Rosewood Massacre, circa 1923

serious question. do you have any African American friends, because you really seem like a racist. I always thought you were a great actor, but wow! you come off on here as a very bitter person.

— Ddot R (@Derrick82397251) December 10, 2018

For what it's worth, the dowager reads this tweet from Ddot as an authentic attempt at a dialogue with Woods, and James made the choice not to meet the sally. Is James Woods a racist? Depends on the prism through one wishes to view it. In terms of inner city paternalism, the actor's views certainly skewer toward a highly charged prejudicial attitude, and yet this is a man who admires Kanye, and Kanye West is at the very least diffident about black identity politics. Ddot may have missed, as well, the actor's offer to pay for a sweet nappy-headed child to go to Disneyland. And while spastic could care diddly about West or his music, she does, with sincerity, admire his gracious act of charity and generosity to the family of Jemel Robertson. What happened to this man in Rahm Emanuel's city (the former saving grace operative of Obama's soaring expectations) is the worst of American sins, more horrific than the 1923 events in the Florida panhandle that gave Michael Rooker his asinine role as a law and order man willfully allowing minority property owners to be lynched in the name of a loose woman who was treated like swamp sewage and might have given Harper Lee her chilling revelation of shameful sexually held secrets which lead to the defendant's death in Lee's self-same novel and in Gregory Peck's canonical approach to deconstructing falsehoods on our silver screens. I cannot and do not dispute that the actions of Florida's citizens in this early modern century was a Reconstruction era hangover worthy of a purge by Mussolini's authority. This is where my great grandfather was at the time, in Roma, a caste level artisan oblivious to Europe's refuse somehow unfathomably creating the world's last superpower on fear and loathing burrowed under by Protestant magnanimity. What I dispute is the industry's reconstruction of what happened, and it amounts to as much paint by numbers chicanery as any hard line intolerance of America's ruling class. Ving Rhames was only cast because he is a linebacker and Apollo Creed rolled into one. No doubt the death toll is open to dispute, but trenches filled with corpses of 140 colored? This is one quadriplegic who sees the agrarian tendency to exaggerate the numbers as being a colorful fixation of liberation theology. 

I've honestly forgotten what type of article it was I hoped to do with Woods' sympathetic and charitable cooperation. It has been 13 months since my near elimination from society, and I was not taking notes, only struggling toward a thesis-topic here on Entertainment Arts, but if Woods has reasons to be bitter, it may be due an indubitable realization that Hollywood executives huff ether in their creative parallel universe. I esteem and admire the European intellect and picked up another variation on this theme in a bio-engineering Icelander, who, if she bothers to absorb the implications of this link, will be appalled. The reason it truly no longer penetrates is because I in turn realize it doesn't matter. I have been murdered, as it is, by a broken-hearted graduate lunging into a progressive holy grail, all of 23 years old, never able to successfully rectify her mistake, a little late now, oozing in symptoms and disposable wear, as expendable as an innocent blacksmith.

Human Services Injunction Chambers

"I am not sure what you are referring to. I was attempting to meet with you to go over all your questions," one of them, which would have amounted to a twelfth  interview in a two year time frame.

While I am very good at punishing myself for the obstinate choices of youth, and then inveighing about subsequent injustice at the hands of an urban, impoverished, and dubiously competent minority caste which overpopulate our cities, that same caste which places Kanye in his own inequality bracket (obviously a tolerated bracket), I suffer in obscurity over why I objected to the living complex my then still sanguine parents located for me in Woodlyn. I have no idea if the complex was operated Elwyn Institute, or Delaware County HUD, but it was white, seeded with peers whom I knew. Independent Living Centers weren’t yet quite incorporated in Pennsylvania at the time, which is why activist groups still had the muscle to have tort. Perhaps I would have had a little job in the town library, remained a technical virgin. I really can’t say. The visit was pre-college, meaning that my whirlwind of hormones had not yet made me even more unreasonable with presentation of the men I wouldn’t be able to lasso. I’ve also posted before that I searched for this Woodlyn unit on various housing databases prior to my 2017 crisis in October, to no avail. The only thing I vaguely recall is an unwillingness to be concentrated among other wheelchair users, like pole vaulting into North Philadelphia was going to resolve that issue.

Service coordinators, against whom I invariably rebelled in the early eighties, and whom I invariably terminated in 2007, replacing with continual persecution by the women’s negro league who tried to incarcerate me, and who now frighten me with phrases like “protection from abuse,” do absolutely nothing but make assessments. I was one, and I too, was powerless for clients, so I am uncertain why their salaries are justified. At best, they make suggestions, and are often subtle projections of bias and stigma themselves, shielded and difficult to come up against in fidelity to process.