Green Room Dialogues Toward Cultural Relevance

But there are questions about Foster, now, that any reasonable person-- much less any reasonable employer-- should want to have answered.-- The Ringer, in a voluble chorus against a franchise over-valuing marketing skills against trauma we never used to discuss.

Ross Douthat’s appearance on Rose was the first that I became aware of him as a vivacious, enthusiastic analyst with an optimistic outlook. The link I selected for my viewers to stream is arbitrary as opposed to the actual segment with its few sentences I recall, the show where Ross deconstructs Harvard as a pulsating progressive mass with a model libertarian overlay. It was not so much what Ross said during the interview, as much as his engagement with his answer. It caught my attention, and that was it. It was not enough for me to rush to Amazon to purchase his book, or resubscribe to The New York Times. I am more interested in The Wall Street Journal at present, but that his tweet about Michel Houelleberg's byline, his underwhelming column about the ruling elite of yesteryear, his brazen assertion on Twitter about membership within that elite not being all that privileged as it’s cracked up to be, led me to do some background research on his biography. Ross Douthat and Niall Ferguson, in combination, with a little Sullivan in the mix, as you gasp that my virulence against homosexual identity momentarily makes allowances for this argument, represents a reasonable approximation of a writer’s life I thought I could sustain. All of them have scheduled appearances on television, and this is something I’ve no idea how to do, nor have the work product to make the effort feasible. Is this an agent’s responsibility? A publicist’s? Arcane details within the supposition that knowledge acquisition on camera doesn’t lend itself easily to mnemonic retention. I have been on television, purely for gawker purposes, but never as an analyst with access, to serve as a conduit, or to engage as an equal. Krauthammer, although he is no longer around to ask, presumably needed assistance in his daily living activities and was still able to manage. I no longer know now if the biggest joke is that which I have played on myself. Still, one receives the sense that Houelleberg is disingenuous in his appreciation of our Trump transformation. The president has thoroughly exhausted me and everyone else, and under Douthat’s playful assertion that we’re living a libertarian West Wing in realtime these days, I rather interjected that it is unfair that I can barely keep myself afloat within the labyrinth of a punitive public housing system while he almost had his career handed to him on a silver platter. This is not the “fusion” I envisioned in being able to go toe to toe with someone like Kathleen Parker. This is why I created this account in the first place, to reach across the divide, whether to a conventional moderate such as Parker, or Ross as her slightly more contrarian alter ego. The opposition to his Wasp nostalgia on social media was misguided, although that opposition to his prominence is the only battlefield Ross engages for his salary, but that doesn’t mean he defined his parameters all too clearly: JFK certainly emulated what being part and parcel of American royalty entails. His Catholicism was virtually an afterthought, and Truman, as the heir to Roosevelt’s deified mantle, didn’t ascend upwards in national politics with a silver spoon in his mouth, and the historical lens through which we view LBJ isn’t necessarily urbane, polished. Johnson was a local color Texan who played the ends against the means, cementing the Medicare disaster we live with today.

Pulmonary Obstruction Cycles

"I've had my setbacks too."-- a  technician the dowager will likely never commission again who freely divulged his skepticism with HomeAdvisor.

I wish to clarify what I wrote in Green Room about fundamental inequality. No one is to blame for the hardship imposed by spastic quadriplegia. What is worthy of censure is the religious outcry for our lives which thereafter essentially leaves us on our own beyond a certain point. Google doesn't have to allow me continued use of its AdSense services, for instance, and I created my own difficulty there through the abandon of my LiveJournal account, but I still have an inactive AdSense account with 3 dollars and 45 cents I rightfully earned, even if I am rhetorically otherwise unacceptable. I have no idea if Google still actively supports this pay for play option, but its disability services unit should be able to assist me in transferring that amount over to Shareaholic, or another provider. I cannot be like Leopold Bloom and know everything about software coding. Everyone has limits, intellectually and within pedagogue applications, and thanks to the folly of poorly deployed nepotism, I will be chained to the Commonwealth's dispensed with, and revised notions, of Medicaid Waiver services for the foreseeable future. Everything I've written about it still remains true, even with this paraprofessional and I settled into a begrudging routine, my overwrought awakening stymied. I asked him to tone it down, his attempt to badger me into happiness, and he likes another inner city single mother of two who had a miserable holiday. I cannot live life on a fraudulent buoy which only looks sturdy but is otherwise a filament, and it is entirely permissible for Ross Douthat and the Kathleen Parker's of this world to be equanimous patricians. My outcry isn't over inevitable biological decline. My outcry is over the near continuous disaster brought about by the failure of durable goods, ignorance of the black public housing wardens I have to contend with, like Gail Sims. She is clueless in relation to how stringent state or Commonwealth compliance requirements are, and it is in fact her job to at least have an awareness of the rules. I got paid $25k in the 90s to advocate for my clients out of these insane labyrinths, and now I have to arm wrestle nigger hicks out of the boon docks *shielded*, in the absolutely persuasive contention of Richard Dawkins, by the Presbyterian applied doxology of predestination.
Will I delete this post for a living commission or living wage contract? Certainly. Is it invalid? No. The obstacles I have to continuously surmount are inhumane, and I'm not living in Kabul. Libertarians shouldn't be fearful of examining market weaknesses, but by the same token, progressives need to realize that federated partnerships with nominal Christian denominations funded by established religions needs to come to an end. Presbyterian Homes gets away with murder. I have the right to self-defense, especially as, every time I am nearly ready to launch a genre collection, my survival is mysteriously, rather suddenly, at stake.

Armageddon Advent

I feel the unholy need to write in a string of prose poem expletives, undoubtedly losing half of my twitter followers if I bellow "Jesus Fucking Christ" over and over like Quasimodo in the breach. I finished my fucking article and hate spec, flagging the idea that carbon monoxide may take care of my problems for me, I'm leaving Race Street in five weeks, see me running? I laid myself down at five, transferring with no fear on that strange energy of age and death, how can one evening it amounts to nothing, my old self in place, and the next, anxiety? I cannot depend on a welfare aide 24/7, but my heart raced, and up I came again; finish the piece, my shins strangely flush, and I'm off the leash. It is done, but I have many things to do, as if I really think the GOP is going to save me in my one-sided email transmissions to Kathleen Parker. Why do I type to Kathleen Parker when my idea is only yeast and soda? She is a moderate conservative keeping her opines on tempo, and I am a banshee of Italian melodrama mewing to Wapo people. Everyone fills the space. Now I need sleep.

On a side note, Fox movies finally ran The Driver again and I watched it very carefully for another spec piece I haven't breathed about to anyone, begging God to help me stay true to myself. What has fresh air felt like these last two weeks?

Annexing the Crimea

I ain't really here tonight, thus Blogger can sigh with relief that I am too tired for targeted insinuations, as my formerly transgendered intimate who is only of local ADAPT notoriety, is a living corpse, and not worth the trouble. I wasn't going to discuss Bruce's transition, precisely for the reasons Kathleen chooses to elucidate. If a resident with terminal cancer thinks I am a pretentious drama queen, but doesn't have the wit to make that zing, I think an aging athlete needs money, and I think this because the evidence suggests that biological males and females who see themselves as members of the opposite sex know this at an early age, and I grew up with Bruce Jenner's ass in his jockey shorts, and never heard a peep out of him that he really wanted breasts and his penis removed, not until reality television; this type of sensationalism leaves a bad taste in my mouth, the shallow strobes of bread and circuses from which the peasants never quite divorce themselves, the need for titillation. I am loathe to add to it, regardless of my peevish arteries which now hold these individual needs, self-interest, in circumspect reserve. Caitlyn certainly had no problem with her male identity when it came to the decathlon; Erik von Schmettering is much less glamorous, and is shied away from, welts on its arms, the persona all but vacated, neither quite male nor female, inciting a piteous revulsion. My ex is right that I waste my reserves letting this eat me to death, but I am merely reverting to form: in 94 I utilized Erik for emotional solace, and it was a mistake, and my pain no longer has access to comfort, sucking it out of the atmosphere. I'm pondering the magnificent energies of Ed Harris.

His talent to be Beethoven, his ability to become Jackson Pollack, or a bisexual novelist with AIDS in Cunningham's already backdated novel, is nothing short of extraordinary, and I'd like to fuck the man in appreciation, which doesn't mean he in turn would oblige, but my finesse meter is squandered this fine Sunday morning, wasting what little I have in my all consuming need for change. What's it getting me?

Shrewd Baby Blue Eyes, the Annoyance Recur

"Maybe, but if I win I can buy any doctor I want."-- Stephen Lang taunting the case for megalomania in Dead Man's Gun

Though Vancouver's take on America's mythology of its historical brutality leaves viewers frustrated with the case for domestic tranquility, Temptests makes the strongest argument North Hollywood can bring to bear. Does Hanson allude to Shakespeare's final and defiant play? I cannot snap my fingers with found correspondences for your edification, but the teleplay nicely turns on the dime with the argument that neither reality the lead actor doubts and believes is the correct reality, and we humans, sophisticated primates, believing we'll conquer space time, are conquered by alien arthropods the size of a forearm. Let that be a lesson to you. Nicely done bit of bemusement. Stephen Lang is not quite as strong as an archetype of compromised moral decency. The mad scientist who wrongly rouses a cadaver, then kills his murderer, his corpse, (surprise!) still fresh enough to regenerate, the lessons of conscience bringing him back to humility, scorched away from the violence of divine aspiration. He does the same thing for Showtime's rendering of the latter day American west, playing a gambler who needs to eliminate his principled pursuers, once again redeemed to find his way back to simpler pleasures with the right companion. The signature of not having a life is in the burgeoning recognition of the players. Shouldn't Blu Mankama make hard liners ashamed? Here he is the studio bar keep, no mention of free towns brought to bear, and there, six years later, he is Muth's reaper, the appropriator of pasteurized urbanity. It isn't so simple in the reverse, despite Kathleen Parker's hash over Comey's letter and what if it was Trump instead?

Well, in the Post's coverage of Trump as front-runner, Donald was the target, so incessant, so constant, that my vote for the fuck witted bastard was part spite. Russian hackers have nothing to do with my nausea toward the Clintons and their cosmetic pretenses. A Reason Magazine contributor, when journalists were granted access to the nefarious paragraph, analysed that the director was covering his ass. It is a rather plausible motive, as why someone like Comey would prefer a paranoid mogul to a paranoid Yale domicile matron who skews her loyalists is also a reasonable inquiry. At some point, perhaps Pence takes over the reigns, and we find ourselves waking up to the occupation of Taiwan.

Tony Todd Beneath A Pyre

"My life has been a poor attempt to imitate the man." Dan Fogelberg

Old women. Old unhappy women, wretched like an Olivia Newton John pop song plea. As faulty as our memories may be, the day Elivis died my mother was in my bedroom on my mattress watching the news of it, weeping and I, perplexed, either in wheelchair or kneeling on the floor, with stridency, asked "Mom why are you crying?"

"He was a big singer once, when your father and I were young," weeping in her unhappy indolence of fat, shrewish pale blue eyes, before I was born my mother was a knockout, a near perfect imitation of Sophia Loren. No one used classifications like bipolar disorder, and a trigger was a mechanism for gunpowder ignition. I was born because my mother was friendly with Marie Marinelli, my long suffering aunt, and Marie hooked my mother, my mother in near matricide with her mother, hooked her up with my father, and I was born because my mother miscarried a firstborn son, this attractive Italian couple who knew Fabian, and grew up in the first dawn of conglomeration of superstardom such that Elvis spawned. I was never a fan but I heard the soundtrack of "Falling In Love With You," female rendition, and couldn't work, the baritone of Presley's voice like a tidal wave over the bandwidth of reminiscence, carrying that ballad with the longing of vulnerability, swallowed into the contradictory passion of unity. It is never like that, our desire to envelop in the face of God, yet a corn bred bubba had the voice with the pull of such gravitas.

I wanted Afghanistan wiped off the face of the earth after 9/11. Then after 13 years of war we calmed down, tired of it all, but the Bergdahl swap is an unseemly and sordid business, especially if the lives of soldiers were lost in the attempt to recover their comrade. Kathleen makes a salient argument. That is how she makes a living, without room for now militant reactionaries like me, always diffident about President Obama even when I voted for him, but in this instance, I disagree with the swap. Suspending judgment on the issue of desertion, that I have to do, as how does an American desert in a wasteland where men are patriarchal savages? Men who live on medieval prescripts, addicted to heroin, like dogs, and no better than rheumy eyed dogs? 

I met an Afghan girl in high school, a refugee salvaged by Carter. To her, overwhelmed as she probably was, I wonder if I was even doubtlessly human, how I registered in her mind, or what the word cripple amounts to in Farsi. She registered to me, barely, as a foreigner. Too young for the implications, my parents, Nicholas and Joanne, were a stunning couple. Sequins and tuxedo, Sophia Loren and a sharp Kevin Spacey. In his prime, mio padre was more the handsome than Spacey. I do not want to lose my father, falling in love with you. A white man who could sing like nigger, with all the conviction of it, for. I. Can't help. Falling in love with you. Never in my life has this happened, not like it happened for Presley, whose daughter must have had an interesting time of it in the bedroom. Her father dying in a pool of his own vomit, a man who was an international headline in an army uniform, melting in my dead mother's breast, my eyes burn, my histrionic fists beating on Jerry's chest, while he wrote me factual letters from Romania.

Why are you crying, these mine spastic burning eyes?  

Arson and Arsenic

Alas, bigots by definition are not inclined toward self-awareness.--Kathleen Parker, grasping the reigns with quite a strain

This home explosion is the closest thing I can find to what my aunt threw in my face via her son, but that it has a New Hampshire location means my fact finding detection system is off track, as it doesn't make any sense.

I am not sure why I continue to read Ms. Parker. I approached her in email as well, scoured by the same nasal vinegar you receive as an ubiquitous mindset on my part. Again, why? She is representative of the conservative affluent woman who wants everyone to be happy under the meaningless rhetoric of constitutional equal protections, while mildly chiding the country that we've lost the finesse of manner. In the case of Sterling, however, I side with Maher on Stiviano's underhandedness, regardless of the old man's attitude.

Stiviano utilizes babe sex to be a figure in baller culture, and that she stuck it to Sterling isn't any less deplorable due to the fact we're shoveling cubic tons of dirt on the underside of egalitarianism. I am still weighing what I want to dialogue about with Kathleen, who was in Laura Bush's press corp, before I hit the whining pity cripple pressure meter. She will not grant me access if ridicule is a temptation in the wings, but suffice it to say Wapo's gate keepers know who I am, nibbling establishment platform breadcrumbs, to the extent that Graham family prominence carries any weight. In DC it carries, of course, despite the fact her column seems a bit shrill today, its humor forced, which may beg the question of what I'm trying to distill through her constraint.

I have roughly 1800 dollars between me me and agonized defeat against adulthood destitution, so I am struggling to cut back on nicotine vapor intake, eating my usage to mitigate agitation, I use a small pointed soft wood to clean the filter cap over the lithium battery that constitutes the e-cig, a maintenance of necessary dedication. 

Aphelion

The SHARE website doesn't convey the sensibility of rolling into a psychiatric facility that polices itself rather poorly. I was sexually harassed in a Darby Share, threatened with assault in a Northeast location, propositioned in a partial hospital, and have seen eruptions of the sort that make the mentally ill easy targets for Kathleen Parker and David Brooks. What goes on in a Share is innocuous until an incident, valid or obscure, disturbs the peace. People masturbate, fondle each other, stare at television listlessly once their entitlement for the month is spent. Sordid and boring, how much of the negative behavior is attributable to reluctance to comply with chemical saturation, finding the dosage combination and the therapeutic treatment that works, I am not the blogger to turn to for that data. Charles Krauthammer is the practitioner turned conservative paraplegic follow the schematic this is the concomitant series of conditions psychiatrist. Does he still treat patients? Unknown. What would he point out to me? That I use quadriplegia affected damage from cerebral palsy not to work at attitude readjustment? That anti-depressants work? That my perspective is impaired from post-traumatic stress?

Was I bipolar when I was an undergraduate? The answer to that question has to be tempered by the fact that my life was regulated from birth until seventeen years of age by institutionalization, and when I met Jerry I was nascent, naive, repressive about my mother, her significantly more severe suffering, her sometimes abusive lovers, and I regret the extent of my emotional investment in his intellectual ability, know it was not his fault, and perhaps not entirely mine either, and as he counseled me on several occasions, pedagogy is not entirely unaware of this aspect in the instructor student dynamic. All this as a given, I have never seen myself as sick, ever, until I had to fend off Debra Horne threatening me when my life imploded in the recession, and this contributes to the sense of stigma that Ed inadvertently linked me to when he connected me to Zach Tollen. The burden is almost one too many to carry, especially when the weight of matriculation is a much different bar for me than it is for a licensed driver who owns a car, or has use of one. 

Can I let an accident of incomplete information go? Yes, but my attempt at selecting a neighbor as an outlet essentially ended, either as a failure of my ability as a writer or a mutually skewered comprehension. The reason it is so much more difficult to shrug off disability center negligence is due to the fact that this negligence never corrects itself, never reforms, and my former supervisor got away with the commission of a serious crime. The impact of this on my life was proportionately detrimental, and I remain cemented in place. How would you maintain a healthy outlook in such circumstances?

I avoided the mention of the naval facility shooting, more or less out of saturation, but I do not see it as either a treatment or gun regulation failure. Navy reservists need to have access to weapons, but soldiers and police are as fallible as anyone. They snap. We cannot control every contingency.

Rasp Off the Grass

One fact alone is enough: that over fifty thousand Federal soldiers perished of starvation in Southern prisons. Malarial fever contracted in camps and hospitals had wrecked his health. --Mobi text, Literary Times Supplement, 1915

The inconsistency of ideology. Moderates like David Brooks and the dame of Wapo want to save monogamy by expanding the tent. What does it lead to? Idiotic political articles about the manicures of Cory Booker and masculine identity. On the basis of my experience with urban black culture, African American sexuality is more fluid than what is admitted. This includes the innuendo, allegations, and political demise of Jennifer Carroll, let alone my fount of follies with blacks in attendant care, graphic sordid tales that would make Kathleen's chastisement of Miley seem positively preschool. Ms. Parker now says the pendulum always swings back. This is an over simplification of social retrenchment, because now we have a new closet, one not initiated by Cory, granted, but one that stipulates "since my orientation does not matter there will be neither confirmation nor denial regarding my sexual preferences."

The Roman Empire did not fall due to the sexual bestiality of its ruling elite; it fell due to overt military pressure and over- extension, which does not mean the distraction of bread and circuses doesn't have a pertinent analogy to the sheer scope and breadth of American materialism and callow corruption through video saturation. I am as much at fault as anyone; my online footprint is overpersonalized, graphic with anger, and at least on Blogger nibbling at tinsel town bread crumbs.

My study of a pansy like Walt Whitman was cursory at best, and of the little I know of Leaves of Grass from upper track summaries of the Transcendentals, I never found the verse particularly moving. My Mobi purchase was partially obligatory thereby, trying to cram everything in before my occlusion or stroke hits, which it will, invariably-- but, and this is the caveat, the Transcendental movement had a point. Whitman's fame rests not on his homosexuality, but on his grandiosity and idealism, his hope that the revised editions of his work would halt the nation at the brink, before the shot at Fort Sumter. Gay and lesbian couples in and of themselves aren't going to destroy anything, as they have existed as long as human awareness, but radical egalitarianism is well on its way to turning everything into a triviality. In Whitman's era, the belief in transcendence was possible, despite the horrors of collateral damage we can now only imagine. I never liked MTV.