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.

Virgil Swann

"It's simply impossible for us to live with vulgar people. It's a defect, no doubt; it's an immense inconvenience, and in the days we live in it's sadly against one's interest."-- Henry James, The Reverberator

Smallville, recalled due to wanton disregard for sanctity, was too much about being occult eye candy; Welling was a nearly too perfect retrofit to the solid, self-defined, simple back to basics American that Christopher once exemplified and still attempted to exemplify once he became helpless. 

He could no longer exemplify it as a true expression of quadriplegia; his paralysis makes my ability to drag my upper torso across the floor positively invigorating, and I did not get along with him at AccessLife, being my usually contentious self; yet I feel guilty for the deaths of Reeve and his wife. I had nothing to do with either his subcutaneous pressure sore or Dana's lung cancer, and my interaction with the pair was limited, but there is guilt, right here, in this absence, in an empty space that can only be defined as a void.

Superman necessitates the values of the GI Joe American male; no way to get around that without negating what the graphic contours of his abilities represent. In looking back at the series, and adding the conjunction of Leah Remini's troubles, perhaps Scientology had too much influence on the series. It was in spite of myself television. Nothing on, and a utilized package, so Reeve playing off Welling was less effective than it might have been if I had a) understood Swann as the technocratic prophet; cared about L Ron Hubbard's repressed and rigid disciplines (he looks like a man whose lymph nodes overflowed with hedonism), and understood what the guild was doing with superhero encoding. It was bewildering most of the time, involving fantastical degrees of possession, corruption, and Nietzschean will to power.

Not all men, certainly, but most men are failed overgrown children, which is why I am so perplexed about Frank's hurt and don't know what he wants from me. I became intimate with him as a form of proof that I did not want to find a lesbian stick bitch along former supervisor Linda's lines, and also because I was sexually lonely. He was a horrific and revolting mistake, and leads one into certain temptations about the intelligence of the Hispanic male. If he and I had been young, then I could understand, but this was not a pairing out of love. He is a pig with a past of multiple partners and STD risk.

I need new friends; a new fuck buddy might be too much for which to hold out. If Pope Francis is orthodox this is right and a good thing for the Church. It is time. New Crusade. New Zeal. The Inquisition still exists as a matter of scant resource. The office should be reopened, and since I've lived in hell during my half century as a wheelchair user, there is no greater degree of suffering left which I have not previously experienced.

Cooksey Conveyance, Secondary Submissions

How frozen and how faint I then became,
Ask me not, reader! for I write it not;
Since words would fail to tell thee of my state.
I was not dead nor living.--La Divina Commedia, Canto 34.22-26

Since I do not have the wherewithal to play detective and find the contact information for Jon Cooksey's production company that he runs with his spouse, Ali Marie Matheson, which is less awkward than my full name written long, this is an open post to the couple, for the time being, to advocate for The Collector's return, perhaps as a digital exclusive for Amazon Prime members, even if Chris Kramer isn't available, we could reinvent the wheel. I am not sure if my viewers on Blogger know that I was approached by the casting directors of the Exorcist franchise to play the institutionalized cripple in distress against Linda Blair, but I was, when I lived at Rusk. Decent place, but those same domicile old maidens who field American case management systems like the plague, then as now, prevented me from earning some decent money for college tuition. The evil cripple syndrome is what led Presby, and its hypocritical motherfuckers, to attack me ceaselessly in the 28 years they have been my landlord, so why not take a shot at being Satan? A cold and chilling inanimate Satan, the way Dante Alighieri properly conceived its menace. We could use exacerbations for high brow special effects. What is hell, after all, but a chronic obstruction?

Your original series wasn't perfect. Something about that pinched Canadian mien, care worn, genteel, submissive, leaves your actors at a loss, like the monastery abbot in 1348 A.D. While it may be true you have roughly fifty minutes of air time, you seemingly overlooked the power of the cardinals who burned the damned during the Inquisition. Morgan Pym's keepers did not provide much of a contest against evil. Yet it is equally true your vision was more realistic, bleaker than your American counterparts who also dabble in the genre. Maya was a brave child of incest. This would probably place you in agreement with Jessica Valenti.

Some may not be comfortable viewing women as an oppressed class across the spectrum, and certain issues surrounding domestication, and the stodgy matron upholding propriety, this may undercut how Ms Valenti frames sexism in sociological terms. Then again, I haven't been shy about the price of my survival, which has included homosexual vicissitudes, as well as female on female and minority victimization. And then there's this charming buzz bit. WTF indeed, or is aborting for sex selection more sinister still?

My caustic tongue seems quaint in comparison. This is why we need a revival of your series, and its struggle for a moral center; if I can generate enough interest to bring it out of mothballs give me a buzz. I'd like to recoup on my quashed foray into the industry.

Coefficient Flight to Precision

"Have you ever been to Philly sir? You have to be crazy to live there."-- Nicholas Cage, snickering his way out of involuntary confinement, circa 1984

In the days following 911, like most Americans, I wanted a response, and like most Americans, I did not really give much thought to what it meant, to wipe the Taliban off the face of the earth, indeed, to eradicate Al Qaida, radiate the group with isotopes so that it would suffer the worst kind of slow and incurable poisoning imaginable, and like most Americans, this slog bequeathed to us by Rumsfeld and Cheney, in conjunction with Iraq, has infected American power, weakened our collective blood stream with a persistent influenza, which still battles our white cell count, the victor undecided.

Although the current administration bears some criticism in how these conflicts have been resolved, commitment to any kind of goal lost in the process of leaving it on the shoulders of Karzai, the issue is less ideological and more prone to ridicule. The Chinese secret police quell their internal protest demonstrations more effectively than a democratic superpower and its Nato allies can achieve a goal, to pacify a territory that seems to lack any intuitive understanding of national sovereignty. This adds to the weight of my disdain for Kathryn Bigelow, which is unfortunate, but I will sift my way around to that. It has nothing to do with her importance in being, in the moment, an influential female director who tackles war theatre without apologies, leaving viewers to extrapolate and interpolate the harsh tactical angles, which, if we compare it to Alan Parker's Birdy, illustrates how much war films have changed, and how much studios feel they are willing to risk, perhaps as payback for our shame, or how much Cheney was willing to squander principle to justify the ends, and left us as dirty as the manifest destiny and violence against the indigenous left us with a blood guilt buried in textbooks and forgotten, only pulled out and referenced when liberals feel like kicking me in the teeth.

Birdy is an independent film for which I have a soft spot, personally and artistically. I saw it first with collegiate friend Tom, the memory of our give and take only growing in commensurate value as the years pass and I have no real links, or a bond, with anyone of his like, not for sexual affection, or even love, but the pleasure of his company, the value of aesthetic conversation. If I knew Alan Parker he would probably be a spirited ally, given the motifs he coaxed out of Cage and Modine, their resistance against control, poverty, and a bleak mechanized urban blight only accentuated by the heightened trauma of Vietnam.

Bigelow dispenses with the artifice of metaphorical salve to such wounds, but she should not be the decisive factor in how we repair the Clinton - Bush legacy, and Obama's tepid resolution of such a problematic paradigm. Killing Osama may have involved tactical danger, but it was otherwise a pointless exercise, since we seem to lack a vision for restoring the moral ascendancy of Pax America, and Bigelow gets to amuse herself being a modern GI Joe cocktease who does not condone torture, as if we expect her, and her producers, to say anything else. If her work is admirable, didactic, offers an interpretation to be celebrated, then hey, but to the extent that the public does not care, then the public needs castigation for refusing to be educated. Zero Dark Thirty should be an augmentation, and nothing more than that. Do I object if the Academy awards her? Certainly not, but if you allow her films to define the most successful terrorist plot in human history, then just give it up now, resign from the United Nations, and let the Mexican drug cartels retake our Western territory, and we can govern ourselves as effectively as the Castro's govern their island ninety miles from our shores.

Pork Rinds

Not phased by pictures of Hannah Storm's gas grill injury photos in the least, and yes, I am being cheap riding piggy back on the long troubled Yahoo portal, but I suspect many of us came of age immured to our embarrassed investments in Yahoo plus 30 chat, or threats and counter threats in Monkey backgammon (ew!) If I was most at home anywhere online it was as a league member, and it wasted an enormous amount of time, those tournaments. Never again, and that was my laxity, my shuffling ease of investment in a software and interrelation for losers who have no other life.

For a quick addendum: Not everything about how Yahoo taps the popular tempo is a net negative. Some of the portal site communities are valuable to me, and taught me I am not sterling silver as a group owner, but those who spend a great deal of time online in a fashion not integral to work, like myself, are bound to be disappointed, and I prefer real time social interaction in direct proportion to its decline in the physical space of my existence. Living through a device can be alienating, and we should be cautious about the nature of digital dependence, integration.

The writers of profile procedurals have it pegged correctly, however. Human flesh is not very flammable. Burning to death is not easy, which has led to nefarious admiration and exposure of Inquisition methodology. An Atlantic contributor, whose name I will track down later, provided interesting correspondences between that temporal Roman Catholic power and the enhanced interrogation techniques of the CIA. My interest is not exactly geared toward a liberal apologia.