"You do know what you're saying is treason?"-- Robert Vaughn
Sometimes I weary of directories, and remain tempted to let Writer's Market drop, as they cannot keep their information logs current. I did not initially approach FEE in order to spend hours in research, only to fail twice, and then support them on the skeletal remains of my father's affluence, simply for a byline geared towards yuppies. But if I can pass Jeffrey's muster at a future date, it is a gateway back to my former success, matriculated in the Fourth Estate. I also chewed a cuticle on Reason, remaining good as my word, not because Brian will keep telling me "no," so much as because I too want to move beyond core libertarian tenets, not that I do not see now that they go small scale, with one or two in depth features. Neither publication matters right now. I am exhausted, even through the graft I took from Jeffrey in January was small, and needs to be altered, expanded, for other outlets. So why, then, when Mr. Tucker was being surreptitious about rum as the "spirit of pirates," did I not reply with repartee in kind?
My tweet, in fact, was inappropriate. Don't write it in public, I told myself, but did, that my abuser stepfather drank rum, so I prefer gin. Conservatives eschew victimization, and that small pin drop on my part was escalating, mildly. From what I can tell, I like the man, and do not begrudge the paddle too much. On some things I have to pay the price of going slower. As long as I can function as writer, too, topics can recycle, in unexpected ways. Learned that by now. It was not his rejection that compelled me, so much as I was saying something about distribution of bad outcomes. It is difficult enough that for spastics, fluidity of motion is a fantasy. We also have to become poultry dishes for bigoted den mothers and carrion for ambulatory predators, and here I am, still trying to compete with the best minds, driving myself to exhaustion because the Night Owl kicked in after morning lethargy; even though I am not sexually attracted to Ray Liotta, all the sudden he's an interesting fuck. I am not sure how to explain this, even to myself. Repulsion arousal, hate sex, ferocity bang.
As to schedule, syndication has thrown me some godsends, though I want to budget in High Castle for itself. We'll see. I need to chat with ATT and see if my old battle axed PC's can handle the wireless device, and then change my plan. I feel like a fucking data fugitive, not particularly healthy, in and of itself.
"A man's lowest ebb may be his finest hour."-- Kris Kristofferson
I made something of an error which led to a false reaction with ever fortunate players of capital injection, and I'm owning up, which is why I keep most of my twitter email for lengthy periods: Ronald Chernesky merely liked a technical news tweet of mine on Amazon Echo not many mornings back, and I looked at his account in Philadelphia's lousy holiday pre-dawn light, not very hard, or studiously, and followed him. I erred, therefore, in making the assumption that he was trying to pick up my account, and may be held accountable for confusing him with my mild objection about what he was doing on my feed-- but my aging nose smells something, nevertheless, like the odor of smoked mackerel, and I have filed "future article with bewildered hostile source," away for future reference-- not immediately. Let the mild turbulence expend its energy, then move to balmy. I was, however, in the wrong, and will lower my tire speed on twitter in the future. Scouts' honor (predatory grin). When I want to be acknowledged by the security of his world, I do mean it.
In the interim, my body wants jelled candy. I was nearly ready to blow a wad on Amazon.
"If I seem cavalier about it and in fact I am cavalier about it, it is because this is not my life."-- Donna Leon, with allowances for lack of exact transcription.
Meanwhile, back in the land of grandiose effacement over an old woman's grandiose self-importance, every time a journalist like James Foley dies chasing after a scoop in ancient lands with statistically marginal individuals, the media conglomerates, NYT, Wapo, LAT, CNN, ESPN, let out a yelp of pain. The holy sanctum has been violated: gathering information civilized people need to know at their leisure in a coffee cafe.
Let's take a step back. Foley was a photographer, and his images of the Syrian conflict no more or less redundant than a native's use of his or her cell phone, not that I have data on how many Syrians own a Samsung as opposed to a functioning Apple OS. Reports, making allowances for lack of certainty, indicated Foley was tortured in his captivity. Perhaps this caused him to reevaluate the value of foreign correspondence imagery for the sake of a scoop, since it seems being driven for a news story has its own shades of the pathological, or maybe he rethought the Spanish Inquisition, but how much do people outside of the millennial hot zone that is forever the Middle East feel driven to put themselves in danger by bating Semitic beasts?
Do Foley's images have empirical value? No, with the exception of his beheading. Those images, in and of themselves, will remain as a genealogy marker. As hard as we try to divorce ourselves from primate origin, we're still rather large apes who evolved back into nakedness, even without modern barbers. Knowledge generation is a tricky business, but the Fourth Estate holding itself aloft as a modern temple whose abstract conceptualization is inviolate doesn't take into account the fact that revenue needs to be generated. Most of what the public reads has no monetary value that we can use in turn to generate money, including humanitarian crises. ISIS was bought and paid for according to Western free market and entrepreneurial values. Accommodating the beast will invariably create paths for its transformation. Radical egalitarians like Foley need more patience, not the rush of trotting about hot zones. I am not done with my Pistorius sentiments. Dyer triggered an exasperated trial run. Initially, I wasn't going to bother, but not I'm hunting for sources and more retail packaging.
I try avoid chasing every issue in a blog post, and I know who Keynes is without being fluent on his conservative theories, but the fact that the new equality of homosexuality has to send a man like Ferguson into a tailspin points to why I have paid my price to be offensive. Skidelsky veers off into futurist theory of the kind the raises its time honored head every time the free market goes bust, and this is not a concern to dismiss, but my concern is what this species is doing to itself every time science offers it a biological rationale to say barriers need erosion.
Opprobrium does not change what impressions offer up to our private judgments: Niall Ferguson is more important (or more accurately, more prominent) than I am, and no doubt many thousands of others, because he succeeds in an equally important institutional environment that processes data in such a way as to engage our perspectives on social function, degrees of affluence, the lack of it, and in the doctor's case in particular, how past discoveries inform our present.
Perhaps Keynes cynicism on economic models in a downturn had nothing to do with orientation, but group think castigation against an off color, possibly lazy segue, is a load of bull dung in a sinkhole. World population pressures, and innovations surrounding that, are beginning to outpace vast sectors of human labor that used to be important, and if the shit isn't hitting the fan now, it well might into the next millennium. People like me are a case in point, state invested, educated, and useless, and this is in the developed world, where we are forbidden to discuss uselessness and the human animal because no one wants to be charged with a hate crime.
