Elusive Hotspot Mastery

There isn't going to be a next time!-- Ryan O'Neal, against his romantic inclinations in an unhappy monastic focus.

There is something off kilter about Los Angles which, succinctly, is integral to its geography, integral to California’s veneer about its own progressive sensibilities. The dowager may no longer offer regressive members of ADAPT the tolerance she once doled on the teaspoon, but Jimmi Shrode was not in error when he warned me about the state’s cosmetic fraudulence, after a fashion. James Ellroy seems to pick it apart in his novels, gets at its essence through rather brutal citrus peels, terrible phantasms, grotesque, obsessive drives, like Harry Bosch going flintly in the face of a threat. Welliver’s character is an unabashed liberal, playing off a hip sidekick of a partner and a lesbian lieutenant who has parity with the title character when it comes to testosterone and an honorable pair of testicles, but he is also a frightening vigilante, and this behavior stems not from liberalism, but from cowboy culture, easily superimposed on Walter Hill’s exposition of the sprawling metropolis as a location. Just as Ellroy’s literary LA has a very dark undercurrent, one that is not comparable to Austin but might run parallel to tortured white male psyches. Walter Hill’s LA is a function of the underground. Though The Driver has scenes shot in sunlight and even pastel-light backgrounds, it is a movie about what happens after dark, beneath the surface, by those who have no desire for Bruce Dern’s zealous attention. Ostensible reality cop shows too though, illustrate LA’s bizarre bicameral indigestion with cultural appropriation. Only in LA does a patrol officer allow bygones to be bygones, counseling a crippled white gimp about a twenty dollar fuck with a toothless black ho whose gaunt frame was claimed by narcotics long ago, sad, but just as much Hollywood kitsch as real, and rather fragile, glamor. Entertainment’s intersection with the street is only a part of the whole, a synecdoche distinct from other cities with stark impersonal landscapes, like Tokyo, part sprawl, part superhighway, part architecture which looks like pastry boxes. Somehow, we don’t all get along, in this desert of 4 million, iuterlaced with a nearly predominant Mexican culture and so much sometimes tragic, sometimes braced, tension, by disaster or design.

He died of a heart attack in a swimming pool; so much for igniting headlines like an earthquake, coast to coast.

Cueball

There are intangible attributes which language struggles to break, and why Morris Chestnut is cast as the gatekeeper in every American speculative science fiction series or films is one of them, the black actor who oozes sensitivity, with charming Eurasian features, which make his lips thinner, less intimidating. Rosewood, however, is simply a demographic Quincy update which leaves me wading behind on Jack Klugman's adam apple, as if we should congratulate ourselves that Liberty City vomited long and hard, and voila, out comes a pathologist, a pretty lesbian sister and more convincing white partner. Spastic dowager is the foreign invader, viewing a series which is actually speculative, waiting for a tendril to pop off the set of V to snap the neck of the doomed caught between two worlds.

Bruce Hunt cheats in The Cave with cliches that are obvious, relying mostly on the spectacular location and extreme sport tenacity as opposed to a viable story. Chestnut is the Afro diversity stand in. Perhaps it's enough for glib satisfaction to carry his show in the present tense.

Just after six, fed, charging, I am supposed to do intake this afternoon and I can't bring myself to go through with it. I can't do it and I'm afraid, namely that I'll critically injure any future attendant out of fear for my life. I really cannot do this, and for now, passed the hat, what I went through in 97 no different than 2015; if I investigate and create an upheaval in the administration in Waiver services, what changes in the essentials? Caught between inextricable realities. I hate unskilled black labor, and should put an end to this project. Google would be happy, and I could go back in city, and find a crew, teach Philadelphia ADAPT a lesson, resume my training in archery.

I have murdered my former supervisor many times, ripping out her throat in fantastical payback, snapping her vertebra by rotating her chin 180 degrees, livid and tired, the list has grown to include others. Yes, channel it into a Kindle 5 cent thriller, with credible developmental maniac, basically violent at her core, making Trudy Richardson's tactics to intimidate me totally reasonable, but she only increased my hatred, and the beat goes on. I have to get back to real work, pitch more, and if I get a hit, stop posting. I downloaded the KDP tool, neither ready nor entirely sanguine about it. Maybe I'll thread some of Disability In Entertainment Arts into a smaller collection of essays while I'm threatened with service disruption.

Yes, imagination is one thing, and murder is actually taxing. Victims aren't easy to create. Strangulation takes strength. I used to be good with bows and arrows, like James Ellroy and his improbable LA corruption.

Bolingbroke, Deep Purple

"Oh come on Joanne, we all know that spastic contraction increases the intensity of the convulsions, and I know what the power of the truth is!" -- Linda C. Dezenski, at the beginning of the end of everything good I clung to about the American left.


Any individual on the inside of the independent living dynamic would liken the above email exchange to a standard disability sex seminar, nothing graphic, no implicit intent here to humiliate, or even threaten. I had solicited the woman's advice on vaginal dryness, and I am the one who went beserk in the end stage, and only hurt myself more by cascading into a rage and its subsequent emotional fracturing that I never want to experience again, and only by degrees, and an iron will, survived what this above morally corrupt executive is capable of doing to others for the sake of power, really on the interior of Shakespearean examination of what drives the human will to command, govern, ascend, accrue wealth. I understand Dorner, and given the edification of Ellroy's crime noir, I am not quite ready to concede that the Los Angeles police department is preeminently righteous in this matter, even after the death of Rodney King. The tragedy of Christopher Dorner, however, is that it took him four years to embody living death, to decide to strike, knowing that in doing so he has given up on his humanity, falling into the age old fallacy that his skills put him above human empathy. It is up to me, if not as a commissioned journalist (and no, I cannot cover a deadly and fast moving event like this) then as a writer of literary skill, to negotiate men like Christopher.

Linda is not causing me pain now, and most of the staff around her, and my old friends who contributed, are dead, or left the independent living center, but that culture gave me blow after blow after blow for nine years after this eight month cyber exchange led to my rift with her and my subsequent denigration, to which my landlord and economic contraction contributed mightily, and now my life depends on my ability to make money through writing almost by necessity. And the ablest response? Take drugs, get therapy. You need help, tuning us out, not listening, banning us off social networks, (in my case sometimes unfairly, I was myself on TLN but never went on the attack against their considerable moronic personas, the owner simply would not pay me for the one chapter I did, hello life long ban, after four years, I cannot keep going through this, letting my guard down and then getting exiled). This is what progressives inflict upon themselves, even Jesse, ever the oportunist to stay in play. Then the professionals go on the air to discuss the psyche and its aberrations. What has created this new playbook after 9/11? The DC sniper, VTech, Aurora, Newtown, and now the latest alienated paramilitary man. This is not attributable simply to guns as a glittering commodity, dicing mental health diagnoses. Something is rotten in the state of Denmark, while I calculate even a mild disruption by Nemo. It will not be pretty, never is in our modern welfare state.