In the Retrograde

Since I am, in whatever enfeebled manner, discussing politics, hanging on the implied assurances of Nick Gillespie's data, I do not take issue with Reason’s editor at large laying blame on Hillary’s 2017 campaign as being poorly managed, but having the former first lady from Arkansas take a mea culpa for having won the coasts and lost the center doesn’t solve our national ailments. Nick conveniently glosses over Hillary’s implicit appeal to national ethos in West Virginia in 2007. Both she and President Clinton were widely criticized for how they handled their opposition to Obama’s candidacy, but Nick seems to imply that if she was the wrong candidate against her former boss, she should have been the right one against Donald Trump. He never mentions Bernie Sanders, Anthony Weiner’s frolic with girls in middle school, the email server. These were self-inflicted wounds which could have easily been avoided had the Democratic Party a viable alternate to the Clinton brand. I can’t speak for those in Maga, for those who believe Trump will deliver to his base, but I didn’t want either candidate. I’ve written more than once why I made the choice I did, and part company with more rational conservatives like James Woods, who has made his own brand count on policy, when it comes to the border wall. I remain opposed, despite my recent experience with bona fide immigrants tending to my care. I don’t think these barriers work. All you have to do is examine Israel’s border with Syria, then ask yourself if this is what Zionists envisioned as the war years drew to a close. I also don’t like protectionism and the tariffs against China, and my life in the Commonwealth is the hell it’s always been, not to mention that prior to my drastic mechanical failures, I fought like a dog applying for jobs on Linked In, only to have recruiters vanish into   thin air after they approached me with letters of interest. It’s cruel and not fair that I can’t even get people like Jody Condi to so much as talk to me after all the hardships I’ve been through since fall, given my age and what I’m up against, and I am not even in the top tiers of the administration where generals and executives crash to the ground in rampant deforestation. My caretaker has been torturing himself all week about leaving Jewish Employment Vocational Services (JEVS), which has had its hand in the attendant care till for years, for a custodial job in the school system where he has been strung along since the Superbowl. I thought he was leaving, and now I wonder if my regret at his impending departure was an undue influence on his decision to stay. He said he was sick of submitting his prints to the FBI. Sign of the times—but it’s not Trump destroying democracy. His primary supporters did that by making him the frontrunner. That result is the GOP’s fault, which traditionally has an heir apparent, something the left could have done without in the waning dusk of Obama’s second term. I’ve made some progress with this black man who cares too much not to abandon me, like an overgrown little boy, the eight days I took to pass a large bowel movement not a particularly benevolent sign. Even if March For Our Lives wins some concessions on gun regulation, I still think Nick is barking up the wrong tree. It’s past the point for the Clintons to heal divisions and restore the center left, in my minuscule importance as one of the 177,000 who placed the country on this trajectory. This aide taught me how to sync via my hotspot, something Andreas from ATT couldn’t do for all his concerted efforts. I’m grateful, despite the iPhone unreliability. Guilt on my conscience is another matter.

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.

Bad Hash Browns

I am sitting here, certification deadline looming, and if I have any regular readers at all, you'd say, stay in section 202 another year, let Presby kick you out, don't be so destructive and put yourself in jeopardy, and I'm surfing around, trying to monetize my rage that I put seven years into. I doubt Google's Alphabet will allow me to reopen my AdSense account. Leaving me alone, short of giving you a hit list of whom, when, where-- this is one thing. Letting me make money on stark negativity is another, but these posts are seven years of work, and I've poured my heart and passion into much of it. Some archive material needs polish, and I need more real data pursuit, but still, I am writing for nothing because a Silicon behemoth is alarmed at the depth of my parceled tranches. Before I lose it in my favourites, to use Niume's English pasteurized variation, Pimdell's lazy rehash for the Globe illustrates that Trump's base has a point: This opinion piece is wrapping for fish and chips; it does nothing for journos who've been on the track. 

Wavering in Richard Spencer's Mirage

Let us separate a few apples, oranges, and maybe a chocolate almond pastry.

• The 1983 attack on the Marine barracks in Lebanon is not comparable to the 2012 attack on the Benghazi compound which killed Ambassador Stevens, regardless of what Madame pontificates. I actually lived through the former event, and do not recall the Reagan administration getting a free pass during the civil war. As a politician, Hillary is mixing her metaphors. The attack in Lebanon wasn't foreseeable in the same way that Benghazi should have been to anyone with a moderate security clearance. In 83, the Marines and the French were in a military installation, and the Reagan administration was never accused of skin fliniting security detail. These things were up to the commanders on the ground, and these commanders were flummoxed, successfully, with tragic results and significantly more causalities than occurred in Libya. Hillary was directly responsible for the situation Ambassador Stevens was in, and Susan Rice then tried to cover it up. If it was up to me Susan Rice would have been booted to Manila a long time ago, and Duterte might have been a useful lapdog in his ascent to the helm of America's 56th state, give or take, as the heirs to the Spanish empire, which exasperates me.
•  Under Constitutional law, Trump is qualified for the presidency. He may not be suitable for the presidency, but he is qualified, and analysts should have found a better way to splice this.

I'm glad we've cleared this up, in my missed calling as the first female fascist dictator. Meanwhile, I am most likely resigned to buying a new Toshiba battery. I paid well over 2000k for both these laptops, and my HP is more stable, larger, and doesn't give me so many problems, I just haven't booted it up since PhillyTechGuy's staff worked on it because the dowager forgets if she had a password on the older machine. This doesn't mean I cannot try to boot it up and reinstall everything, but I do not know what to do if I can't get the HP to unlock. Guy moved, and did not consult the dowager before doing so, and she is a trifle piqued, as local networking still matters. If anyone on social media might advise me about HP when I am ready I'd much appreciate it. I do not believe, when I used the lady regularly, that I required the password prompt, which is why I've forgotten it, and cannot remember how Guy's nascent young adults bypassed the issue; young Gina long moved on, from what Guy told me. Two thousand dollars plus is a great deal of money for me to come to nothing. I don't know. I've gone through two desktops, and my laptops are old. Sigh, but poverty and technological interface are relevant issues.

Niume invited me to join them; if I do I suppose I cannot delve into genocide with my usual relish. For now I'm indecisive, as my frightening fury hasn't changed, trust me. I've simply given Blogger a break. You too, though I have my Trumpian moments

Corroded Pretty Pennies

"Dear Brothers and Sisters," a proselytizing Sanders email generated from my involvement with Obama for America, unfortunately

If it comes down to a choice between Trump and Hillary, Howard Gutman was fairly confident, in his analysis, that Hillary prevails by three points, which would mean the electorate cements Barack's legacy and gives the Clintons one more crack at the helm. I loathe both front running brands, if we want to contextualize the fame of both contenders in that manner, but if Donald apologizes to Pope Francis, and I'm able to cast a ballot, I simply cannot return to the Clintons. If it is Rubio and Clinton, I simply won't vote; not a matter of questioning Rubio's credentials. The Senator has a book, financial extensions, raises valid points about the quiet minority of immigrants who are on the Visa applicant list, and so what?

Given a choice, the public knows the Clintons, and presumes they will keep the country steady at the helm. If somehow Sanders manages to draw blood and then it's him and Trump, then maybe my vote matters, and I'd have to go with the bombastic charlatan, if he apologizes to the Pope. One might be critical of the Argentine's leftist leanings, but he is the Vicar of Christ, the head of state, and I demand respect for the prince of the Church, however hard and dark I might be.


On the chance that Bloomberg does enter the race, his track record as an executive has already sold itself, and I'd possibly advocate for his candidacy. I do not always agree with his command decisions, but at least he makes them, and offers his constituency a supporting rationale. Both as a writer and an advocate, my failure has been one of local indifference, because what goes on at the lowest rung is the most primal, and I regret it, since the Commonwealth's rust belt status conveys a certain truism about dilapidation, never quite conscious of the fact, until recently that City Council is merely the cabal out of whom lesser forces spring. Rendell became mayor because he was DA, because Goode literally torched his own fortunes. Nutter became mayor against Street's collusion, and became a no blame minority nanny. Kenney looks like a half-witted superintendent, and this doesn't bode well for the city, I fear. Does the First Amendment trump FCC regulatory authority? Doubtlessly not, as the commissioners are terrified of the decency legion.

The Price of Lazarus

"He's like ice!"-- Alain Absire, Lazarus, a novel, page 101, 1988 edition

There is a price to autonomic function we dread, such as the discovery that Sweden maintains a royal family in a relatively permissive Marxist society. Who knew? Who even bothers to apply themselves to European parliamentary systems when so few of us are literate in the American primary process? There is a political drama on WYBE, fairly contemporary, partially eschewed; this is due in part, to the fact that, in Sweden, a conservative in the American political idiom means you wind up with the Clintons. 

Beneath the surface, the American power couple who've been around too long are scorned by everyone, and everyone knows it, just as everyone knows, come January 20th, 2017, Bill Clinton will have achieved the impossible, essentially doing an end run around the 22nd Amendment. You don't truly believe Hillary will actually run the West Wing, do you? This partially eschewed drama is wearisome, wearing on my skeletal brutishness, its title a pun on the actual Crown Princess Victoria. It is a sequential roller coaster on the political fortunes of  Ms. Elkblad, a woman who will invariably climb to the top because of the glaring flaws around her, villainous political advisers, wife beaters. That segment, the Regiscide, the dowager mostly skipped. The Swedish actor cast, a credible veteran, is many things, but a wife beater, no.

However, one never knows about these things, and "The Sacrifice" became relevant out of nowhere. One of the prominent ministers in the social democratic run has Alzheimer's, and she's a secular Jewish liberal to boot, a group which loves to dictate its moral values to hedonists playing dangerous games, and of a sudden, the spastic dowager is caught with her pubic hair in her zipper as European drama serves up a Ronald Reagan dish. All the sudden I mind the mentor of Sweden's perky little idealist, Charlotte, mind the wound of the fundamental unfairness of a woman denied her turn.

Ultima Preda: Chances of Fortune

"I take the side of the animals though," Terrence Hill, Eastwood's dialectical absudist

There are reasons Natasha Richardson interests me as an industry standard-bearer, particularly when juxtaposed against Jodie Foster, the child tom boy who never played lesbian but still challenges gender in subtle fashion, even as a forceful straight heroine who will do what she has to for an imperiled daughter or son. Sequenced into this, Past Midnight is your standard plot point thriller, nothing particularly special about it or Richardson's performance, except that it has the visceral undercurrents that are pertinent to the faux feel good economy of the first Clinton presidency. As an aside, I have no reason to give a flying fuck if Hillary prevails, as the Obama administration managed to kill me; I simply didn't realize this when I supported Barack in the Pennsylvania primary in 2008. If I thought I was a gasping fish out of water in my very early forties, I was under a misapprehension, as I may be hanging on nearly a decade later, but just that, despite consumption of fish oil; Hillary, it is sort of a naturalized anathema. The husband was sexually intriguing, liked women too much, and it remains an embarrassment that his seminal fluid became an impeachment vote while Saudi Arabia's bin Laden was brewing his spectacular blow. There is enough blame to go around for 9/11, but morally Clintonian narcissism was a nearly fatal distraction, so I cannot quite forgive the 42nd president, and think the left is incredibly stupid to elevate his wife for her public injuries in relation to Bill's philandering, but that is the United States, in a nutshell: a pretty woman who wants to engage in social justice becomes a social worker, sets eyes on Rutger Hauer, who cannot possibly be guilty in his role as a slightly more attractive genotype of Anthony Hopkins-- just as Clancy Brown is a tinsel variation on Ron Perlman, who had the courage to humiliate himself as second in rank in The Quest for Fire. Natasha's Laura preens off compliments, picks up her torch, and gets drawn into a threat which would keep most women under psychiatric care for the rest of their lives. Pluralism rarely takes account of the toll in its insistence on the inherent intrinsic value.


We never get to see the aftermath. Films aren't very good at evolving, or in this case, devolving characters, this is why Victor Hugo could write a tome like Les Miserables and we have flawed great classics that do embody full lives of our projected alter egos, even if they are ponderous reads, but Past Midnight strikes chords in terms of how liberalism crushes the spirit of the noble crusade, and ties in with the ambulatory carelessness of Richardson's 2009 death. Yes, on the surface, this seemingly content and happy starlet with her authentic Hollywood romance was simply the victim of a mishap. Beneath the surface, she really wasn't thinking about her age and the risks of learning to ski at 45. Foster, as a more conflicted woman, would have been more instinctually wary. The greater the talent, the better the intuition. Spastic was never held at knife point by a rural slasher with womb triggers, but the dowager has been subjected to everything else short of attempted murder, and yet, even in victimhood, remains, surviving with rage addicted tenacity, while Natasha's vivacious privilege becomes the suddenly absent, perhaps more to her fortune than the pondering with which we cling to temporal circumstance. As a figurine, a paper cut out of the Clinton era, she manages to let the pieces of her part in this film fall into place.

Hillary Clinton, Benghazi Viceroy?

"David, you've killed me!" Donald Sutherland, protesting Nimoy's autonomic miasma.

The 78 remake is somewhat different in subtext from the original 56 Body Snatchers, whose classic delineation is preferable to the muddied liberalism which ushered in the disaster of the Carter presidency. Domesticated, pasteurized kindness, tabulated to Sutherland's empathy enabling, isn't going to achieve jive squat over the ruthless need of a more potent conqueror, hence George W. Bush'es response to Osama bin Laden failed because it was a transference. The actual *enemy* in the aftermath of 9/11 was the Saudi kingdom's buy off of hard line extremism, but the neo-conservatives who had taken over the West Wing, lacked the will to uproot a corrupt oligarchy, and so, 14 years after the fact, we're pea shooting in Afghanistan, which is an ungovernable failed state, destroyed the British Empire's nicely drawn territorial borders for the sake of world order in Iraq, Iran, and another piece of shit country called Yemen, and Obama's carefully controlled airstrikes in 2011 against Qaddafi has essentially destabilized North Africa, while NATO and Putin eyeball each other, pissing in the wind over Kiev, and hoping to avoid a third world war in Syria.

First: If Hillary Clinton is truly responsible for the death of Ambassador Stevens, she should suspend her campaign and leave her party to scramble. Second: the GOP needs to realize that if the US has essentially ceased deploying the army for ground force occupation for anything other than mass die offs in Haiti, then chaos ensues, shit happens, and Secretary Clinton was in treatment for a blood cot derived from a hematoma during the attack on the compound, and the fault, if it lies anywhere, lies at the doorstep of two failed Administrations who have lost the ability to define goals and execute accordingly, because they realize progressives have lost the will for body counts.

Do I have any salient solutions? No, but a good starting point might lie in the realization that the U.N. would survive losing 5 members from the General Assembly. Yemen and Syria and Iraq and Afghanistan and North Korea and Sudan and Somalia need to be dissolved. That's seven, but such niceties like a shared national identity and ethos have long fled the scene. Erdogan would not mind seeing the restoration of the Ottoman Empire's prestige. That's a start. India could reabsorb Pakistan and Bangladesh. Would there be blood? How much collateral damage have we seen already since ISIS has become a cause? This is the sentiment you get on defecating through a second week of a bronchitis flare up for which powerful decongestants like Mucinex have not yet been deployed. I will not elect Hillary Clinton, but if you do, my antipathy may not supersede my suffocation on my own phlegm, but I'll go down fighting, fanatic ablaze to destroy those by whom I've been thwarted.

Present at the Creation

Her life with hateful snares pursue,/You swore to love and cherish.

The recollection of Dean Acheson's voice was that of encyclopedic reassurance. He and Franklin were in charge, and the lend lease program would buttress Winston's tenacity to survive the crippling blows of Hitler's aggression, but in the late eighties, stifling boredom, raising the hew and cry of "I am not a historian," the events of the second world war were best left to Ronald Reagan's senility and his Vice President's competence in the Oval Office. We're a stupid people, Americans, letting a third party candidate like Ross Perot split the seams, handing over the reigns to the Clintons, who could not imitate JFK's protective smokescreen, and then lurching, badly, on the basis of our vaunted electoral college, to the Texan branded son of the more astute father, who was so incompetent we anointed a mixed race messiah who, instead of actually being a movement president, relegated himself downward. Barack became the [black] president who engendered [white] buyer's remorse, but we are forbidden to phrase it that way, and Clinton fatigue transmuted into Sex and the City marketing. The *historic* vote should have crowned a woman before a half-Kenyan. Indeed. Hillary is virtually a default empress in anticipation-- of what?

We've been here before. However much contempt I have for our primary two party system, and the centrist, self-absorbed bubba liberals that the Clintons are, the breach of protocol over her email account should serve as a dire warning about how Orwellian we've already become. It is a breach of ethics that the most important member of the cabinet used a private server in her diplomatic correspondence? Classified information, however juicy, shocking, sobering, brutal, or realpolitik, is still data. That is all it is. Threat assessments, secrets about deliberate poisonings, conspiracies, plots. That's it. Whatever Madame Secretary wanted to conceal, she did so for the reasons government officials world over dread transparency. It is nothing new, regardless of ideology. We do not look too closely at how things are run outside of our own spheres of knowledge. The majority of us with our enfeebled souls sublimate it. We write books, distract ourselves with theater, culinary arts. If we were all involved, the world would come to a standstill, much like parliamentary debate in the Oireachtas. IRA guerrillas killed British soldiers so that Ireland's legislators could argue with delicious impotence over the empowerment community integration offers hospital patients who clog facilities for lack of home health care packages.

Are we electing Hillary to a third Obama Clinton term? Or is it the Washington press corp?

Free Kiev

But tonight I would like to address my remarks particularly to this city and particularly to the Ukraine--a city and a republic that has meant so much to the Soviet Union and so much to the world, Richard Nixon.

Diffidence. The sole follower of my blog and I accidentally bumped into each other at the mail slots, and said the normal random things people say, my primary worry driving out in the frigid cold, and my ex, poor Frank, modern serf if there ever was, informed me his incestuous issue had a heart attack, and I'm guilty of glib indifference, and thus, if I can be so self-aware of how cold I am, how can I expect anyone on social media to lend me a hand? Whatever you read of the intelligence, the retrenched white hot anger, you'd look at me, see emotional wounds in my eyes, straggly hair, need for better grooming, look away, feel pity, dehumanize, wonder how my teeth became so damaged, and then, we have the massive liberal wailing over Rudy's jingoism. Some of us understand what Guiliani was saying, in translation: Barack Obama is thoroughly infused with a multiculturalism which  is ill suited for the sovereign head of the United States, but he did it in a reactionary way that isn't being nice to those of mixed race socialist heritage. I don't think anyone would disagree that Obama's mother made herself an outcast, and by some miracle  her boy navigated this without turning into inner city refuse. I'm the one who managed that, so accept my lot and shut the fuck up already.

Let me save some of you some time: I am no longer a patriot, and within reason, I am allowed to express this. I think our two party system has finished its course and no longer truly amounts to anything. We nominate centrists and essentially choose which moderate we like best on center right or center left. And I only have one image of Hillary Clinton when she was the first lady of Arkansas. Her hair was shoulder length, held in place by a black headband, while she was assuring a national interviewer that Jennifer Flowers "was just a friend."

I can know nothing else about the Clintons, but know that this duplicity speaks volumes about the limits of political representation, and I am that very rare thing: a violent brain damaged female who frightens patrician sensibilities, driven off from a number of online communities, not an easy thing, because I should be medicated. A helpless anarchist, but an anarchist none the less. I don't believe raping women is an effective intimidation tactic, and therein lies the difference between an Isis recruit and myself.

Am I really that hard? I am not the only disabled American who has been disenfranchised, not the only victim of crime and abuse, but with my enemies, probably. I've reached a place where I'd like them to feel what it is like, to be trapped in a senior living home because of one defiant choice when you were 23, stabbed in the back by activists you thought you could trust, and a Puerto Rican Italian man who should be dead, who is a living symbol of how health care is bankrupting the fucking country and dragging me down because there are no resources to spare to give me a better outcome, all I can feel about his son's insatiable ability to impregnate his idiot genes into women is that his heart attack serves him right. Therein is exactly what happened to my humanity. 

Blood Children's Insulin

Justice denies that the loss of freedom for some is made right by a greater good shared by others.-- John Rawls, 1971

Brandon Phillips served time for his aggravated assault. Two years. Did his time, his grandmother's bones long in the ground, and the damages from the inner city and Diamond  Park, well, fifteen minutes away from a lifetime of inviolate branding, compiled by the incompetence of pluralism and cruelty of the peevish elderly, is merely fifteen minutes away. The beneficiaries in all this? The property owners, who escaped liability because I was passive, and thought the managerial minority staff were looking out for my interests.

The difference between Camille Cosby and Hillary Clinton is a matter of degree. Former Flotus stood by husband because she derived her power from a philandering husband who became the president. The Bill from Arkansas loved women, besides, though things sometimes go awry, his naked penis hanging in front of Jones an embarrassment, but legally not systemic harassment (I have done a lot of research on this). Herein lies the reason I will not vote for Mrs. Clinton. She enabled Bill's behavior in a trade off to climb the political rungs, in contrast to Napolitano, who, beyond the occasional sympathy profile, glitters with no such star dust.

The Bill from Philadelphia apparently doesn't feel our pain, and is allegedly just another black predator. Whatever side of the fence we choose, lives have been forever altered. Darren Wilson killed a future NFL scandal in Michael Brown, flabbier, if larger, than the Brandon who forever altered me. Brandon was wiry, strong, compact. Darker than Brown, and sorry but this is what he looked like, thick lips inflamed like a vagina with herpes, eyes red with hard driving inflammation, I no longer fantasize about blowing his fucking skull off; his attack was impersonal, stupid. Didn't even steal the five dollars from my consultancy fees lying on the table. If Brandon's time served is nothing against my fear of more suffering to come, contemplate what Wilson faces beyond more potential litigation: revenge threats, loss of his career. Cosby's legacy is tarnished, perhaps irretrievable, but he will be dead soon.

It is the reverberations left behind. These will reach up and ensnare the future.

Waltz in the Right Wing

Ah, disaffection! Back in the day when Warren Commission "single bullet theory" Arlen was alive, missing his memory, this guy was American brand right wing. Toomey doesn't know the spastic dowager blog, of course not. Too busy with his stature, but I make Toomey look like Eisenhower. Stark and bitter laugh Jim Brady would not find *classy,* to channel Judy Woodruff. I pasted everything Toomey's staff considers sniveling grievance in his content window to save time, knowing as a federal legislator there isn't much, as a former businessman, Toomey can do for my urban spiritual malaise, but change of habitat urgency breeds strange bedfellows, even if a fascist takeover of the US government has been done. It is already here.

I fantasize about becoming a political operative for our seductive libertarians like Rand Paul. The Fourth Estate is hotter and heavier in its fascination with libertarian streaks than the average citizen,  (only the faintest familiarity with Burke's political philosophy) I suspect. Political journalists hold their breath, waiting for an ideological schism within the nominating ranks every election cycle, and every election cycle to my less than engaged political conscience, libertarians fold. No drama, no surge of excitement about hard liners who will make the trains run on time. It gives me a nearly youthful nearly orgasmic rush, despotism! Women never admit this is our true path to power, through the penises to which they lay claim.

Last time, I was flattered, astonished, tickled, when a Toomey staffer telephoned me. It led to Tim's departure, the nearly 70 year old dope fiend who initiated all of this stress and more games with homosexual psychosis, reigniting my death to blondes sentiments. This time I'll probably receive a form letter telling me to comply with HUD regulations.

Conversional Masochism

"You want to be Pope!"-- a Gene Robinson heckler

The retired archbishop isn't quite homosexual enough it seems. His sanctimonious self righteousness is preposterous, an appropriate target for scorn. Obviously, impulse control lies at the root of some of my issues, after molestation by men, and more sneakily by women, so yes, I have the capacity for bisexual stimulation, but do I torment myself over it? No, except I know as sure as the day I was born that I remain a target whom unscrupulous attendants will attempt to exploit. Environment has placed them in time like coprolites, something that Hillary Clinton has observed in her travels, conditions which make me look fairly rich when I lose control of molten diarrhea leaking spastic rectum.

What she has observed as a taciturn figurehead is one thing. What Philadelphia has inflicted on my belief in my own matriculation is another. Sliding down the scale toward the end, posting to any of you hasn't done much good toward a base of supporters, unless the Russians and the Chinese are weighing my inflammatory use.

In more pragmatic terms, had I not lashed out at Linda when I bellowed in email that I thought I had fallen in love with her, stayed quiet, faxed her orgasm emails to Philadelphia Human Relations Commission, she would have been out of a job, the three stooges  would have given me a settlement, and I might have relocated then before my mother's fatal attack. Instead I had a massive depressive episode, in so much pain I simply had to swallow the seismic events which followed, destroying any hope then of snapping back into place, surviving, but at what price? I'm weakening.

Can I say I would have thrown myself under a Swedish train car like Bendjelloul? He engaged in an ambulatory destructive exercise. Yahoo's feature article on his death, though commendable for length, dragged on, and might have been edited toward shorter and tighter impact. I stress the ambulatory function because I have never intuitively understood bipedal motion. True paraplegics know what they've lost. When I observe Episcopalians struggling with Robinson's radical egalitarian insistence on simply ignoring the Torah, turning the Trinity into a Tribbles episode, what goes on beneath the surface is obstinate tyranny toward apostasy. This doesn't mean I want to rejoin the devotees to Jesus, nor does it mean doctrine is inviolate, but homosexual activism is destroying something which will transform humanity, to its detriment. The biker who took Robinson on in front of the congregation saw this, despite lack of manner and elocution. Archbishop Robinson is not a Christian, only an egotist, breaking down restraints which have served our species for years. Eradication of the human animal would benefit felines. They are better creatures despite evolutionary stop gaps. I am not quite sympathetic to Isis, and its anticipated takeover of Baghdad, but futurists, anxious over the destruction of collective intelligence, aren't engaged with the new Al Qaeda model.

From The Mouth of Ashley Judd's Assassin

"You think I pushed Cheryl too hard?", Stephanie March, SVU incarnation

Hilary Swank and Jennifer Garner have the nearly exact corresponding genotype in the eye of a casting director. They are both reasonably attractive tom boy brunettes with well defined cheekbones, with complexions comparable to a glass of milk; not great beauties, but wholesome American girls with thick African defined lips in a darker contrast to their Caucasian skin tone, at least with lavender colored lipstick, with equally equivalent range and talent, the only real difference between the two of them is Swank attained elevation against Eastwood and then went poof, both women having trouble maintaining their first billing leads on screen, with Garner more tangible to television. Wait another ten years lady. At 44 you think your body will hold the assembly line, mature but sturdy. By 55 those martial arts moves you've perfected as Supergirl in a technocratic age will require performance enhancing drugs.

It is easy to believe as brunettes, we are all Hilary and Jennifer, this is why the studio selects them. Girls just like us who marry the reasonably hip boy next store Affleck, but none of are truly like this, on closer examination, the athletic naivety which muddles its way through rural trash family exploitation and betrayals of trust, landing on our feet with a chance at second love, or the true father figure riding to the rescue on a mercy mission which concedes that our determination and strength as overwhelmed, shielded, as always, by the Hollywood marriage, an inexplicable anachronism in the modern age, much like Foucault's fascination with the royal body of the sovereign as a living embodiment of the body politic. Michel's queer intellectual rigor wasn't in error, as the still relatively undefined AIDS virus destroyed his body due to his inability to stave off unsafe anal penetration and direct his energies elsewhere, (though in fairness, in 84 ,  Fauci's carefully proscribed phrases about "unsafe sexual practices" weren't current in liberal lexicography). The health of the sovereign does reflect the health of a national power. The real problem, as we hurl four years ahead, where the dowager logged on to research temporary political jobs, isn't the pneumonia, but the clots, the concussions, bad temperaments tailgating fading relevance, on both ends of the political spectrum. More on this in more demanding thought processes later; this post was borne out of an annoyance, desiring some quiet evening reading. The dowager failed, volume and video the only things to penetrate a sterile evening, loneliness, fear, sore epidermis, stressed digestion.

An Elgar for Hillary

Or a nihilist soothed by taut strings

"You're the one who left me." Frank Versante, my nihilist ex fiance

Who am I to judge how Hillary played the hand her husband dealt her? Just a disenfranchised voter who doesn't have much to be thankful for in terms of political ejaculations. I write many things that breach manners, how homosexual friends and associates and sixty year old transgendered freaks twisted my mind and loyalties and sensibilities and how a supervisor's gloating became ugly and a mass mocking, and all this is what is wrong with me in my broken body according to everyone else. I do not let it go, even though, whether I let it go or not, the fount of ablest hatred is always at hand, similar to Sister Veronica's interrogation.

I understand hate crimes, and while Antisemitism used to perplex me, after what I have been through and whom with, it doesn't anymore. So again, whether Bill and Hillary find each other a necessary liability is something none of us can ascertain against expediency. Huma Abedin may have made the same calculation for a lesser problem, since no one is claiming Anthony Weiner is a serial affair monger. Political analysts discussed this during the opening days of the Bush Administration, that one thing both of our major political brand families have in common is a narcissistic preoccupation  with themselves, and I do not understand why any American wants more of the same when so many of us have been left behind.

I would love to let the trauma Linda Dezenski dumped on my plate and a Jewish lesbian named Fern Markowitz then facilitated before the still functioning transvestite made the old crone eat shit go, but the games we Americans play with our most disadvantaged elements in our social safety net makes us no better then Sisi and the justication he uses to crush Brotherhood sympathizers. I want to go back to work, with a misshapen set of teeth because I cannot afford dental fees, with chronic bowel impactions and lung fluids. I can't drive and can dream on if I think New Mobility would give me more work when I am still angry at their Jesus lesbian for breaking the girl buddy honor code--and as I've told you, they put me on ice before I raised my voice about Josie Byzek and her labial Gnosticism. Jesus loves her, her body crippled by damaged nerve sheaths.

If the Hillary movie is made, surely a vetting intern can find video of the couple patronizing a group of special education angels in wheelchairs.

Pubic Lunch

October 6 President Sadat is assassinated by 4 members of Jama'at Al Jihad, a parcel of Muslim Brotherhood history

Rebecca De Mornay displays a curious sexual aggression with Antonio Banderas in Never Talk to Strangers. The paint by numbers schematic of this narrative is a few notches above in sobering responsibility compared to its fraternal twin De Palma slasher, yet DeMornay's performance reaches through the formula, and is worth mentioning in the context of repressed and traumatic memory. She gets the brittle vulnerability pushed to its trigger point right within the reticence of the lead character's control, and had that unifying copulation scene been shot for a mature audience, at least one quadriplegic might not have been able to withstand not acting on the frustration.

It goes to the disabled journalist's point, however: All physical intimacy, however healthy and consensual and beautiful when it is about the conception of children, has triggers. The further from conceiving you go, the more potent the trigger, and, when we move along the spectrum of homosexual eroticism, the closer you get to this with a partner (and I have observed more than you) the more legitimate disgust with the frailty of human flesh one is entitled to feel. Again, much like Orson Scott Card, science fiction novelist turned hot potato, I know progressives are having a field day, and radical equality for evolutionary mechanisms is here to stay, but I believe that as we lose the constraint of definition, we lose a unique sensibility that kept us human in the first place, and if a liberal wants to ask me if my former ally doesn't deserve its happiness on the same terms as my paternal cousins (who I believe have relatively stable marriages), my answer is no. Innuendo has been circumnavigating the web for years that in ratio to Bill's sexual appetites, Hillary had an equal indulgence for *pussy*; I have never seen it substantiated, but I am also not eager for a repeat of our sniggering contempt for America's eminent centrist couple. I liked Bill Clinton. I thought he had potential to be a great president and I'm angry with him for failing, but I remember far too much, and Hillary's ruthlessness with her excuses does not mean she deserves to be the first lady who actually takes charge at the helm. She failed to deliver on health care, gave the GOP enough of an ethical dilemma that they never got over it, didn't do much at State other than to suggest kindness would work better with Assad. I would not be worse off under Hillary than I am today, but if I am still functional, I have my doubts I'd wind up any better.

Complicity, Clintons and Pecking Order

"I find the word 'cured' to be very difficult to define." --Julie Andrews

I am not going to dissect Arlington Road in the same manner that I attempted to flake from the mica of The Brothers Rico as a film; this is in part due to the fact that the agenda of Pellington and Kruger speaks for itself  in the more contemporary narrative. The threat is from within, that the American self-reliant frontier mindset is its own cancer, perhaps a crab incurable, and as dark as any ultra right wing mentality with which it might be compared. Pellington also offers Easter eggs for the flavor of any ideologue.

These are my main points of complicit ambiguity, however, with the understanding, on your part, that I do not have access to the full technical issues surrounding the making of the movie:

1. Was the child Brady a deliberate lure, whether or not Fenimore was switch hitting on bringing Faraday in, or was intent on framing and sacrificing Faraday from the opening frame?

2. Was Hope Davis used in a dual role as girlfriend / operative to suggest that no one can be trusted? Towards the close of the film there is a student, a plant from Fenimore's apparently huge resistance to the federal, progressive sensibility. I cannot tell from the credits whether this woman is an extra cast because she looks like Davis, or she is Davis in a game of masquerade, but the implication is the same.

3. What were Pellington and Kruger implying when Robbins ends the film by telling Cusack "They'll let us know."?

Perhaps homo sapiens is limited and self-deluded by First Cause entrapments in politics and physics alike.

The cult of the icon, however, is the least plausible when it comes to the validity of fronts, props, and powers behind the throne. Are the Clintons, for instance, part of a left centrist snow job? No, not in the Machiavellian sense. Hillary did not drive Vince to his death. She and her husband have a passive aggressive self-justification that was perhaps not the best thing for the US at the time, but they did not run around DC saying "Kill the bastards."

I am not in the Hillary glee club, however, and I never liked her in any of her incarnations, though she receives a passing grade for getting out of State without causing riots in Montana. Marooned taps into the psychic scar tissues that the modern autocracy makes us pay, exacerbating them. Gregory is all too convincing as the operative who has to keep the government safe from its own fallibility, and this makes it more than a movie and closer to a crumbling edifice about the price we pay for the right stuff, how the feminine is hated even in stock objectification. That no one would raise a hand to the mechanized astronaut's wife doesn't mean she isn't discarded because it is necessary, and she knows that she is complicit in the deception thrust upon her.

In Rico the government is like a binary switch. On or off, dismissed until it is a necessary last resort. In Marooned, personified in the abstract of NASA, it is the new secular religion, and in Arlington, it is a duped and impotent eunuch.

Vancouver's Concession to Brooklyn's Gentrification

"Otho's head is quite tiny, and it's owner's legs loutishly unclean," Catullus, pig of pidgin Latin

Stephen J Cannell reigned supreme over the television airways longer than JJ Abrams due to the fact that the studio system, during Cannell's prime, was in its turn of the century generic mode, not yet imploded in the Reagan era by digital technology turning us all into libertarian rebels; thus Wiseguy was Francis Ford Coppolla and Martin Scorsese on the cheap. By the time Abrams made good on the mystery island island motif to make Lost a sensation, the end of Clintonion global hegemony was already at hand. Abrams may have hit a vein of gold with his spectacular drama, but the expectations created by his plane crash could not possibly be fulfilled, certainly not by ABC, and Abrams managed to dissolve himself, through the radical assertion that none of us are accountable to either circumstance or environment. Cannell's disillusionment with the American empire, however, cannot be dismissed, however made for television his underlying cynicism was, it manifested itself as the gateway to the post-9/11 world we currently inhabit. Neither is Ken Wahl as gut wrenching as Donnie Brasco,. Pretty boy in North Hollywood may leave lonely women slavering for a high quality, more masculine definition of John Travolta, but Terranova's collusion, ethical erosion, is a sequential novella, to Depp's comparative existential insight, and Jim Bynes' "Lifeguard" was already a cliche by the time the character aired and formed, the primitive cyborg, empowered by early metadata and telecommunication advances, even if the perfect starlet fantasy hearkens back to every Southern European girl's brass ring. Ken Wahl was the epitome of working class transcendence for many, especially in the world of Kevin Spacey's Mel Profitt. Cannell might have had the courage to let Spacey's genius go where Spacey's genius took us with the later Usual Suspects, instead of Tucci as Pizzolo, but this might have been too radical for viewers: the self-hating, magnetic, corrupting influence of real power, of which money is merely an instrument, so Profitt was given a fatal flaw, not entirely without insidious capacity, however, in after-effect. It is the men like Spacey's villains who actually run the world, and we know it, even without a Carter administration white paper on sibling jackasses who create international scandals. Chelsea is a more adept Machiavelli, but look at the kind of parents she had to fuck her up.