Resisting Conceits of Revolving Turnstiles

Is this what you're afraid of? -- Jeremy Childs

James Hamblin makes the usual devastating and classically liberal argument for which The Atlantic is known, in his dissection of Trump's linguistic foibles. It is the type of feature which readers of the old media periodical appreciate. And I am, admittedly, a dilatory supporter of the publication. Early on in my starving vocation, I sent them poems, fiction, like thousands of aspirants, then stopped, and now only pitch to them when I am in a caffeine overdose of brilliant topic effort. Twenty years ago, I would have trusted Hamblin's byline and expertise, but do not take this to mean I can refute or undermine him with the same detail he utilizes to undermine the president. I used some of his same examples to push back against George Will's "Dangerous Disability" column, which trended on social media late last spring, in a more rapid, cursory fashion, and couldn't give it away. This has made me terse and caustic, because I still know how to do what journalists do, but I always have it harder, with a not quite figurative hand tied behind my back. I thought I could break the glass ceiling. I thought I could have a normal self-sufficient life, but no, the assholes in my state look at my age, my chronic condition, and say I have to categorize myself as "nursing home eligible" in order to maintain independence. I am not being off topic. Hamblin undermines himself without realizing it. Septuagenarians represent an expendable class, not that this is shocking. It is biologically easier to have a medical crisis at 70, or 69, than it is at 36, but he is, essentially, making a meritorious relegation of the aged. Pope Francis would certainly cry foul to that. In my piece, I cited evidence that Roosevelt would die in office, and did not have the time to burrow through microfilm in my battered chair to use the examples Hamblin does to buttress what we already know: FDR was a great Liberal, and but for the grace of god, if the public knew how sick he was as a paraplegic, closing out the ambitions of the Axis powers would have been much more complicated.

As a side note, if you believe my militancy is an aberration, who interred the Japanese? None other than the most powerful, and one of the wealthiest, cripples in the world. I cited more examples than Hamblin does, but my point was that whether or not FDR would drop dead, or JFK was spaced out on narcotics for degeneration, etc, we got through it without the merry Congressional nightmare of applying Amendment 25, and we've survived perfectly fine without Julian Assange revealing Angela Merkel's secret plan to conspire with Elizabeth Warren to remake the west in Castro's image, our birdseed perfectly apportioned.

I do not like Donald Trump, and would have preferred Governor Bush or Rand Paul, but the very charges the left deploys against him exposes why liberalism is ultimately untenable: disability is suddenly the hot button, but no one breathes a word about disability law and what reasonable accommodation means, with appropriate support. I may also agree with Hamblin about Reagan. I knew the old stage hand had dementia during his Iran Contra testimony, but both the country and President Reagan still functioned. Alzheimer's isn't a fucking movie. My grandfather lived with it for years before he effectively lost his mind. In essence, James Woods is accurate. Scratch a liberal and beneath their epidermis, ultimately you'll find a Nazi staring back. Cillizza wins this round, chicken noodle soup notwithstanding.

Rise of the Platypus

The law doesn't always provide justice. Meloni,ever reliable in summation

I have the same weakness as an active journalist, which at present is a tenuous bracket, due to the fact that my one successful pitch since spring sits in Hugo's Parisian catacombs, gears linked in permanent coitus, my mind looking at puzzle pieces, not particularly desirous of the Defense Department's attention, as does Bennet the menace. As to the DOD, I may actually type out my questions before I start dialing federal area codes. I do not begrudge old hands like Will; don't think that. Nor am I trying to rescue the Trump Administration: I got a little pissed with lax semantics that hit the social media trend curve, and although not quite satisfied with my end product, toggling the worth of rousing an old source if I expand my length, there is an intrinsic flaw in Will's reasoning, and I am trying to illuminate that.
If it eases Jeffrey Tucker's mind, which could be queer, or slightly autistic, I went for paying markets as well, the wise editors who know better than to smart aleck their response, not just The Freeman. Another loaf on the back shelf, or what, not sure, but I will not lengthen it this morning, I doubt, or trouble Nick Gillespie's fiefdom just yet, since I believe I found a way into a longer form about First Amendment nihilism which has been chewing at me for a lengthier time than just the latest shaming or riled Twitter protest. I may also have to walk back, in my expectedly ignored invite to Nick to connect, that I would support Reason indefinitely, interesting as it may be that my poverty played a small part in Stossel's contract. Reason is not only a little too liberal, it is hurried, kinetic, dashing here and here, much like the state of California, an important component territory of American power, to be sure, but this online dominance of Frisco psychology, juxtaposed with New York's offended blue nose progeniture disavowing one of its own, pitted against once energetic authoritarians like Guilliani, who rise with near heroism, then invariably slam dunk into disgrace. failed expectations being the nature of the human condition. The Freeman, in libertarian terms, has a better vitality than Reason, even if we’re all somewhat subliminally aware of what Lucinda Chambers, formerly of Vogue’s UK division, voiced with certain observational veracity without any innovative replacement in sight: magazines are increasingly irrelevant, meaning distinction, in diction and style. There are no more Winchells, and although television formatted Cronkite as Winchell in a video medium, this has long been waning into the diminutive, showhorse anchors. I’ve had a bit of luck in both vocational and professional oscillations as a writer: half creative scholar, half journalist. It hasn’t been without moments, or appreciative response, but my 60th decade is in sight, and I do not have the support of colleagues or editorial staff, exception being Robert’s introduction to my slim, rather jouneyman’s aggregation of work, and my now vanished review of his collection. Is this all there is? 

Coffee and Continence: Two

I often have to pause my life for a minute — whether that’s driving down the sidewalk, using my laptop, or eating a meal--my alma mater.

Whenever a writer prefers to sit around and pontificate, instead of working, it signifies sirens of calamity in the background, which actually aren't that dire: I wrote a response to George Will's rather ingenious attack on Trump's willful ignorance, forced myself to find a conclusion, hit the ground with six hundred words, and no one is happy. I have to retool it for other markets I've looked at, fairly certain of ones that would spit in my face, aware of the timelessness issue, and would like to turn the crusty baseball enthusiast upside his head and shake his premium express credit cards out of his pockets, also aware, that if I take these insider dirty laundry issues too far, I possibly wind up black balled. To a certain extent, I am already there, of course. Josie Byzek may not have closed her twitter account because of how often she is cited in Disability in Entertainment Arts, but it is safe to say, I'll never go home again. All I want to know is why I was frozen out of New Mobility. My feature, with intimations of Damore's fate, was controversial, but Tim Gilmer still included me on his contributors. The fat lady hadn't sung, as yet. By the same token, the periodical is very limited, insular in scope, and of little help to me. The only thing I can force upon the United Spinal Association is trouble, but I have larger behemoths in the scope, hence, I have to live with the rancor, or push a point with no real justifiable outcome, but what I want Josie to see is her rationalizations about ambulatory male ignorance in no way protected me, despite regulatory schematics, from paraprofessional abuse, from section 202's regimented discrimination. Does she like it, being a lesbian, that in the dark net of attendant care, so many helpless to defend themselves become enslaved to predatory control? I cannot shield myself from its likely recurrence forever. This, supposedly, was the point of Precious's author, this nothing we can do attitude, despite all our industrious legal generation.

Bambauer cleared up a contextual issue for me, in part, and this is how it works, but not really. Google Blogger should suspend me. Twitter too, and authority should force me into compliance, and I suffer say another eight years, until terminal issue discloses itself, or I can take up my little plan and try beating the odds, or go on, wrangle the system for the joy juice that will not force a lethal reaction. Difficult to do with cerebral palsy.


Drexel University is not that well known to me, but well known enough to be intuited that it's little league academics, a bit spartan, perhaps afflicted with uncertainty, and in the larger societal context, George may have survived employee termination, where Lisa did not, because he was white, angry leftist. In contrast, viewers saw Tucker at war with a paranoid minority in Durden, and echoes of the Black Panthers may have resonated. In real time, these issues are about group dynamics, and less about theory, like claims liberty. This is a contextual issue, our faith in an institutional judiciary. It punished Brandon Phillips, my assaulter, but this did nothing for me. It also pushed back against an unscrupulous landlord, one which thrives on a socialist subsidized federalism, dear libertarian friends, but I live in terror, nonetheless, after years of conflict. Yes, I have a choice: go homeless, bully the same old intake system into emergency relocation, but a real genuine legal fight is probably going to take 24 months. For what? Do I presume more affluence? Support him or not, (I am in the middle, hoping he will hurt progressives who failed me), Trump is a symptom; he is not a proximate cause. Some of my longest online associates have made me diffident because of well worn beatnik cosmetic protests that really cannot unravel poverty entrapment.

Kitsch Confetti

"That's Kim Kardashian's husband! He was in prison and had a problem with drugs. He was on a program."-- my mentally retarded and enthusiastic client Joseph, with his complimentary data banks

Having finally streamed the first episode of High Castle, my main dismay had nothing to do with its quality as an Amazon original, and its exposition was finely tuned for a war era drama; it is merely terrain in which I've been to before, alternate timelines already adapted for the small screen. I will meander into the intrigues of the series slowly, you'll have to be patient as I fail to resolve or succeed at some level with my long overdue transition, though I made poor Joseph happy, the high function mental retardation client, the sole constant in my brief rise and more torturous descent, as far back as 1991, perhaps even earlier I may have shared space with him. He recognized Cameron Hilson's picture on my phone and grew excited, and told me your story, Cameron. This, the simplicity of a senior aged child is one of the sole reasons I followed you back, a retarded man adding to celebrity literacy. All it means, at best, is a sardonic bemusement, which does not have to be virulent for its own sake. You were a baller. I, who can barely conceptualize balance on my feet, can barely fathom the exhilaration of sprinting like a gazelle on the field. You have a drug problem, did some short time? My little brother died a drug problem, and North Philadelphia, in my lifelong game of hopscotch, can be liked to hard time in the obstinacy of my insistence in making my own way. I have mentioned Lydia Nayo before, the lawyer who blew Philadelphia for San Francisco, feeling the need to confide in me, unbidden, that she, having been raped by a white man, had the ability to compartmentalize bad actors apart from white privilege and ethnicity. Good for Lydia. I applaud, and invited her to lunch when her mother died and she had to return east.
Surprised? It never materialized, which is just as well, with my dismal view of African American norms, it's brass insolence, even insistence that I give it recognition, as it pertains to this public housing environment. As unpleasant as it is to stipulate, blacks can be just as cruel, and stigmatizing, as an Asian who perceives Europeans as barbarians, though this is a neoclassical conceit long since superseded, layered and obfuscated, as everything is in the digital era.

I caught fire on George Will's "Dangerous Disability" column, and as the crusty and challenging libertarian trespassed my provenance, I had my chamber loaded, and lost my thread, and now I'm surly, our governance via New York City's jackass not rectifying matters. I've naught returned to my other assignment, but I've been a bit overly phlegmatic mid-May, and have much up in the air. Given that it will rain through mid week, I'll counsel my own re-entry, seeping my way back, not giving anyone room to comfort me in a hospice bed, when it comes to that.

Harambe's Canonization

"For the first time ever, we have got proper references to good government, the rule of law and access to justice."-- David Cameron, 2015, essentially meaningless

Depp is barely six months younger than the dowager, and his eyes would get him past the gateway to a really good, hard, fuck on the carpet, the type of fucking which leaves fantasy bruises on underarms, and no, for this sentiment to be presumptuous would necessitate canceling out Depp's intuitive interpretation of marginalization. He gets it; his only role in which this is nearly invisible, to the point it might take a viewer 15 minutes to realize who Pacino was playing off of, (not paying attention to the credits) is the older Brasco, a great film which would have been impossible for Pacino to make without Coppola's genius proceeding it.

The killing of the grizzled dog in Secret Window is a tactless Stephen King cliche, one designed to move the needle on a presumably sympathetic protagonist, though again, one has to wonder about Hutton's mature casting choices as a supporting actor, aside from his need to make a living. It does, perhaps, effectively trigger shock when a superstar gets eliminated suddenly and quickly in a movie, as in City of Industry, but against Rainey's dissociative  cunning, Ted is a throwaway character here, a more dominant alpha male who is out maneuvered in a sordid culmination of violence which no one believes. Depp is too cute, as the female postal actress exclaims for the fandom contingent. Designing a movie to be a send up of pretension doesn't work if the suspense is muted by an exposition which plays itself out like a box of chocolates. Cellophane is meant to be distracting. Putin also tries to have the same effect with images, and British satirists went after his picture calendar with pleasurable release. George F. Will needs to get real, however. The United States will not go to war with the Russian Federation over Estonia, however IIves may extol the virtues of autonomy. Even conceding that Russia is resurgent, nothing is ever quite the same as it used to be, and Vladimir cannot reassemble the Soviet Union, even if the sovereignty of Ukraine is also marginal, at best. The world has changed, as the downing of Metrojet 9268 proves. To the effect that countries are still countries, as opposed to cash cows for conglomerates, Putin controls a large landmass with a very sparse population density, which speaks as loudly as any open secret on doping. The US, and Europe, to a lesser extent, also undermines Russian pride, and in a carry over from Crimean conflicts in the 19th century, Slavic mannerisms are still aped by proper Caucasians for lampooning purposes. Don't get me wrong, I am not defending Putin's trollism, but my suffering as an American on the margins at the hands of descendants of Africans is verifiable; not that much has changed since the days of Ellison's tokenism, practices to which Africans still subject themselves to in contemporary Russian schools, whose architecture is subject to flammable hazards, making the oppressed as expendable, once removed, as they always were. To take a page from Zbigniew Brzezinski's mindset, all the Chinese have to do is apply pressure on the Slavs from the South, pushing upwards. Asians have the numbers to spare.

Countries need alliances, no question of that, but cutting through the thickets of Donald Trump's muzzle flashes, there is a relevant question to be had, namely, what the fuck is NATO good for? It hasn't resolved anything running around Afghanistan trying to exterminate corrupt primitives.

Per Vias Rectas

Note to George Will :That battle ended a long time ago. The minute centers like these borrowed the rhetoric of our Enlightened Founding Fathers, the experiment that was the United States came to an end. It is now in a persistent vegetative state, and my ability to discuss it with you across the aisle, one starving freelancer who will odds on die in permanent orbit, hanging at the mercy of the welfare state, to an economically secure libertarian, is guided not by the First Amendment, but by terms of service standards of civility. Manners may help us co-exist as ineffectual primates, but it is used to police both oral and written speech since Cervantes created the novel, at least. Best of luck old man.

I once believed in America, the America in which my father secured for his family the most beautiful rancher one could lay eyes on, and now I am nearly as much a product of urban ghettoization as the sanitation workers for whom King agitated just prior to his assassination. We may not yet be a fully socialist state, but independence no longer exists.