The Melnick Revolt Trigger

"There are dark forces at work here." Ian Anthony Dale

To deal a straight material hand this morning, lets revert back to anti-depressants, and assume, amid all the marvelous psychiatric diagnostic classifications available, that a turn of the century adjustment disorder graduated into traumatic stress, triggered deliberately by minorities trained to cordon off geriatric dementia, again, not the best environment to throw in formerly matriculated spastics burdened with quadriplegia. If I go on with this language, a medical textbook recruiter might take another look at my Linked profile, however ambivalent a disability journalist might be in that regard. Anti-depressants are used for more than serotonin regulation, and my skepticism about them doesn't apply to all treatment regimes, but when my mother's sister could talk over my head and exclaim, "that's better," when I was on that turn of the century script, for whom did the better refer? Not being able bodied, the drugs impaired physical ability to function, and cured nothing, however much my dead ex pig of almost husband observed, before he died, that I was getting worse. Frank did not move in here with his commanding army officer, whom he hated (yes, hated, I know, but he is dead and I won't get into it), but I am asked, by society, to grin and bear it every time a facetious transsexual, with whom I go way back, sits outside, its cognitive awareness diminished, smoking a cigarette, knowing what I know, the law letting him off, but not letting me off, why exactly? Because I am angry at how often corruption has destroyed my intellectual potential, and just like other Americans, I need a change of environment, and cannot effect it. Regardless of my condition, regardless of dimming economic prospects, regardless of Google's loving playfulness juxtaposed by its power, which I have nothing against, but have derived little trickle down benefit as a result (what possible use is Ad Words to me if all I am doing is paying into the company's services, again, this was me lacking the confidence not to purchase the campaign), I should be able to relocate, as a citizen of this ferrous republic, and cannot do it without facing what most consider irrational risk. I don't eschew Google's corporate muscle; its progressive proselytizing, that is another matter.

Enter in Danielle Melnick, making use of her ability to be Jack McCoy's intellectual equal, not always adversarial, in Dick Wolf's transformation of American crime dramas, or as the leader of the community Grimes managed to wreak havoc upon, perhaps inadvertently. That was as far as my local affiliate took me into The Walking Dead, but it was enough, as no one can withstand that much hell, that often. In Salvation, she is a stand in for what was expected to be the epitome of sexual equality. As Wiki indicates that the limited summer series was under development in 13, I doubt those who took it off the drawing board anticipated Trump, so in this slow burning coup in a complex asteroid disaster tale, one can infer that Melnick's very brief cameo, dying in a planned televised speech, was the industry's platitudes for girls, as "President McKenzie" was poisoned to death. Boys will be boys, in the grand scheme of things.


Fish oil, as my naturally occurring mood stabilizer of choice, seems to work as long as the continence issues can be managed. The dowager can feel, and function, on 2400 milliliters daily, taken with an actual fish diet. Again, this is expensive, but on limited evidence, seems to be more than a placebo effect. I only feel better, as of this writing, because I'm stocked, saturated myself with salmon, and hoping, fingers crossed, that I can make it to the Libertarian block party later today. If I do not take a bus, maybe I can spring the taxi. But I wish some of you could see the sum total. It is bad enough, being what I am. What Philadelphia has perpetrated on me, because I wanted independence, has been just short of too excruciating. Everyone needs a support system. A 56 year old shouldn't have to grope in the dark, treading in place solely due to inertia of the paradigms long set into place for relegation.

Ewe's Juglar

I feel like Upton Sinclair foisting the Federal Meat Inspection Act on her own vernacular. All I need to do is play the pedestrian and my social media rating jumps, and then all I have to do is spit vitriol and subsequently ignore it to console myself. I've learned not to make too much of the automated accordion by now, but I have not changed, and if the building manager had a popular online account, she'd tell you that. Libertarian embrace has made me ferocious, but, to sound like the ghost of Deng, there are only so many ways to slay the cat: and I am not interested in "making a scene" on niume. I have virtually next to nothing against the platform, and would have bolted it three weeks ago if they had mailed me an automated password boot. My issue is with the model, not the people running it, or the users, and this is Google's fault. The Godmother glares at search giant, round 2.1. I let Kwale Powerhouse go because he was a bit too eager to exploit me, and this is what I've learned. Blacks use race to hurt the disabled, yet I ain't allowed to say certain truths without the online world choking on a wingbone (rolls eyes). This is why I am angry with Jerry at a deeper level. I bought his intellectual argument, and it was as much a crock as any conservative hypocrisy. Might as well mention it now and perhaps refine later, but I missed O'Neal's self-pity, so self-evident on Tavis, in his younger self in Hill's genre driven experiment. If Walter Hill knew what thesis I was building on his film, he'd say "girl, pretentious snit is a generous charge," and he'd no doubt be right, but I see what I see, beat slow and steady. I have nothing against Ryan O'Neal; he was the romantic lead who shaped my youth, and recognition notwithstanding, his weariness and mine converge at many points. My ambivalence about him doesn't desire pillage: I care too much about my product, but I don't care about his Sunset Boulevard  melodrama. I care about his creative legacy, the output, biding my time to email his publicist again. He is going to be gone soon, and I need him to let me in, just a bit. Perhaps he dislikes Walter and doesn't want journos on the scent.

Strike The Dragon

It's a crusade the WWF refers to in the hardened terms of war.--the Warren and Baker expose of an ethical dilemma long predicted here by the spastic dowager

We often put up with the wooden acting of Jet Li, prevalent even in his Chinese biopics, for the improbable calisthenics of his martial arts training. No one human being, whether Lee or Li, can truly prevail against such a fusillade of forces arrayed against against him, but the fantastical exploits so carefully choreographed, offer the human imagination a transcendent appeasement. Kiss of the Dragon (2001) 14 years young, is actually not a bad mesh of sub-genres. Martial arts meets softened variation of the French thriller as an exported imitation of the American formula. Virtuous and focused Asian cop goes up against diabolical French enforcer of corruption, and Bridget Fonda offers the mew of tarnished American innocence offered the requisite redemption via application of Oriental virtue, the Hollywood seal of approval for why Chinamerica is, after all, a beneficial mirage for both Asia and the northern hemisphere. Chris Nahon may also have unwittingly or deliberately directed what is essentially a revenge fantasy for the Yangtze Agreement to which the European powers gave consensus in the first year of the 20th century in the aftermath of a naval power's rather unpopular victory in the Opium Wars. What does Karyo's character do? Kills an Asian dealer for self-preservation? What did the British armada achieve in gaining access to China's coastal region? Profits. The entire plot of this film contravenes the reality of Mao's cultural revolution, while Xi, who is Maoist 2.0, with Google's acquiescence, is going to solve the problem of poverty as a moral failing, which senior fellow Niall Ferguson says cannot be solved, through the implied process of extermination. For my part, I'll side with neo-imperialism, however irrelevant our actions appear to be anymore. What a bummer.

Pop Up Recollection: Enemy Consortium

"I'm a puppet of a high functioning sociopath."-- Megan Boone

Patty Duke is given a diva scene in the tepid drama, The Baby Sitter, tapping into her varnished mania to have an episode made leaden by booze, and it is sadly camped, almost stenciled in to a talented actress'es notable itinerary. 

All aging actors seem to encompass these plot points: the breakthrough, the rise, the critical accolades in the train toward the apex, and then they attempt to cling to their glory through hackneyed scripts which then go to DVD. Shatner is no exception, and the only reason he had a resurgence on Boston Legal was because he played with audience nostalgia for his embodiment of James T Kirk, lampooning the action hero with considerable sophistication as the barging litigator. Boomer middle age anxiety was cruel, however, and heads rolled in the dust. 

Duke is a footnote, and Shatner plays the gallant, and we're indifferent. Respectful to the elder celebrity with a nod, but know in the back of our minds he is fish meal for obit gurus. Duke's exit is more consequential.

Her bipolar disorder initially cycled her creativity, and in The Patty Duke Show, between the lines of the starched script, runs an argument for accommodation of mood differentials, as opposed to their classification through the ever gargantuan medical model. Arguably, Duke herself may have put a dent in her ability to get roles through her embrace of the term as a medical definition. As a teen, she channeled that intensity to humanize Helen Keller, but failed to transition over in maturity, in contrast to Sally Field, who dramatized the condition for ER.

If we're going to deconstruct our humanity through microcelluar biology, the potential cyborgs which emerge from Google's Tonka Toy kit in AI might provide an answer as to why self aware intelligent life destroys itself before a hospitable planet cooks in a nova event horizon. By the same token, competing theories, in certain instances, do more harm than good. We're all assuming Lubitz died a mass murderer, perplexed by his actions. Unless he left a manifesto in a drawer, we'll never know, and shouldn't automatically consign his fate to the need for advanced neuroscience.