The Mighty Back Hoe

 "I will catch a cold."-- the doctor in Washington Square

In some sense of the word, but for happenstance, we all end our lives as patients , whether its Antonin Scalia in his upscale lodge, or David Miranda emaciating away due to intestinal inflammation particular to the southern latitudes, as if homosexual indigenous pair bondings with American Caucasians simply cannot be original enough, always involving some fire of the body. Is happenstance any better? A distant cousin I only greeted at family gatherings, named Bryan, died in a manufacturing accident where he worked, one of those disasters of circumstance which catches everyone off guard, vanished. Whether Jake Sully does the same, in Avatar, is what I have been turning over to try to make a blockbuster two decades old relevant from another perspective. Is he a terminal patient who prolapses Pandora into the Walt Disney version of a patrician paradise? In recollecting the controversy surrounding the movie in its original release date, David Brooks analysis was off a notch. Sully wasn’t better at being native than the Na’vi; he was simply more attuned to taking risks, like a young Darth Vader, who, you might remember, was a good Jedi in the skirmish which took his hand in the Star Wars prequel. Although a conscientious viewer cannot help but be transfixed by Cameron’s futurist cowboys and indians battle, Sigourney Weaver’s overacting is a predictable keystroke; for the moment, this leaves me with nothing more to add.

Northward from Barbary Coast

Perhaps they had already been corrupted.-- a contributor to New York Magazine on the Taliban, 18 years ago, give or take.

What I haven't dwelt on very successfully, in relation to how I utilized Omar Mateen's autonomic act of terror , unlike Linda Sarsour in Aurora, interestingly enough, is my own level of complicity, and I am not sure I can resolve that, no matter how direct and on point I am. For my internalized dynamics, there is relatively little harm in that; for the country at large, this may be another matter, and with or without Donald Trump, the American left will one day have an uneasy reckoning, its ideology a series of contradictions, such that conservatives may weaken, but will always have grounds on which to reemerge.

Literature and movies, featured video of poverty stricken concrete sublets, never really assisted me in the comprehension of modern Afghan and Pakistani tribalism, and I have always been of two mindsets: civilization is better off without the Pashtun, and the Pashtun have survival skills which are useful in the event of a mass extinction, and if I want boundaries, these tribes have them in spades. They also bred into Sicilian and Roman bloodlines, as Rome evolved into the Byzantine, hence many Italians have Arabic trace elements in their provincialism, which is obviously digressing. It is easier to turn on the World Series, resign oneself to the dominance of the Dodgers, than dwell on these moral dilemmas and latent hostility toward those that challenge gender, defy the reality of biology itself, and at the same time tremble at savages who more rightly belong in Ashoka's era . There is no question that Mateen's shooting gallery was and is beyond comprehension. To make a primitive analogy, if I rolled into a room of 1500 case managers and took out 75 of them as targets, it wouldn't send any kind of message about radical obstetrics and quality of life. It is an indiscriminate behavior which actually makes it more difficult to close ranks against hedonism. Andrew Sullivan's solution to that was an appropriation, gay marriage. It won't settle the question anymore than the incautious utterances of Pope Francis, a weak leader who one day 18 months ago made me squeal in private exuberance when he liked my response, and then me weep in rare excess, a grave sin committed in my disrespect, as the atheist in me scuttles under the bed. Any Catholic reading this would scold me not to disavow my faith simply to be a smartass. He would be a better leader if he harvested such teachings gleaned from centuries, as opposed to diluting doctrine to appease the left, and if we're tone deaf, perhaps we have to be, and not out of selfishness.

Some of you may believe I am walking myself back from sometimes explosive vitriol because my father, and particularly Mainline Medical, run by my uncle, destroyed my independence at the request of the Negro Public Housing Alliance, and if I read this anonymous portion of my audience correctly, you're right, but I haven't altered in a certain sense of hardened conviction, only that Mateen was nonsensical, counterproductive, and he may have killed people who might have rejected the excesses of the sexual revolution. I have known many in the gay community, and just because my contempt with two of them led me to a temper, it doesn't mean I regale bloodbaths. But this doesn't mean national conscience is settled with the affair.

A Fury Almost Not to be Recognized

"New hope for the civically exhausted--" TNR's rebtanded tagline

Coping with false allegations is never a pleasant experience, but I doubt those in Twitter's scrolling immediacy paused to reflect on the hyperbolic decibel level which surrounds American physical intimacy as it rolls back its blinds on the sexual revolution with some degree of diffidence. The catfish operatives who trolled on Buttigieg's character in mid-spring were the first to wither under a crisp recoil, as per the announcement of the Burkman/Wohl press conference.

Jacob Wohl plans to hold a press conference on his Pete Buttigieg sexual assault smear on Wednesday pic.twitter.com/BS2R38PFBr

— Will Sommer (@willsommer) May 6, 2019

Not Dale Peck, but as I read these persistent entrails of innuendo, Wohl was taking a page from Me Too as a reflective lesson. If Kavanaugh was going to burn, then why not a favored son from the midwest who has the admiration of former right winger Tom Nichols? I looked at some paragraphs of Peck's screed and with some piqued irony saw myself in his words, as some of you must have read me in my delineations of Erik von Schmetterling, the failed female medical intern with its freakish androgyny, and Jimmi Shrode, its pallid partner, but Peck is wrong too, too infer that educated people such as myself, once a supporter of gay marriage, could steer my starboard in the other direction, turn my back, and yet preoccupy myself with Mayor Pete's private life. What is that to me, aging, vulnerable, in paralysis regardless of policy nuance? The National Review, for all of my restlessness with its content, offered me a better grasp of Buttigieg's executive limitations in dealing with the lethal shooting of a black resident who allegedly pulled a knife on an officer. Dale Peck simply continues onward with the destruction of a periodical which many of us have lauded as a Beltway institution. I can say quite honestly I wouldn't want, as of this post, a byline in The New Republic. That window has passed, to echo Jeffrey Tucker when he wanted to praise Beyonce but was upbraided by someone uptight when it came to a white man writing about a black woman's music. Western civilization is so sadly broken. I can revert to my excoriating denigration on the basis of race and ethnicity, (let alone orientation) but the rest of the country has left me parked at the curb, no matter how much more dehumanization there is left to sustain in a neo-liberal candyland.

Drought in Cape Town

"Accidents happen quickly. Investigations take a great deal of time."--Jim Southworth, besieged custodian of our national triage crew.

That I feel put upon in my now estranged interaction with fantasy novelist Shayna Grissom is on my plate: she requested a critical volunteer on Twitter, and as a long time follower, I offered, despite my physiological stresses. Not to put too fine a point on it, but the effort involved a shot toward tolerance across the bow, going beyond my own Copernican heliocentrism into normalized primate social interaction, and it backfired. Shayna isn't thinking of my disability, doesn't realize this senior living apartment which I've hated for 25 years is tantamount to a county jail cell because I have no control of my own environment due to blithe fat and jolly nigger cleaning crews and a pair of white trash drug addicts who tended to my dying stepmother, that my cervical and anal regions are depleted of estrogen, are otherwise burning and sore because my godfather's staff fitted me badly to modern power chair technology under the curious vendor brand name of Quantum, and that I've never been to a writer's conference in the Pacific Northwest because I don't drive a Buick with her downturned pursed lips and limp blond hair, she simply wanted that reassurance writers need so I offered, and even though I offered, her urgency was an infringement on a critical care invalid. "I need this done now, immediately. It's been a tough week."
So I did it now immediately after an arm wrestling match with the President of City Council Darrell L Clarke, a man taken aback by an angry Italian spastic who cared absolutely nothing for the fact that the Councilman was the biggest dick at the microphone. It takes a great deal of braggadocio to be a reactionary when African adhesion to urban liberalism is a roiling tsunami drowning you in its cubic undertow, and yes, let it roll off and down your back (meaning mine), casually as Dennis Hopper's gunshot death sprawling his body on our wondrous ribbons of asphalt that forged a nation. Only, I did not believe at the time that Shayna was lesbianistic. Thought she had given a shout out to a husband right before her conference sojourn, but yes, I will concede the now nicely bracketed block of activists (wtf does non-binary mean?) would find it difficult to accept my quadriplegic stark unhappiness near the end of its life as it is. I have, after all, lent silent and tacit support to Andy Ngo later this month. No nuanced quibble here. Antifa is a terrorist organization. It is just a sense of dismay that online contact rarely takes root and offers supportive friendships, especially in generational distances.

Draco's Fire Lunge

'passed on from hand to hand"-- Elton John, negating projectile weapons

In the differential between being helpless and being rendered helpless, it is interesting to note that the keystone for Magee Rehabilitation Hospital was laid in 1982, while I was zipping around the borough of Ridley Park and the city of Chester, oblivious, on that mainly picturesque campus, of the sterile fate which lie ahead as part of the Jefferson Health network. Magee’s masonry is still relatively young, just shy of forty years, the front line, in Philadelphia, for spinal injuries, I only ever penetrated here to be fitted, as my closed circuit institutionalization began in 1972, not that this insolent and glowering little vixen could know this, with her spitfire blond strands, uneven stare. She could not hope to travel through my varied gateway of sexual molestation at the hands of African minorities, vaginally penetrated, as if I were nothing more than a terrorized marsupial dispensed for use on the forearm of privileged schoolboys. She deserves to be slapped across the face, this single syllable expression of umbrage and bloodthirsty xxxxx’es, and perhaps she realizes, the little cunt, that a spastic such as I calls out the cannon, already in prison, with nothing to lose in the deploy of the big guns.

She isn’t much of an adversary in her bristle.

Ellen De Generes, conversely, probably would comprehend these rivulets of scar tissue in the guise of my violent stepfather, abusing one and all in my whore of a mother’s household. I suppose I fled, like a boomerang, while Ellen dispenses with femininity altogether. This cross dressing transvestite enthusiasm actually has a long undercurrent in vaudeville going back to the Victorian era. The disability law firm from Maryland, following me in a brief subterranean exchange, may be hungry enough to take legal action against the vendor Mainline Medical, presided over by my uncle, Louis Cristinziani, but what good is that in a burning vertigo on the verge of collapse?

The Anvil

I thought I had already posted the picture of Sims posing with me. It is quite possible I did post it and using Google's internal search engine simply did not locate it under the legislator's name. Here it is:

If you look closely I am obviously emotionally ransacked, and you can hear a more able Mary Worrrilow talk over my head saying "that's better," after I tried doing Wellbutrin in 2003. This photo with a caviler and well groomed attorney who we do not need to envision in an anal posture occurs much later, perhaps 18 months before this last, perhaps final, implosion of my independence. Mary Worrilow is my mother's youngest surviving sister. She and I aren't on speaking terms, and I don't like her, never have, nor her husband, nor her daughter who says she loves me so much. But for the moment, I'll just add this. If a quadriplegic with a battering ram life can put a homosexual politician who can certainly pass for straight on his knees for the sake of being placated, then the world isn't going to end. When Isabella commissioned the Spanish Inquisition, Brian and I both would have been tortured, even ignited and scorched above faggots to purge Christendom of blasphemy.

The Eight Ball Visor

Wer wird ein Kind so zeigen, wie es ist? Wer wird es in seiner Konstellation platzieren, mit einem gewissen Abstand in der Hand?-- Google's synthesis of Rilke, from English and back again

In all fairness to Mr. Dorsey, who looks appalling to anyone's sartorial sense of public presentation, be it New Yorker correspondents or TED enthusiasts, almost as if he's channeling Tommy Lee Jones as Gary Gilmore fresh out of Woodstock:
  
No one arbitrarily anointed him, Ev Williams and his now streamlined Medium, or the others faithful to coding, including Donald Hicks (who certainly looks the part of a queer Iranian's dance partner), to be defenders of the First Amendment, which no longer exists, other than as concept devoid of access. If I was as much of a fiend as I purport to be, I would have weaponized myself against Yashar Ali, gaining significant insight, of a sudden, as to why his family are dissidents from the Islamic Republic in Tehran. Instead I took a break, revisiting the stark comfort of Styron's voice in Sophie's Choice. But for accidents of geography, I might have conceivably matched Styron in aesthetic temperament, despite my sympathies for the feudal caste system Robert E Lee struggled valiantly to save. Styron is to the left of that, undoubtedly, having the grace to host another canonical voice which yet eludes me, James Baldwin, but heaven forbid teaching any of this to the indignant nigger with his high functioning mood disorder who has tended to your besieged buttocks for the past year. If it makes progressives any easier with the ever burgeoning unease of my extreme prejudice, it mortifies me more that I almost fucked a black man who might have been my client at Matrix. This is the graver ethical lapse, one I'm almost ready to cut the cord with, even with the knowledge that I am trapped, Waiver services the maelstrom sucking me under.
Styron did not appear to be happy with liberalism towards the end of his life, radiating that comforting bleakness softly from him on his last appearance on Charlie Rose, betraying that he did not want to die horribly crippled, a slip in manner both he and Rose quickly corrected. What would he have made of the fact that I hold Llhan Omar to be an enemy of state? Reconstituting Nazism for his own lack of species optimism is one thing, a naturalized Somali bigot in the halls of Congress? This may have eluded the grasp of his privilege.
LLhan may say what she likes about Israel. I have certainly explored secular liberalism with my own diffidence, but she has not earned the right to be a federal official in any capacity, has barely earned the privilege of being a citizen. Whether or not she manages to get assassinated, I certainly have the temerity to see how enervating her political success is to the health of our body politic, stripped as I am of Trump's moral cowardice. If my pet monkey from Jewish Employment  Vocational Services Home Care Wing wasn't browbeating me to death for forty hours a week, I'd fly to Minneapolis and launch a ruthless investigation into Omar's electoral success, willing to place myself in mortal jeopardy to do so. I cannot change anything about my Medicaid service in this Commonwealth, even with my delightful Twitter stalker on my heels, a speculative stalker, offering to place himself at my service. It was never what I required, and any additional support will come far too late in my disaffection.

The Antecedents of Nolle Prosequi in Semi-Darkness

"nothing to see here"-- Randy Barnett, former sardonic prosecutor

One of the dowager’s waylaid theses, due to the continuing calamity of age and equipment breakage, was an examination of Jodie Foster, primarily due to her chameleon on screen swivels; her mature performances represent a chink in the armor of homosexual lifestyles as a statement of defiance. A critic need not necessarily have all of Miss Foster’s biographical details present and accounted for to actualize her thematic interest in women who provoke strong reactions, female characters violently thrust out of the mainstream, or willing to utilize violence to restore her place as a productive member of society. On occasion, these characters are guided or misguided through the process of discovery and revelation. In The Accused (1988), the mission statement film of its time, the resistance to Foster as Tobias, and the subsequent conversion to her cause, pivots on Kelly McGillis as the initially pragmatic DA Kathryn Murphy, whose methodology can be compared to the controversial State Attorney for Cook County, Kim Foxx. We might also interject here a contra-indicator to Nick Gillespie’s assertion that libertarians “suspends judgment” because in this particular Reason headline Robby Soave is being a scold in relation to the conduct of the SA. It brings to mind the rapid fall from grace of a real Attorney General, Kathleen Kane, whose white privilege was so conspicuous in the gradations of American liberalism that she is now a pariah in a Montgomery County prison, a betrayer of the public trust.

Foster revisits some of the motifs from her other films in The Brave One (2006), a mid-life dramatic failure for the darling of Martin Scorsese, but this overwrought revenge fantasy introduced Terrence Howard as a possible figure of reconciliation in his guise as Mercer, which I’ve mentioned before, in my burrowed archives of buckling strength. He subsequently garnered attention, as a short lived prosecutor for the now satirized Law & Order expansions on the basis of geography, the producer in Crash, a meridian character at best, the bifurcated mogul in Amazon’s despairing Electric Dreams. If my viewers believe my next move is to convey that Howard gives me license to enter into the Empire saga, now leeched into Chicago’s gritty underside, they would be wrong. I have been silent on the Smollett scandal, despite recent research, because nearly all players involved come out of this with the faint odor of garbage attached to them, not that hoaxes can't expose a greater hypocrisy, but all Jussie seems to have done here is snap his own spine, and then gave Foxx leeway to sabotage whatever her aspirations amounted to, in the face of such blatant favoritism. These aren't as grave as the charge and convictions thereof leveled at Kane, but there is still a degree of paternalism involved. Progressives tend to be apologists for black women, even if they fail ethical standards long accepted for the patrician class. If there is any light at the end of the tunnel here, conservatives on Twitter deserve credit for smelling a red herring early on in January's polar temperatures.

Capitalizing Martyrs, Weaponized Allegations, the Consequences of destroying due process

"In late July, she sent a letter via Eshoo's office to Sen. Dianne Feinstein of California," Emma Brown's scoop, in jeopardy of life and limb.

Dianne Feinstein rose to political prominence on the back of Dan White's use of force and reconnaissance skills against a localized, and perhaps hypocritical, progressive expansion of identity politics. Progressives, and Andrew Sullivan too, often say that reactive bigotry invariably leads us down the road to such tragic conclusions; perhaps, but White's pressures were primarily economic, and again, while Feinstein was the authority in charge, White committed suicide. The dowager had parallel issues, and even had an email referring to Omar Mateen forwarded to the FBI, but this threat of authority rather vaporized. The dowager has not committed murder, the spectrum of progressive-homosexual corruption is alive and well in the northeast, but when the golden state goes cataclysmic, it certainly blinds us into fury with solar storms on the horizon. Despite my hostility to rainbows being culturally appropriated by less than aesthetically pleasing humans who engage in hedonistic abandon and consider it paradise until felled by diseases of sexual transmission, I will not write that I believe White to be a martyr or even a hero for the active predicate of "to conserve". He killed Mascone and the Milkmaid in cold blood, and perhaps made Feinstein more cautious than Pelosi, but sadly, this woman, Dianne Feinstein, on her way out the door eventually, like McCain before her, bears responsibility, as does The Washington Post, if there is any bloodshed pursuant to Ford's allegations. Brown's article is an outrageously partisan smear, virtually admitting that Ford targeted her accusation to coincide with the Judiciary Committee hearings. She omits, as Dan Mclaughlin does not, that this polygraph was administered under the security blanket of the law offices of Ford's attorney, that polygraphs are not admissible, let alone fool proof, and Mclaughlin virtually nails it on the head that this psychologist comes off like a guilty teenager whose irresponsibility led to an outcome she doesn't like.
But yes, I am personally and politically outraged: next to Alison Botha, myself, and many of the individuals for whom I fought during my career,  many victims sustain much worse, and Dr. Ford should be ashamed for trivializing womens' suffering for the sake of a political scorecard. I too, did not particularly admire the way McConnell handled the Merrick nomination, but the Senate majority leader had a legitimate political lens through which he viewed a lame duck president meeting the constitutional obligations of the chief executive.

The left may destroy Trump, but this is not fine if it ultimately destroys our faith, as citizens of the most successful democracy in the world, in the procedure of governing. That's what Feinstein just did, and achieved, but maybe this is what you learn by living gallows humor in San Francisco. Ford's timing is too opportunistic for me to see her as credible. She names Mark Judge as a restraining rescue, but any Sanders' supporter might know who CPAC youngbloods were in the day. Feinstein's cynicism is self-evident, as she sat on Ford's letter for weeks. That's a tactic, not victim's advocacy. I will never, never, vote for a Democrat again. Whatever their sins, I will sink with the Republican ship. And whatever happens, I will never forget. This time, I am truly, truly, outraged, even if I admit this story is too huge for me to pitch a quick bite.

Coin or Pea in The Shell

"I believe in a world where gay married couples are free to protect their marijuana fields with fully automatic machine guns."-- Austin Petersen, slogan maker extradinaire

And I do not believe in this world of a libertarian political hopeful on whom I've kept eyes for some time; if I find a better outlet than Reason to give him a serious expose, I will coax my friend to lose the above quote, try to give my readers a sharper definition of why he is the right Senator for Missouri, and for that propose, the moral relativism needs to be dialed down, this coming from a woman who, in 97, saw gay marriage as an inevitable legal victory, supported it, and in the intervening 19 years, I am not entirely unsympathetic to Roy Moore's hardline extremism on homosexuality. That is quite a shift simply because I felt threatened and survived trauma which for me was too much to bear. I know I'm on the losing end of this argument, and that progressives outnumber the right, and that my hostility has little intellectual standing other than medical model stricture, but I have been too close to too many men and women "in the life," some of whom I have written in here more than others, like Alan Gordon. Alan was privy to the intensity of my unhappiness for a long time. He and I kept our connection with each other through the deaths of our mothers in 2005, online and otherwise, and he knows me intimately. I cannot say he reads Disability In Entertainment Arts, but if he has, he must be appalled, and tried hard once to pull me back from the sheer extent of my hatred for what I allowed this center to do to me. Much has changed, and Liberty has been significantly downgraded due to Harrisburg's centralized horror of a shell game with Maximus, and I'd no longer recognize the chaotic empowerment tactics therein of my day. The chapters of past and present are no longer parallel, and this brings me to Craig Brittain's second suspension from Twitter, with a weary sigh.
A first amendment lawyer I chatted with briefly told me Craig was a fraud, and that he had to be directed by the SEC to stop representing himself as an attorney, but he was one of the first of my followers to accept me for as I present myself. I don't know what he did this time, but he takes Twitter's banned or suspended accounts like the holy grail. I do not, and have yet to see the evidence of Milo's genius. But I do have to say that Terms of Service policies have always had an air of uncertainty about them. Spam is speech. Twitter wants to be profitable, yet law firms cannot solicit clients. Account holders cannot ask other account holders for money, but we can promote, and even there, up to a point. We cannot harass other users, but I've trolled my share. Peter Thiel, though inactive on social media, probably could have had me banned for my brief outburst at him. Don't know. Nick Denton isn't exactly an exception to the dowager's coda, but I was nonetheless angry over Gawker's downfall. Once fraudulent parties are excised, we do not consider what happens to them unless they are recycled as an event worth telling: Stephen Glass denied at the state bar. Jayson Blair's plagiarism recast as an interracial motive for murder on Criminal Intent. They become life long outcasts, crippled in some fundamental way. I was going to profile Craig too with some libertarian window dressing, but in the third largest political party full of outliers, even felons, Craig is an outlier. He makes Austin seem nearly as established as Rand Paul.
In my shameless and weary dithering, I am working on a legal outline against Mr. Wheelchair. Vendors such as these dissolve with incremental regularity, but I cannot endure this machine. Pyrrhic victory at this point?

By The Untenable Sword

"That was hard enough to figure out in the seventies."-- Andrew Sullivan

I cannot deny my friend Alan his humanity, for he was my friend for over three decades, if I can, at the very least, extol him for constancy. Some aspects of our relationship weren’t particularly healthy, like our stoned failure to engage in coitus before he sorted out his orientation issues. (There must be a happy queer somewhere who enjoyed fat ugly boy’s well-endowed penis, and I have to assert, had the weed not been so potent, my long time collegiate loser buddy by default might have given the dowager a fulfilling climax despite zero chemistry between us, human sexuality being the morass that it is.)

What I’m attempting to clarify is I cannot excise Alan as I have had to excise Josie and the failed transhissexual on the eighth floor with his insufferable partner, and this is a crucible in my rejection of Sullivan’s culture. I have the rather erroneous temptation to justify my hostility in philosophical thesis form, as if a right-wing paper creates a solution to the amorphous totality of the culture wars. This isn’t how it works. Alan certainly isn’t going to care if I classify his illicit adventures feeding his anxiety about contracting AIDS on the scold worthy shelf about personal responsibility and not engaging in high risk trysts in the parks he frequented for a wanker; neither does Karl Schmid, the local ABC video journalist. Various media outlets reported Schmid received an outpouring of support when he announced his 10 year HIV positive status. I am not readily trampling on the left to moderate gravitation towards feel the love when the LBGT community asserts this identity pride in the face of such a lethal virus, but ye doves are apparently cooing over high risk sexual practices which led to AIDS trans-spotting from the African bush outward. The only "outpouring" my little brother Nicholas received as a troubled addict dying from AIDS in 1995 came from his parents, and my brother's memory, too, deserves opprobrium for knowingly passing the disease onto his girl, hence, I concede troubled heterosexuals can be just as culpable as a purportedly smart man like Andy, not smart enough to constrain his behavior which led to his contraction. You might argue that Sullivan, being of my generation, had medical ignorance as an excuse. The son of my father didn't (and yes, that is mio padre). Neither does Schmid, so what exactly are you supporting him for? Owning up? I doubt any of us will be cleaning his rectum if or when the virus beats his anti-viral cocktail.

If you suspect what's really eating me is the betrayal I received for my tolerance, I will not deny that is part and parcel of the package, and I too, made risky sexual judgments, but not as risky as those in parts of the homosexual community. I do not know if Alan evaded HIV. For his sake I hope so, as dealing with my depressed virulence cost him emotionally, but it certainly seems to me he didn't care enough about health and well being to stop. "The body has some resistance," he told me, still telephone active. This guy tried an Episcopalian seminary after embroiling neighbor state New Jersey in a shameful disgrace far less entertaining than Sandford's. Yes, rolling back sexual liberty might help us live longer, despite libertarian allowances for self-destructive behavior. Gender fluidly doesn't have to result in a grand devil's bargain.

.

Auto Immune Flares

love lies bleeding in my hands-- the other British faggot of whom I've time honored conflicted ambivalence

I can barely remember H.G. Wells’ The Invisible Man. Read long ago as a teen not so specious then as to transpose it with Ellison’s Invisible Man, yet specious enough now to tell you they interlock, the concrete superficial suspense tale the film industry cannot resist revising on a continuous basis, and the powerful novel by Ellison which abrogates racial identity. A recent rendition written by Henderson attempts to elevate Wells’ science fiction with some of Ellison’s stark eloquence of erasure, perhaps asking us to reconsider scientific endeavor and zealous overkill. Henderson manages canonical faith to the original character in his upgrade, giving Griffith a dead son whom the doomed scientist believes was butchered by a former student, and we are given Griffith’s flashback of what he believes occurred with only circumstantial evidence, as he drinks his formula, acquires Hodgkin’s disease, descends into madness. I am not sure why the remake was made, as I respect my stepmother’s caretaker enough to tell her Louise may have purchased her last medical drama, curious thing, social media. I liked this woman when she disposed of my filthy mattress, and Facebook has given me hints about her emotional instability. I like her less, and way way back in archives, before Google dangled a suspension threat, I drew more than 30 page views in my matter of fact caustic bite. If she dies things will change. Social intelligence gawked at the circumspect nature of my developmental mindset. The caretaker doesn’t realize there is little love lost between me and Louise, with her deadly rheumatoid arthritis and her caustic mouth, complaining to me about my father’s impotence, stigmatizing my brother, saying I should be put away. Her son’s willingness to slash her tires, while an intimidating expression of rage, is an act I comprehend, but what pisses me off is my father subsumes his life like a dog for a sick and florid catty woman, always unpleasant and miserable, who should have been allowed to die three years ago, at least, while I hang like a chad, a consequence of my own obstinance. I did this to me, moving to bad neighborhoods in a sterile city, and now my mother’s nursing school colleague sleeps in hospice, younger sister and I in a truce of purveyed necessities, making a pun only I understand from one of Jerry’s workshop pieces. Think plague. Stephanie and I worry about Dad, the toll on poppa, poor poppa, and I have maybe a day or so left with the Muslim who is wiping my ass. How can I empathize Ellison and label myself his antithesis? A racist is as much reduced as those she stereotypes. You can all go fuck yourselves, because I am still well enough to live instead of urinating Depends, weary of the eschatology dynamic. Yes, death is a part of life, unless you’re a ghoul like Peter Thiel, pulverizing Nick Denton, British nigger lover who’d remove my malicious rhetoric.

Rubies of Fixated Pollination

She was my favorite daughter, a wailing mother

 One of the saddest and most irrelevant foreign spousal murders which could ever have been brought to the attention of the American viewer is that of Varkha Rani, a Hindi woman who, according to the dictates of caste and tradition, was a potential, then selected betrothal of Jasvir  Ginday, former employee of the Royal Bank of Scotland. In the YouTube video uploaded amid the furor of the trial, there is an insert of her mother’s outcry, before the eye is drawn back to the celebratory and vivid costume of their wedding day, a still photo of which leads The Independent’s byline, Ginday’s mauve turban, Rani’s veil and dress of translucent pinks. Under the long serving terms of Narendra Modi, such a lavish assertion of Hindu identity is as much a post-colonial place card as a Muslim hijab, and might even be reassuring to classicists who find comfort in preserving these said  traditions, if it wasn’t for the fact that this matchmaking ceremony was a façade. Ginday acquiesced to his mother’s matrimonial wishes to conceal a homosexual lifestyle which The United Kingdom’s ever burgeoning liberalism allowed him to pursue, and Rani, allegedly perplexed with Jasvir’s lack of desire for her, as the investigation reconstructed the timeline, discovers her husband’s ruse. Jasvir crushes her windpipe out of fear with a weapon of opportunity, then incinerates her body in a domestically purchased incinerator, pointedly referred to by presiding Judge John Warner as a “meticulous” plan for disposal. What it wasn’t was a particularly logical construct for not being outed, which is why it became a story with enough teeth to gain international notice, roiling through  The Hindustan Times and other Indian outlets to earn a lede in the BBC, which aimed for a fall-from-grace approach, emphasizing Jasvir’s mugshot, purportedly with Varkha’s scratches on his face, indicative of her attempt to survive. Once court reporters had finished wringing their hands with this new wave pathological behavior, hardly in need of further sensationalizing, it then became a tawdry documentary reenactment, repackaged in mildly playful series like How (Not) to Kill Your Husband, whose staying power is reflective of an anodyne for the incredulous and discarded to rally around John Walsh.

Marriages of appearance have been deployed as optimization commands for centuries. Henry VIII turned the Mosaic concept of divorce into a mechanism of ridicule which diminished imperial authority. The union of Charles and Diana made the continued reign of Winsor problematic; Governor Schwarzenegger’s merger with the Kennedy’s through Maria Shriver failed in terms of cementing a political legacy, but these are about prominence and suspension of disbelief, whatever questions they pose about the success of monogamy or its circumvention. If Jasvir Ginday wanted a token heterosexual union to work, (it’s difficult to know) such as that between Charles Laughton and Elsa Lanchester, the public at large can still surmise, and has, that springing this on a nascent bride from the British Empire’s territorial crown jewel was overwhelming, even cruel in terms of its malignant narcissism. Killing Rani and then deliberately cremating her remains because she reacted in hurt and repulsion only accentuated how such malignancy escalates, leaving  those with sympathy for this young woman wondering if the penalty imposed, 21 years to life, wasn’t this side of too lenient. Elsa Lanchester didn’t have the benefit of Rani’s cell phone technology, but the devastation she expresses is as relatable as Varkha’s, who didn’t have the benefit of time to absorb such a manipulative deceit against her. The impetuosity of youth, the status of women in India in its restive independence, these items are no excuse for the febrile impotency of patriarchal insecurity burrowing itself in the undercurrent of social norms. This case also provides ample proof that homosexual activists don’t have the last word on the ever expansive progressive tent. Hinduism, by its very nature, expresses a certain degree of fluidity, hence there was no Christian condemnation waiting in the wings if this man had told mamma the truth. There may have been other consequences brought about by familial conservative mindsets, betrayal, disappointment, but none of that was worth the savagery of this “gay panic”. Sociologists might look at this crime as a failure of assimilation between the former ruling power and the nation it helped to equip once beyond the cataclysms of the 20^th century, but the failure may also lie with Britain’s leftist radicalism. Two years after Jasvir Ginday ignited the media’s oft puritanical mindset, in the opening year of Theresa May’s conservative Brexit government, Gordon Semple died in Stefano Brizzi’s flat, in an even more grisly autoerotic accident. How Brizzi squared his conscience in the limited evidence of life he offered his prison wardens, in the year before his death in the winter of 17, is between him and his troubled faith, but Semple was a constable, a middle-aged man with a partner at home, who should have had some knowledge of the seediness vice squads are still expected to contain, but there he was, on CCTV, casually scrolling through Grindr, looking for a hook up. No safety net in Andrew Sullivan’s extraordinary success with gay marriage here. Why should there be? The sexual revolution has emphatically taken the closet off its hinges.

Shtako, Defiantly

"Stop complaining."

If the videos posted to social media on the subject have a modicum of authenticity, there are those on the right who allege that Moore’s loss to Doug Jones was a conspiracy; they ought to be applying that disbelief in the voting to examining why he was allowed to secure the nomination in the first place. The Troy Messenger cites Shirley Reddoch as saying that Moore’s run off victory against Strange sent “a clear statement”. Yeah, a clear statement that Trumpian methodology has sent Republicans into freefall. Even the fact that New York’s mogul in chief supported Moore is a contradiction in terms. President Trump proclaimed often enough during the primaries that he was a businessman. In that light, going against rational conservative objections to support Moore, such as those voiced by Toomey, made the president look like a mouth piece for an authoritarian regime in trouble, as opposed to a shrewd political strategist. George Wallace, to whom Moore has been compared, might have been the inflammatory bigot of his day, but when he could still walk, he stepped aside rather than be arrested by the military who insured that Brown v. Board of Education was enforced, proving that he was a realist unwilling to sacrifice himself for what he purportedly believed. Wallace has even been vindicated in part, if you examine urban school districts for any great length, given that economics have re-segregated pubic schools. The accusations of molestation were not dispositive, but they rode on an irrational wave of hysteria which bodes ill for the republic. Moore has a right to be as dogmatic as he wishes, but separation of church and state is an abiding principle of American pluralism, and has no place in the federal legislature. It signifies how much Catholic temperance has failed to reign in the fervor of American evangelical factionalism in the US, despite Niall's admiration of our "work ethic'" in apparent abeyance at the moment.

The Trump presidency: tragedy or comedy? https://t.co/TdUbGvkXP0 pic.twitter.com/Z8v32GGVLu

— Niall Ferguson (@nfergus) December 17, 2017

The left has essentially lost its mind, and the right seems hell bent on swallowing its own tail, which leaves the dowager, in her suffering under the wondrous rationing of the welfare state, and her faulty consumer decisions, severely disconcerted. I want conservatives to succeed, to roll back the drawbridge, even as my options grow ever more tenuous, and the toll of bad mechanics weakens me as I enter my seventh year past 50. My well being and my health are in jeopardy, and the fact that I have Medicare and Medicaid amounts to negligible quality control, ever steadily forcing me into an acute crisis, not mitigating it, after everything I’ve been through, the wheelchair vendor has left me in a situation which amounts to daily torture, imprisoned on a consumer hospital bed on which I can barely move, and I am still with the right, even if the state GOP is ignorant of how incapacitated I am, how negligent my care is, white professionals and black unskilled labor alike just rushing in and out of a section 202 which I technically evacuated ten weeks ago. It is this very cruelty, which is the business of poverty, which leaves me unrepentant, despite the fact that personalities like Niall Ferguson can only acknowledge the brutal truth of unremitting indigence. Yeah, it has gotten better: sixty years ago or more, before Judy Garland offed herself, I might have been in a rubber room with tards, perhaps beaten to death for my temper rather than threatened with disruption by Blogger for being a militant. I’m an upgrade, from no voice at all to Dreiser’s An American Tragedy, with all the requisite lack of forgiveness, for failure, embedded in stark negativity, while transplanted Britons frolic in amazement at the farce of the west wing before them. Niall himself has been pacified into a degree of disingenuousness. Whatever his former diffidence about the homosexual psyche, in its refreshing honesty, he is of course friends with a petulant AIDS stricken apostolic queer like Andy. Birds of a feather, imperial voices with paternalistic eyes watching over its troubled Infante Terrible, however roiled my country is at present, bawling in colic.

Kapax

Never despair. -- Easy enough for the Argentine

In recent days, my skills languishing because I allowed technical collapse to get ahead of me, I cried out to the former slum bishop of Buenos Aires as if I really did believe him as Santo Padre, while I cursed my mother's sister on Facebook with a level of blaspheme I usually reserve for racial animus . Few, if any of you. truly understand the despair of helplessness, and turn away, unless you yourself are in its thick: It isn't just age, it's the relentless cruelty against helplessness itself. I have been assaulted, physically, emotionally, since nine years of age, and no one looking at me knows how to square this. I coped, not always well, but coped, because I knew I did not need to depend on others as long as the wheelchair and body functioned together. This is, temporarily or not, gone. So I will face more abuse, and laugh cruelly. My choice, fine fellows, languish, or the determination of despair, not that berating myself over my Kevin Spacey miscue helps either.

I was sexually attracted to the star in his heyday, and in my rare twitter moments of being a shallow American, like the rest of social media's deplorable idiots, I gushed at his account "I love you!" It was a way of sleeping with my father, once removed.(Daddy and I are not on good terms, in real time.) I'd never tweet to Woods in that manner, and then Voila, we're in fagland again. I stopped following Spacey because House of Cards isn't relevant to our concerns, and still feel like a naive duped and sickened jackass, almost brazen enough to tweet a hint about killing perverts, which may have put me in Stone's territory, but didn't do it, as it may not long matter. The Usual Suspects did, if we dwell therein long enough, carve Spacey into a male amphibian cast that could be read as a parallel to Foster's on screen chameleons, but other roles, including American Beauty, made me see a heterosexual who emulated Jack Lemmon, and I feel betrayed.

My demented father's sister is the only one who has faith I'll rebuild. I don't, but another reason I hate in the life advocacy is because it diminishes the stature Spacey rightly earned for his twilight years. They media falsely baited Cary Grant in the same vein, but I never believed it, and his survivors threatened the tattles with a lawsuit. 

Name Your Assailant

I have little idea why my brother took me off his Facebook account, as in, here we go, again, but I know, in part, he is insecure about the usual family stuff, to paraphrase Ice Tea, about having been born a bastard, and I was also, for me, mildly subversive about maternal aggrandizement on Gretchen's posts: I am not particularly enthralled that my eldest nephew also sprang a leak and had an unplanned pregnancy; nor am I best friends with my sister in law. I am not even certain that the social media giant has been particularly conducive. I got kicked off a Dubai based fuckwit's freelance group without even trying, left another voluntarily. What use is all of this to me? It is a tool, like Twitter, but for me, two tools which do the same thing where the larger is counterproductive isn't necessarily beneficial. In the strange ways of virtual communication, I used a hard nosed analyst's well deserved jab at Manning to talk myself down. 

Let me return to Tom Earle. He had no idea what the internal politics of the disability center were like under Fern Markowitz and Linda Dezenski, and I'm not in the mood to keep reiterating what was going on. If you take LBGT extremists and put them in a room, Jewish princess addendum or not, chaos is the end result. I told you before, these individuals had little love lost between them, and the homosexuals replaced Fern, one of their own, with a soft, blind Latino who delights in toddlers. I realize he was beholden to the board who put him in place. I embarrassed him with a toxic issue which in essence, destroyed my support system, and I'm culpable. I did not do what most women do in these situations and legal up until years later, I stopped caring, went through another homosexual politician, broke down, emailed Toomey, and then the axis shifted. Toomey's doing? I do not know, but support the Senator, nonetheless, and went through this again with Josie on a lesser scale in her little isle at United Spinal Association, all of this within recurring Pennsylvania welfare abuses and rental agent contiguous, and I stress, contiguous, harassment, until I proclaimed myself a racist, fought like one, and damaged quadriplegic remains in a stalemate with authority. Tom, however, did not have to leave the streamers flutter in the vent. He could have investigated, dismissed Linda then, and as a decent man, offered me something, like a fucking transfer. This is why I am angry with him. He's a fucking civil rights attorney, but never mind. Burrow, then threaten me. This is how Nancy Pelosi's "rule of law" works for those who cannot buy tort and didn't meet the deadlines due to the extent of the pain, and I just cannot dig myself out. Maybe, just maybe, I'll find a housing lawyer, but it's a little late for me to recover. I am, after all, one mortal against a cruel institutional paradigm, still attempting to encompass opera, not quite managing, except for Verdi. La Traviata, upon discovery, has an effervescent quality nearly impossible to capture, and Violetta, with the right soprano, is enough to cling to, now and again, were it only I who might have been pursued with passion for who I was, consumption might have freely enveloped me in its inflammatory excretions. This gives concessions to Dumas in his masculine anxiety. So be it.

Karlskirche Droughts for Heart Murmurs

"I think my face is funny," Audrey Hepburn, blue blood trinket

My living scar tissue over little brother ghosts is not all that complicated. Nicholas junior and I enmeshed with each other in an interlocking vehemence borne out of contempt, the shared experience of pain, which, as with most things human, realizes too late the blood bond binding one to the other. When he was dying, baby brother appealed to eldest sister to come to him, and I had no way to drop my caseload to get to him, hence the abandonment I carry, not beyond the realm of some of your experiences. Rick, as the once-and-never future executive father figure, attempted to release me from my albatross with his own mortality tale of a relative left hanging. Didn't work.

With Alexandra, though, my interaction with her was a series of smokescreens worthy of Jamesian contortion, and no, it was not about repressed homo-eroticism, so much as, once again, my need for confidential intimacy, such as that from a child to camp counselor. Our first telephone exchange made me hope for a literary friend. Not that she knew it. Our first meeting sent off strobe emergency lights in my head. I knew she was butch, spinster butch, but would not allow my mind to form the fact that here was an authority from which I shrank due to lesbian overtones. Did I walk away? No. Did I try to get under her skin? Not the way I did with my other larger than life personages, but once a cripple made is an invalid baked in a kiln, and I was disruptive to her reticence, a reticence she insisted upon. She was as closed as I am open, with invidious penetration. She was not Erik, the fucked up shit on a stick. She wasn't Josie Byzek. Alexandra had no apologies to make, yet I wasn't woman enough to close off my sycophant psychology, looking for Dante's Virgil, moral perversion as it might have been. What we saw and appreciated in each other was the weight and scourge of the sin we carried. It gave her a pursed and drawn demeanor, and it has wrought in me, over the years, a terse unpleasantness. If I had been more assured in myself, I would have cut her out of me, like gangrene, and this was the best literary editor I ever had, knotted by deep aesthetic affinity that penetrated the lack of personal closeness. And yes, I hear you. "Fuck this," you mutter, fleeing for the hills, with so much import I place on the thinnest filaments. "Tough shit." That's my response, at least for this morning.

Twitter Fell On The Floor

I can't laugh, and I can't sing-- at least one thing the mercurial faggot got right.

Actually, the non-paying think tank provided me with a green light to go ahead, and this is where you start to swivel the joystick in a blind panic: National security is not my field of expertise, and there are more than a few thousand bloggers who dissect Washington daily, who have far greater ease of access to deputy directors and the plethora of advisors who've circulated in and out of the West Wing over the last twenty years. Now I have to track a couple and compel them to talk to me. Only I have no idea how to pose my questions with a straight face, but this is what I wanted, despite my imminent lodging crisis, so you may feel free to see me screaming in a Six Feet Under sketch, while I curse Twitter's staff profusely for recycling the has been relevance of Barry Manilow's sexual identity, because Manilow was the virtual definition of a  fop long before gay marriage became a rallying cry for their side. He is the king of Dork, and now, I can't get his duck paddling vocals out of my head. Yes, I had an album. My parents no doubt preferred this variation of gruel flung from a spoon to stick to the wall, as opposed to Peter Townsend's seductive and daring artistry, but why I had the album, why I sat reading postcards for the Manilow fan club on the school bus, this is anyone's guess.

Calm down. If I marshaled my forces to get a query past the gate, then I can marshal an article on a policy hypothetical and its repercussions. I do not have to re-litigate an entire series of events which have already been reported ad nauseam. I am a real journalist. Was, not a pretense of a recording artist whose fifteen minutes of fame barely merits disturbing the grave of Andy Warhol, tragic pop culture guru, dispensed dung beetle refuse. In many ways, my willingness to breach decorum, in a montage of biting disillusionment, is too toxic for social media, and too nasty for Niume, with its few lions and flocks, yet the sheep keep coming. A follow, a subscription, these are effortless. Human intervention, well, that is another matter, with sometimes detrimental results. The question becomes, if my disdain is so all pervasive, the love for the scold itself, that too, lends itself to the strident mockery embedded in the blank verse of Moliere. But if Jack thinks he is going to save his company with marshmallow whip, perhaps United Airlines can have him appointed as Viceroy to Saint-Helena, as this is one quad who wouldn't mind seeing Silicon Valley in a game of Castaway. Google finds me dangerous. Various web communities followed suit, but no one has lifted a bloody finger to help me against my disadvantage and nearly intolerable circumstance. Remember, I live with activists who were under investigation, whose institutional solidarity humiliated me. I should not have to be reminded of this on a daily basis, in a senior living facility which finally acknowledged what I've condemned for years. The disabled can no longer live in section 202 housing, unless they meet the age requirement. The American welfare state is going to implode and destroy itself sooner rather than later.

Giant

"Take a break." Melissa Horton, Yaberrz

I've already told myself that Niume is just another tool. My problem is the posts, taken collectively, drip like the orphanage gruel in Oliver Twist, the other Dickens masterpiece never read, so, on my last megabytes for this billing period, I am waiting for the prompts to kick in, and tomorrow, or later, my tweets to my posts will be invalid. Chrome autopass works on some sites. On others, it creates issues.

I do not know how many of you remember Rock Hudson, in his last days, coming out


I do. I have the memory of the news conference, live, in 1985, and here he is, a wasted consequence of both a sexually permissive society, and concealment based on sexual secrets, a matinee idol of my mother's generation, with her mania never fully, effectively treated until she gave birth to my half brother, and survived the heroin addict she wedded in mistake. Benjamin's father was a late diagnosed schizophrenic. For me, Hudson was a television star, the composite model for Blue Bloods Tom Selleck. I was much better off, a naive ignorant youngster who couldn't decode, and had fantasies of a happy middle class Italian marriage-- but my Pulchinella was barren, and he is a ghost.

I made my decision. I am not recertifying with this Presby building. Trudy Richardson, as far as I am concerned, is a hate crime criminal. The real reason Presby doesn't evict, is section 202 makes money putting senior citizens in hospices and homes. It is a consequential decision, and once the deadline passes, that is it. I cannot change my mind. They will move to evict, and I am the one who keeps taking it. I cannot do this forever.

I do not mean to take the collective human mentality all that seriously, but it is overwhelming me, my need for creative space.

Areas of Divergence

On Milo: I told you so five years ago with Slate's decision to publish Jesse Bering's diffident advocacy for pedophiles. I also told you that Dick Wolf's Law & Order guild writers saw this coming during the peek of Andrew Sullivan's media recognition, but before Milo snatched his alter ego's thunder, and no one listened to me. No conservative editor waded through my anger, acumen, or anything else, to see that I was ahead of this curve, and so, okay, I was ahead, and civilized societies no longer murder their way out of aberrant sexual orientation chemistry, and, outside of Africa and certain other vanishing medieval terrains, the closet is gone, unless Peter Thiel litigates a new cloth out of the old by prohibiting the revelation of sexual orientation. Where does this leave us? 
No where beneficial, but I will say this as a Catholic atheist: Homosexuals cannot be Christians. It is an apostasy. And yes, I believe this. They may be shown mercy, and God is mysterious, but they cannot be followers of Christ if they must live by homoerotic desire. Kristof enjoyed pointing out that biblical text has nothing to say about lesbianism, but this is literalist nonsense. If sodomy is an abomination, under terms of patriarchal dominance in doctrinal law, then two women engaged in coital orgasm through oral stimulation meets the same definition of the term. 
Why does the atheist in me care, particularly if it violates libertarian tenets, at least at first glance? Stability, cohesion, and boundary.
The problem there: the boundary is already shattered, Milo's musing aside. We're headed for very troubled times, very troubled times indeed, and the consequences will be far more significant than a blogging administrator's alarm at what many consider my ridiculous stridency on the issue. Marriage is a sacrament. Same sex activity is hormonal indulgence which contributes nothing to God's grace, but this is where we are headed, Milo's vision a meld to HG Well's secret horror in The Time Machine. Remember? Think about it. I have a previous engagement.