On Labor Day

"It's not that I don't have some sympathy for Ms. Kane. As the old saying goes, just because you're paranoid doesn't mean there aren't people out to get you."-- Brian O'Neill

Media sometimes obfuscates as much as it informs, and I personally have no stake in whether the once vaunted Attorney General stays or goes. I did not like that she declined to defend Pennsylvania's defense of marriage act before SCOTUS nullified two thousand years of Judeo-Christian principles, nor did I care for her investigation of an assisted suicide case that wasn't, as re-litigated by the free daily City Paper. The daughter did not actively help her father die, so it was moot whether we're for or against euthanasia, but this whole scenario is patently absurd. Kathleen Kane is anyone's starling sister whom we wish to see succeed, and what her tribulations expose says less about her and more about the fact that if one of the oldest European land masses in the New World has lost the ability to govern, and China's state model is no particular antidote, I might as well take a sip of water, lie down, and pass away after a few weeks of excruciating dehydration.

My post title refers to a youthful stanza about never having anything to do on these lesser ceremonial holidays. Same conditions apply at the age of 53 with a dollar in the bank, but this hardship is entirely my fault, as I refuse to reapply for EBT or SSI, and will continue to refuse until the state forces me against my will, even as I milk homicidal aggression to get off my mattress finally, both the fault of the mattress and the poor quality of the Jazzy. I want a live-in companion, not an aide so much as an ambulatory friend, and that is easier said. I'm not Wonder Woman, but I am not all that sick despite incontinence and my lung function decline, and yet thinking out of the box to help a fiercely independent disabled writer beat welfare abuse is too much to ask, evidently. 

People living together is analogous to a courtship, I know, but this is in the spirit of the new collaborative economy. Think about it, pass the word. I'm willing to leave Philadelphia, and even consign my felines to lethal injection. My entire online life has been a cry for change.

Rectifying Chemical Imbalance

"Don't be so sensitive!"-- Robert De Niro, naturally inclined to mimic palsy

Jack Goes Boating is as much about transference as it is a contrast between experience and innocence, in attempting to come to terms with Phillip Seymour Hoffman, his craft, destructive escapism, and the use of a hookah as a biographical antidote. There is resistance toward full commiseration with the absence of his gift, repugnance toward his pudgy and nascent clueless character he portrays here, four odd years ago, but also admiration for the willingness on his part to savage vanity, passing the buck to Ortiz, whose limousine driver is more than the sum of Vega's contempt.

Why do we see the extended capture of an amputee engaged in rehabilitative training at the pool, which clearly serves for an extended metaphor for fleshing outward towards cumulative maturity? Appreciation of the actor doesn't lend itself toward connective sympathy for the liberal arguments embedded in his roles. He upended that by dying like hundreds of junkies before and since, either on a libertarian or material note, depending on the perspective we have toward addiction, and in spastic's view, the naturalist thesis is the prevailing victor. Complex life forms gravitate towards destructive dependence to alleviate negation, which to me seems covalent with our tendency towards being corrupt hypocrites, sans the plight of Pennsylvania's Kathleen Kane.

The Attorney General might hold my equivocal sympathy for her plight somewhat suspect, as well she should, since her review of Corbett's handling of the Jerry Sandusky investigation clearly had a political agenda to it, but the entire sorry fiasco illustrates that one doesn't have theological objections to gay marriage and the equality of sexual orientation as a purely cosmetic, Orwellian denial of bestiality. Is it really a form of political liberalism that led to the discipline of Pennsylvania's judicial employees over pornographic emails, or is Kane a closet authoritarian? If I disagree with her allegiance to Democratic principles, why am I standing by her now?

Because she's right, even if she engaged in some sort of orchestration of the grand jury to play hardball with her perceived enemies. Next week I'll have more time for substantive research to really wade into our modern jeremiad and the urgent need to scale back from regulatory reliance.  

Implausibles

In the 2003 CI episode Suite Sorrow, Hal Linden plays an in the closet socialite who manipulates his daughter into matricide, to then unwittingly trigger his own death in a foiled entrapment that Vincent D'Onofrio's Goren misjudges. I do not know about the sandwiched convolutions from which we have to infer the multiple points in fifty minutes of narrative. This is a continuing problem with the limitations of the format for Dick Wolf's now foundering formula. I believe there may have been a death by injection trial on which it might be based, but I cannot remember enough data for search to lead the way, and I could be wrong anyway because this high powered real life balding husband fell under suspicion when I read Time Magazine regularly, but despite the artifice of the teleplay, inclusive of having Erbe's Detective Eames vindicate what we must feel about such family dysfunction in the last concluding seconds of the episode, such stories reflect back upon the ubiquitous nature of domestic violence in the United States. I happen to be bold enough to feel that this undercuts the progressive argument about homosexuality and marriage. Heterosexual marriages fail often enough as it is, especially when celebrity is involved, or, as in the case of my mother and father, you mix a significant mental illness with an Italian temper. My step-mother, who in no way functions as such, has fared little better. My dad may not have an arrest record to match that of the typical serial wife beater, but he is one none the less, a fact I usually obliterate in my conflicted feelings for him. Progressives are absolutely correct to say that no fault divorce laws weakened the once historic economic power of marriage, but the continuing tent expansion will make it all but meaningless, in the end.

Frank, my ex, made a bad bargain thinking I could have been a good wife for him. He tried to strangle the first. This is Latino trash pillow talk for you, but had I gone through with the wedding, settling for him, as some women interest columnists suggest, I could conceivably have a jacket with an attempted murder charge, and that is both a facetious and accurate statement, one and the same. Having seen the gay lifestyle up close, swimming against the tide as I may be, things are going to get much messier for family law adjudicators, I don't give a flying fuck how pedestrian a media bouncer like Andrew Sullivan with his HIV status and his faith, and his articles that analyze and out the troubled Prince Benedict 16, wants to be. To push identity to these kind of extremes is bad for the human animal. I have been through too much trying to help the disadvantaged, I have seen too much; we're dooming ourselves.