly different tack, so paranoid I am assuming Trudy Richardson has initiated eviction proceedings against me because the rental receipt isn't under the door; we shall see, but if she has, I have a longer window. I believe, passionately, that American public housing will ultimately destroy the country. I mean that, though I haven't been overly forthcoming with prescriptive solutions. We'll get there, and it is one of the reasons I am following Vanessa Calder. Conservatives need to pay attention to what felled disabled women who had the capacity to matriculate. It is not a pipe dream that many of my early teachers saw me as Harvard material, and, though normally, I do not follow trending media, today I shall:
1. I am sympathetic to eugenics
2. Freaks put on display are going to get blowback. Obstetricians should have euthanized the Smith child, and no one has the right to ask me how dare I say that. I've been to facilities where we die in our surreal primate groupings.
Showing posts with label eugenics. Show all posts
Showing posts with label eugenics. Show all posts
Friday, December 2, 2016
Friday, November 27, 2015
Travesty Optimization
Applying the proportionality test to both negative and positive rights may undermine any margin of appreciation of the [sic] state authorities. This gives rise to the problem of over-determination.-- Dual authors Klatt and Meeter, The Constitutional Structure of Proportionality, p 86
How one views the Lionel Tate case, almost twenty years old, depends on your filter. Dana Canedy doesn't bother to cast doubt on the "wrestling defense," because The New York Times couldn't fathom how the prosecutor filed for premeditation, while it is overtly challenged by Bill Kurtis three years later. And then, true to form for troubled African American men, Tate engages in recidivism. It tempts reactions along the lines of dangerous eugenic fallacies, but ethnicity is not a meaningless term, certainly not in the medical field, and in jurisprudence, experts eradicate bias through pretense. Caste, social station, are irrelevant behind the shield of our systems process. Never mind that, according to accepted norms, if you baby sit a six year old and leave her with your son twice her size and hear cries of distress, you get yourself out of bed and check. Kathleen Grossett-Tate was culpable in the death of Tiffany Eunick, but what do we wind up with? Traumatized liberal attorneys, a besmirched ADA, a judge who couldn't craft an appropriate punishment because his hands were tied by state guidelines, a single mother scarred for life by the loss of her little girl, a governor currently limping along in the primaries who attempted to split the difference in a glaringly ineffectual fashion, and the United States once again exposes its bongo justice, during the Clinton years, to foreign ridicule.
At the time this case became one in a series of sensational events the state of Florida just keeps on giving, I was a fledgling journalist. The lesbian ADAPT activist gave me a byline, and the rest is moot, given present earnings capacity. I did not really understand search, and came late to Google, which is why I intuit a vague familiarity, at best, with the trial.
Similarly, during the last days in the life of David Koresh, I was a work incentives advocate due to the wide latitude of a Pew Charitable Trust grant, and Waco was for all intents and purposes a prelude to Xbox, where we begin to lose the ability to differentiate collateral damage. I accepted the concern for the welfare of the children as paramount over and above a radical sect to command adherents as it pleased. Against the stress of case management, it was dramatic entertainment which might have been negotiated better, but hardly a trigger for sedition, sans McVeigh. What created him, what created ISIS, isn't going to fizzle due to drone technology, especially when one's former youthful enthusiasm evaporates because a female feline dashes out in the hallway, gnaws neighbor's trash after you spent the holiday morning chasing cat chow, screaming "Get the fuck in the studio," and Tim opens his door, helping you reign in a spayed foster rescue little bigger than a football. She puked outside Jim's door, the brother with end stage renal disease. I wanted a writing studio exactly like that of Andre Dubus, and instead, I am like a samurai gutting her intestines, familial aspirations imploded, after a middle class life more affluent than this.
My father doesn't want to see me; the sister put him up to it. I don't want him in my unit. He should go back to die at Myrtle Beach, and I envision my own demise in a deportation cell outside of Paris, dreaming of a much more inclusive global conflict than that Niall Ferguson or Jennifer Rubin might see ahead.
How one views the Lionel Tate case, almost twenty years old, depends on your filter. Dana Canedy doesn't bother to cast doubt on the "wrestling defense," because The New York Times couldn't fathom how the prosecutor filed for premeditation, while it is overtly challenged by Bill Kurtis three years later. And then, true to form for troubled African American men, Tate engages in recidivism. It tempts reactions along the lines of dangerous eugenic fallacies, but ethnicity is not a meaningless term, certainly not in the medical field, and in jurisprudence, experts eradicate bias through pretense. Caste, social station, are irrelevant behind the shield of our systems process. Never mind that, according to accepted norms, if you baby sit a six year old and leave her with your son twice her size and hear cries of distress, you get yourself out of bed and check. Kathleen Grossett-Tate was culpable in the death of Tiffany Eunick, but what do we wind up with? Traumatized liberal attorneys, a besmirched ADA, a judge who couldn't craft an appropriate punishment because his hands were tied by state guidelines, a single mother scarred for life by the loss of her little girl, a governor currently limping along in the primaries who attempted to split the difference in a glaringly ineffectual fashion, and the United States once again exposes its bongo justice, during the Clinton years, to foreign ridicule.
At the time this case became one in a series of sensational events the state of Florida just keeps on giving, I was a fledgling journalist. The lesbian ADAPT activist gave me a byline, and the rest is moot, given present earnings capacity. I did not really understand search, and came late to Google, which is why I intuit a vague familiarity, at best, with the trial.
Similarly, during the last days in the life of David Koresh, I was a work incentives advocate due to the wide latitude of a Pew Charitable Trust grant, and Waco was for all intents and purposes a prelude to Xbox, where we begin to lose the ability to differentiate collateral damage. I accepted the concern for the welfare of the children as paramount over and above a radical sect to command adherents as it pleased. Against the stress of case management, it was dramatic entertainment which might have been negotiated better, but hardly a trigger for sedition, sans McVeigh. What created him, what created ISIS, isn't going to fizzle due to drone technology, especially when one's former youthful enthusiasm evaporates because a female feline dashes out in the hallway, gnaws neighbor's trash after you spent the holiday morning chasing cat chow, screaming "Get the fuck in the studio," and Tim opens his door, helping you reign in a spayed foster rescue little bigger than a football. She puked outside Jim's door, the brother with end stage renal disease. I wanted a writing studio exactly like that of Andre Dubus, and instead, I am like a samurai gutting her intestines, familial aspirations imploded, after a middle class life more affluent than this.
My father doesn't want to see me; the sister put him up to it. I don't want him in my unit. He should go back to die at Myrtle Beach, and I envision my own demise in a deportation cell outside of Paris, dreaming of a much more inclusive global conflict than that Niall Ferguson or Jennifer Rubin might see ahead.
Tuesday, March 12, 2013
Ostler Lone
The cause of America is in a great measure the cause of all mankind. Thomas Paine
Methinks I am as comfortable as I am going to get this afternoon, with this body always in pain and nearly always rank; had something of a near miss with my feminine urinal so you can add caffeine laden piss to that, my continual coffee intake either masking or preventing diabetes. I don't suppose German netizens wish to inform me why they are my most numerous viewers after those in the US? Any recommendations? I am an extraction of Mengele manufacture without benefit of concentration camp assembly. His eugenics legacy lives on, in much the same way that Gene Hackman is always Gene Hackman and yet inhabits his characters, with the possible exception of his supporting role in Lilith, but even there, he was an adept shrub. And it is quite a distinct idiolect, one that not every actor can inhabit, being Buzz Lloyd and yet distinctively Hackman, in simultaneous fashion. Marooned is ruthless in its imprint of the American global ascent, and I'd in fact argue it is almost as post modern as this guy's work. It is a film without pretense despite a multi-layered contrivance, powerful for those of us who actually lived through the aspirations of the Apollo missions, as I did. Gregory Peck insinuating suicide to Richard Crenna and getting away with it for the utilitarian good of NASA? This is the decade that was covert about my mother's suicide attempts, a woman who should have been institutionalized, and wasn't. Before she died she told me that, my mother: Had Pauline and Louis her father committed her she would have gotten worse. Not for me to speculate, but her children would not have suffered Stuart Lone, who remains on my hit list (and that my former supervisor ranks nearly in parity to this stepfather, in this exclusive club, tells you how seriously I take her criminality), finger fuck step father who attempted to rape a nine year old girl and made me sick on Jack Daniels so he could violate me. Let Blogger ban me for being desirous of his murder. Monster. Filth. I shall not forgive. I cannot, not for the suffering he inflicted on me, on my sister, now estranged.
This is the reason this series is making me uneasy. Not that I don't *get it,* of course I do. Malevolence can be as methodical as police investigations for the greater good. Prior bad acts can lead us one way or another, but it is still a difficult show, symptomatic of our national ailment, and it doesn't have to be that graphic not to make me want to vomit at its implications.
There is a brief description toward the end of Cormac's nuke porn where diarrhea is dribbling down the father's pant leg, a mortality signature signifying the price this man paid to keep his boy alive. This was my mother's second husband, jigging around on a heroin crash with shit spilling out of his crack, seeping into his denim. The Presbyterians browbeat me for 28 years after on the sentiment that cleanliness, divinely guided, is curative towards the scars of such trauma. Personally, seeing the backend of my domestic malfeasance in blackface only accentuates my despair of humanity. You no doubt see this as narcissistic, but this is how I'm feeling today, arthritis easing momentarily.
Methinks I am as comfortable as I am going to get this afternoon, with this body always in pain and nearly always rank; had something of a near miss with my feminine urinal so you can add caffeine laden piss to that, my continual coffee intake either masking or preventing diabetes. I don't suppose German netizens wish to inform me why they are my most numerous viewers after those in the US? Any recommendations? I am an extraction of Mengele manufacture without benefit of concentration camp assembly. His eugenics legacy lives on, in much the same way that Gene Hackman is always Gene Hackman and yet inhabits his characters, with the possible exception of his supporting role in Lilith, but even there, he was an adept shrub. And it is quite a distinct idiolect, one that not every actor can inhabit, being Buzz Lloyd and yet distinctively Hackman, in simultaneous fashion. Marooned is ruthless in its imprint of the American global ascent, and I'd in fact argue it is almost as post modern as this guy's work. It is a film without pretense despite a multi-layered contrivance, powerful for those of us who actually lived through the aspirations of the Apollo missions, as I did. Gregory Peck insinuating suicide to Richard Crenna and getting away with it for the utilitarian good of NASA? This is the decade that was covert about my mother's suicide attempts, a woman who should have been institutionalized, and wasn't. Before she died she told me that, my mother: Had Pauline and Louis her father committed her she would have gotten worse. Not for me to speculate, but her children would not have suffered Stuart Lone, who remains on my hit list (and that my former supervisor ranks nearly in parity to this stepfather, in this exclusive club, tells you how seriously I take her criminality), finger fuck step father who attempted to rape a nine year old girl and made me sick on Jack Daniels so he could violate me. Let Blogger ban me for being desirous of his murder. Monster. Filth. I shall not forgive. I cannot, not for the suffering he inflicted on me, on my sister, now estranged.
This is the reason this series is making me uneasy. Not that I don't *get it,* of course I do. Malevolence can be as methodical as police investigations for the greater good. Prior bad acts can lead us one way or another, but it is still a difficult show, symptomatic of our national ailment, and it doesn't have to be that graphic not to make me want to vomit at its implications.
There is a brief description toward the end of Cormac's nuke porn where diarrhea is dribbling down the father's pant leg, a mortality signature signifying the price this man paid to keep his boy alive. This was my mother's second husband, jigging around on a heroin crash with shit spilling out of his crack, seeping into his denim. The Presbyterians browbeat me for 28 years after on the sentiment that cleanliness, divinely guided, is curative towards the scars of such trauma. Personally, seeing the backend of my domestic malfeasance in blackface only accentuates my despair of humanity. You no doubt see this as narcissistic, but this is how I'm feeling today, arthritis easing momentarily.
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