The Complicity of Noor Salman

 Omar Mateen was gay

How long have the lockdowns been bouncing on the heads of our supposedly free societies now? Six months? For more than three years, I have not been able to brew my Krups Automated Drip of my own volition, quite an older model, without significant duress. I cannot cook or prepare my own food spontaneously, this now being the provenance of jamboree man, as I now call him, my little niggardly music man, father driving me back to the city directing my gaze from the passenger side, “Look at that,” he says with subdued emphasis, my eyes following toward a broken gimp of a black man pushing a battered wheelchair with an equally feral white woman in it. With the grace of God, this is the suffering and persecution imposed on me now, stomach distended with acid reflux, but never mind that. How often can I post about the forced imposition of helplessness making me convulse excrement in pain due to medical model indifference? If I want a particular book out of my personal library, I cannot readily access a significant portion of my titles, or my own hard copy manuscripts, my revisions to my nearly ready to publish collections locked away, one failed hard drive after another, doubtful there is any meaningful way to right myself with any positive assertion of who Joanne Marinelli was, at her best, as I hurdle maybe, past sixty years into a leaden despair as numb as that ostracized street couple. True despair is no empathy, no feeling, no remorse, a lack of guilt, except for being still young enough to be struck by ironic moments only relevant to me: a dissection on the series Deadly Motives of Omar Mateen, the worst mass murderer in American history, second only to Stephen Paddock. For those of you who do not view True Crime Network as a learning tool, (and actually I do, getting past the macabre, the crime scene photos, I learn a good deal, about local color, and the Orwellian sometimes ineffectual nature of policing and investigation) Deadly Motives tries very hard to ration out redemption as if it was part and parcel of an Oxycontin epidemic. The daughter of The Happy Face Killer hosts the series, driving to and fro, to the families of victims, to the relatives of the killers, and Sitora Yusufiy is no exception, except there is something off in her expiations relative to this Afghan man she wed so briefly, caught between worlds. I am not sure she has enough social sophistication to truly understand homosexual masking in Western society.

In my anger at Liberty Resources, I concede that I took the Pulse slaughter out of context, but what I told this city’s center, nonetheless, was an accurate warning. Exiles of independent living culture often invest in this culture as the only family we have, and if its manifest corruption continues on as part of the status quo, eventually Hamlet will keep repeating itself, whether or not civilians in the modern hook up culture were felled by triggers we’re reluctant to look at too closely, and I have a rather blunt suggestion, one which belies my former intellectual aspirations, now besieged and harassed by Waiver compliance demands, stop attempting to assimilate such deeply entrenched Islamic nationals to secular methodologies. Institutionalism fared quite poorly in the aftermath of this shooting. The Department of Justice overplayed its need to convict Noor as an accessory, the media didn’t unravel the triggers or the character, and the gay community in Orlando was left stricken, paralyzed, despite progressive tsunami waves against populism.

In Violation

What do you hear?
Nothing but the rain.-- Edward James Olmos and Katee Sackhoff in stucco dialogue, Battlestar Galactica
Adding insult to injury, and significantly decreased ability to produce content, now without any commission activity,at least until I have the strength to engage a new platform, the left back quarter of my jaw has been stricken by an abscess. I have been fielding this for three weeks, stricken by allergic reactions to the antibiotics, amoxicillin, and the clindamycin I can only just handle, not being entirely certain I will survive the extractions at this point when the major clinics in Philadelphia actually reopen. I have never been able to transfer to the dental chair, and now my respiratory function is labored, my colon inflamed, my fecal incontinence all the more painful, no inglorious suicide by Lieutenant Dualia here as the series winds down into what is nearly a blockbuster climax. My theory about the entitled bullet in her brain, after nuclear Earth is rejected by the weary human insurgency, is that she cannot cope with having lost Billy, who is replaced by Tory in an episode I still have to back view. The Galactica reboot of 15 years ago is in many ways preposterous, takes survival genocide to a whole new level wherein I have never been able to take you with me, and I cannot get enough of it. Olmos has so sold me on Commander Admiral Adama that I simply dispense with his furiously repressed and vengeance stricken Latino identity, but he makes it work here as an embattled man of duty without saying a word, as does the entire ensemble, since we're all united here against an amalgam of Islamic terrorism transmuted into cybernetic wrath. How clever, and yet, throughout, the Cylons are basically children. Trumpian politics may have caught up to me at one point, but I have long since been superseded, erased, exterminated, and I regret the Ev Williams pay to play system on Medium more than I can tell you. We cannot actually use writing to say anything anymore, since Google has superseded Orwell, at least not collectively, and regardless of how diverse Medium members are, they fucking say nothing, collectively, over and over again, like much of Google's sweet candy streaming, keep it light, moving, and everything is forgettable technocratic automated bookmarks.
I deliberately said something into this ambulatory pitter patter, and the now mortally stricken battle axe of a spastic warrior has broken the rules, for daring to contend that a nigger predator is a thing under a column which so radically asserted that it's okay to be pessimistic because, in Jessica's cosmetic words, "people aren't going to make it". Jessica knows nothing, absolutely nothing, about medical barbarism which sits like a sewer tank on what used to be American material opulence, and whatever you've been through with the quarantine, you'll bury the subhuman lives of quadriplegics on the back stove of human affairs soon enough, as you always have; if you want me, come get me. You've tried before, and the Google rules are only the greatest sanction to exterminate the marginalized who are better off dead in the first place, not that Medium's staff will agree with that, but they are sure as hell on radio silence. I will not delete my raw outcry on the platform, because the sheer force of what I need to do to draw attention to corrupted subsistence illustrates it must be a necessary function of my right to live.

Chachi Piercings

and Farrah Faucett's death becomes a footnote in history, a commentator on Jackson's overdose the same day

So when Mary Poppins here deigns to lecture me I will bite. She is the one shouting. No one had to respond to my cross post. I was just politicizing dependency. https://t.co/j00AtgwZWR

— Joanne M Marinelli (@Jozannyme) May 27, 2019

So much of a fusillade, these so many things to do while shading in the margins of circling the drain, and where does directional conscious lead? To a mild sense of astonished commiseration for Scott Baio in social media mothballs. He gets attacked for tweeting about his daughter playing golf. We should all have Mr. Baio’s problems while we lament incontinence destroying what is left of quality of life, and Melaine shouts about cooption of a Delete Facebook pushback (promptly deleted after her bout of agitation over her indignation of digital etiquette, for Christ's sake, with this country's problems). I too am now universally excoriated by the disabled community. We all die alone, the title of a German guilt novel so thick with pathos it submerges like a diving bell, or like Farrah dying on a luxurious duvet, maintaining her wounded Texan girl looks until the very end, but that very end was the most horrible transfiguration of what and who she was, inured, after years of medical drama, inured, but not quite inured enough not to find O'Neal's material trappings grotesque, purely and simply, a fetish of baubles. He'll never answer my questions about The Driver, this piece on merging Walter Hill to Carter's bubba presidency. I've worked so hard to penetrate, merge a thesis on my own terms, my life vacuumed under, much like the impression of a manufactured construct Alana Stewart leaves behind, a residual effect, Baio's solicitation of crisis management is merely a pragmatic reflection of reality. Video rules our lives more thoroughly than any impending existential threat to our existence, like medical rationing. I regret absorbing Farrah's struggle. It was rather tense, superficial. Perhaps Mr. Baio is just a proud, decent dad, but I am past accolades. If a critic wishes to appear sympathetic, Baio had a amicable mien, in the window of youthful vigor, suitable for the nostalgia toward milk and cookies. While Happy Days splayed its wholesome innocence, I was in the surgical ward, bones broken, my insane mother driving me into a squall, arguably dooming us both, those fleeting moments sparse. Have I no joy, nothing in this momentous arc? Only those moments before the end of my affairs.
I hurt Sunday evening, my face mottled in loneliness, poised to do anything to end this *home care*.

The Occupation of Venezuela

"Guaido has grown so much politically they haven't been able to touch him," the assertions English language media  asserts about stature

Things are moving too slowly for any hope on my part that mobility medicine can mitigate what I have had to endure since September of 17. The direct care worker, whose pseudonym he probably cannot reference as the knight from the Arthurian legends, gave me most of the day off, but for all that, making an effort to cut down on Twitter interaction, discipline is compromised through indigestion due to my bowel and inability to evacuate, as by the time he gets here I am empty and when he’s ready to clock out, it is too late, is only just getting in 3 o’clock Monday, his automotive issues taking a toll on the month. I have not moved the goal post further along toward developing new editorial relationships, though I have started a back burner story about the homosexual drug addict Jevs sent me as a back up when Galahad takes time off. Obamacare, no matter its exchanges and networks, doesn’t change the nature of an hourly wage on Medicaid budgets, and you’ll get drug addicts with criminal records who can get aging tenants evicted for being extreme homosexuals with criminal records. Eviction from a public housing building such as Riverside might leave me overjoyed if it was the result of my own actions, but if it came about as the result of an extreme queer (even Galahad recoils from this man, and Galahad is an inner city minority resident),  this is something else again, and would give me ample cause of action to sue Trudy Richardson, the building manager who no more believes in civil liberties than she would that the legends of St. Nicholas has legs, but be heartened. Apathy has triumphed over my visions of treating Trudy like one of Daryl’s head shots from the Walking Dead, which relates directly to the fact that Galahad resents the fact I’m not grateful for him. Why should I be? He isn’t indispensable, and I cannot push him to help me regain strength. His time off, though earned, is primarily arbitrary. Jevs doesn’t have standards in place to be mindful about giving these individuals required down time such as I’d receive. He is frustrated with this lack of gratitude. These flare ups take their toll, the vituperations in a sphincter which exudes a furnaced laxity so domineering that a younger undergraduate took the Shakespearean’s request to write a poem about her name literately and wrote an anagram about her identity being flushed into the sewage system. “It’s it’s—” stuttered the then voluble Jerry McGuire, with his ham fisted strength yet young, at the time, less good looking, than the now imploded Luke Perry. Magee Rehabilitation, its first keystone inscribed the same year as Jerry’s “it’s it’s,” stumble cadence at a conference table on a Chester campus, is more representative of a healthcare system in crisis as opposed to something worthy of marvel. I’m not post-op; not in recovery. The physical therapists express resistance toward my treatment, the only innovation since my last visit being wall diagrams about surviving a mass shooting, oblong ellipticals in deep red blue color contrasts, with arrows. Perhaps soiled adult briefs would be a distraction in the face of such an event, burrowing the exuberant celebration of youth, a youth which truly believed in victorious conquest. As one of my literate British followers noted, when you have nothing left to lose, you have nothing left to fear.

Remonstrate on, Alex Keating

"You will also die lonely and alone instead of being surrounded by children and grandchildren who love you."-- Marc Thiessen, worthy of emulation more frequently than not.

Discombobulated. It isn’t one of those words to be touted in relation to pride over one’s range of vocabulary, but it’s syllable bumbling is sometimes best suited in description when you give up on those technological extensions that raise human to cyborg debates on popular science venues. I traded in my old Kindle Paperwhite some scant days before my 57^th birthday, and thought Amazon, in consideration of the hundreds of dollars I spent on my original models, would simply ship out the upgrade. Why do we have to keep paying, again and again, particularly if we’re part of the entitlement class, which in the States, is bundled into the capital acquisitions pyramid? After sorting out that I had to indeed buy my new model, the tracking software places it as on its way from a major sorting center in Newark. Meanwhile my left hemisphere might be under vivisection. Kindles are vital tools when mobility is compromised, transforms into a research extension for those of us who wanted career to surmount family, to transform career into family, and then wind up with poverty’s sterility on display. The smoothness we see in The Good Wife is still fictive in this regard, the mere cookie cutter adaptations of Michael J. Fox in his cashmere long coat as an emblem of his popularity, likability, yes, these things are important, even if the hygiene self-pity issues are left to his memoir writing upon receipt of his diagnosis. You put it out there in brazen fashion, but not too brazen, the tremors, the noveau riche sensibility not so far removed from how success in Hollywood translates the power of recognition. Writers take a somewhat different track, but we are all gunning for the same thing, break ranks, then get subsumed by process law, process crimes. This is the complaint these days, that the process is more important than the individual. Marie Callender is only a simulation of evocative conceits we harbor about the culinary comforts of southern hospitality.

Their branded pot pies are tolerable, nothing to wax ecstatic over in the convenient eclipse of their mass manufacture. My oeuvre, creatively, or journalistic, may not be important in comparison to those who've accelerated into the classics, but it is important to me, the preservation, even if the aging Beats assembled in Pittsburgh were anti-climatic, mostly rude, drunk, later memorialized by my most obsessed over professor, as he felt bad, it was actually the journey itself which is surprisingly a highlight of my burgeoned adulthood subconsciously more and more in alignment with Alex Keating's valiant attempt to put the bit on then the over reach of 40 something boomers. Five hours on Amtrak over verdant hillsides, Hershey, Jonestown, meeting Louis McKee. As both of us were Philly poets, he and I talked about mundane things working class born and bred discuss, bills, grants, the living dead of loneliness in my head, my cousin has a penchant for these playful images designed to milk out the last drop of a smile.

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.

Lazarus’ Preclampsia Gorilla Channel Mitigation

His hands, palms upward at his sides, were covered in blood.-- JG Ballard, Crash, p3

I have to walk myself back, and admit to a correction: There are whites, at least those who work for Liberty Health, who are as moronic as Presbyterian Homes minority managerial staff like Debra Horne and Trudy Richardson, even if it befuddles me why the coffee light guard downstairs is fixated on my father’s rushed appearance during this too lengthy interregnum which will result in my spirit being crushed. I do not know what Liberty Health is, but their employees harassed me just as I was harassed in 14 by an earlier pair. The 2017 round was an older man named Tom, and one younger patronizing punk. I asked the younger if he knew any famous people with cerebral palsy. “No,” was my answer, and I should have kicked his ass, even from my filthy mattress. I did frighten them both, in October, as only women can, and they both jumped to help me eat when I hissed with scorn at “fucking regulations!” The kid was a kid, but this Tom is as much an ignorant racist as I admit to being, the forthright savant. I gave Tom more punishment over telephone, as the idiot’s contractual obligations are to shovel us like shit into nursing homes, but, the key is not my inconsolable misery, and the punishment my body is taking and will not recover from. It is what I asked the punk bastard kid, and how he responded. This signifies the failure of sixty years worth of activism and disability law, and that attitudes do not change. I never expected to literally adopt the mantle of Vassar Miller. Those odds are long, but there are not enough of us who can cross over into the mainstream. I once believed Linda Dezenski could do it, but I suppose I took care of that, not quite able to let it flow, like Dana Delaney and her cannabis dealer in “Hand of God.” The dealer is a lesbian nigger, and tells Diva Harris (Delaney) a back story that concluded, “That was the first time I made out with a woman and had an orgasm.” No big deal. Women smirk about sex just as men do, but the way my former supervisor did what she did triggered my emotional scars, and I did not think such a genteel poem as I sent her would have resulted in such a graphic suggestion. I needed to leave this building then, as I always have, my one constant, willing to be homeless outcry, and the counternarrative, looming so large, is to move in with my 94 year old grandmother.

Am I engaging in liberal outrage? Perhaps James Dorwart thinks so, assuming he has time to scan my occasionally esoteric posts—but what some of you may not understand is I am using big tent egalitarianism to illustrate that big tent egalitarianism is a crock of shit. Other wheelchair users understand better than my ambulatory followers, and I am sure James does too—maybe I’ll throw him a bone about art therapy empowerment, as I am alienated out of the shared experience of identity, ever mindful that he stayed in the ivory tower. I deflated out of it, as opposed to pole vaulted. No one’s fault that case management destroyed me in certain ways; teaching might have done so too, but I think it raises serious moral questions, that I have to be destroyed because I’ve been non-compliant—in that sort of quasi-ecumenical vein, where “Hand of God,” works as an implied Pentecostal parable, Blessid is an implied Catholic cheat sheet, and left me displeased, and even the reviewer undercuts his own enthusiasm for what Heske and Fitz do without any valid clues as to who, or what, Jedediah (Montgomery) is supposed to be. The hostile obsessed ex-lover, Ethan, attempts to murder the supernatural neighbor, and I gathered this alluded to the Crucifixion, but beyond that, the only clue offered was Edward’s mention of the neighbor’s black teeth, and that his knowledge of horticulture had something to do with his lengthy lifespan. Instead of actually redeeming “Sarah,” the story ends with the message that the Resurrection makes life precious, too awkward even for apocrypha. I pleaded for help on this account two months ago, inappropriately, and expected exactly what I received, smirking, but if I am forced beyond any choice—I suspect Sarah had other alternatives—toward involuntary medical commitment, I’d be far less anguished if I had a voluntary executor to safeguard my work, published and all. Please think about it. Despite my obstinacy, and the nuclear fallout of my idealism, I deserve better than senseless maintenance in an institution, and even deserve better than immigrant African care. I may not prevail all that much longer, unless Melania invites me over to watch the president’s wildlife footage.

Grace Achieved Through Brutal Contingency

The red-team approach makes sense in the military and in consumer and technology companies, where assumptions about enemy strategy or a competitor’s plans are rooted in unknowable human choices. --Governor Whitman

Early on in my libertarian flirtation, I challenged Austin Petersen in what I hoped was friendly jostling, and he followed me back, then cautioned me on a gaffe which I did not have to make. If I explain this it will come out a bit droll, but nevertheless: I thought I could recycle a political bone out of Bush v Gore, due to a factoid from a Christine Todd Whitman opinion piece that bugged me some odd eighteen years ago, the percentage she cited. Al Gore lost his home state of Tennessee by 6 points, and had he actually carried his home state, the electoral college and the popular vote would have aligned in 2k. It baffled me that the Vice President didn’t carry his base. A local told me they thought Austin was from Tennessee, and I tagged him in error, thinking out loud on Twitter, something none of us should ever do. I explained to him that my synapses were fumbling for a story. I now know he is in quest of Missouri voters. As I’ve warned, droll, and my gratitude that he put me on his feed would have led to a rapid deflection, as he chastised that a block would ensue for off topic tags. I confused him without meaning to do so, and have come to respect him since then. But he and I are nearly polar opposites. He has the promise of his ambition. I have the scars of the welfare state. He is a social liberal. I’m not, wavering as I am, high risk invalid, with a natural inclination to purse my lips in disapproval. This would contrast sharply with his political smile, and, not that I want to shock the left, but I can see what they see: libertarians are about the alchemy of turning flax into gold. Cryptocurrency busts and the Apple fetish in Steve Jobs lifetime has the glint and weakness of chrome to it, but the left also blinds itself to the brutal truths libertarians like Austin aren’t fearful to point out. Healthcare is no more a right than unicorns are part of the equestrian family. Paul Krugman’s brain would explode if he actually applied himself to Maximus and public housing, since he sees all this as not enough expenditure. Having lived and fought and broken myself on it most of my life, throwing money at it doesn’t oxidize bureaucracy with a healthy metabolism. Some ambitious lawyer needs to sue over Maximus's centralization. It is probably an anti-trust issue.

I cannot tackle the decomposing carcass this evening, but the Commonwealth is in serious trouble with its astringent Medicaid allocations. It was always bad, but hell apparently has a guest suite in the Wolf residence. Libertarians are weak on healthcare for good reason. In rationed form, it is an aggregate enforced by public policy, like everyone getting vaccinated, these days, even that has resistance.

Earlier tonight, Adam Kokesh pulled a Petersen, and put me in his feed. And that was also an astonishment. I follow him because establishment media players know the potential for anarchy generates page views, and if my tongue in cheek column about his Liberty On The Rocks invite ran as news in Google once, I can do that again, presuming the immigrants don't hand me a malpractice claim on a platter. If everyone in PA knows Maximus is rot, I had a professional tell me that, and that Liberty Resources is a bad joke, I don't see why they don't fix it. The Olmstead Act, in context, is meaningless. Trump did not compile this deadwood. I am not entirely on board with Trump's hostility to healthy eco-systems, but I also never was a rave EPA enthusiast either.

The Destruction of Pompe, Interdicted Sclerosis

"We thought we could change the world."-- Mario Vargas Llosa, post goat mortem

During the 2016 primary season, I tried to build a case, perhaps somewhat unsuccessfully, that Trump's hostility toward Serge Kovaleski, driven by his media antagonism, if we tally the number of fake news tweets into his presidency, did the collective social conscience a favor. That the president then flipped a coin in his first address to Congress to usher in Megan Crowley as a time honored, privileged, diminutive token doesn't contravene his credibility so much as expose a divided American psyche, and I'd say the ratio is at least 1 in 50 on the conservative side. For every extraordinarily privileged persons like Megan, or fully matriculated individuals like Governor Abbott, there are then ten marginalized wheelchair residents in a public housing facility with zoophytic lives, attributable to how badly Medicaid Waiver systems are administered. Though budget allocation is a factor, the number of dollars spent on regulating the poor to death isn't the only problem. Socialized medicine is a regulatory nightmare that hasn't changed in the 35 years in which I began making my living at it, unless the change is that of even more stricture through centralization, and this represents the failure of inclusion since Helen Keller became the apostle of being in the world despite the severity of her deprivation. My life was in jeopardy from 10/17 through 3/18 only to be placed in jeopardy once back in the system by a provider's attendants being a no show, which goes to the heart of why I took myself off of waiver services in 07. At this level of poverty in the Philadelphia region, the digital economy has a subzero impact. Case managers are like Bill Murray repeating Groundhog's Day with no outlet to wake up, and it represents Erik's failure beyond his current end of life mental decline. He forced this section 202 housing contractor to "renovate" the building, putting every single resident in here through unimaginable hell for well over a year, only to have the city's housing authority strike back by prohibiting disabled tenant access to senior living facilities unless they meet the age requirement, and ADAPT's defiance against medical model authority has also cratered in IL, since they now have nursing coordinators, and if we have a class of 30 autistic students blowing bubbles in a park, this is featured in a local news segment like a Gnostic gospel for savants, taking victories in the acknowledgement of our still precious limitations. If you'd like an example of how my pessimism could be assuaged, the Amazon series Britannia, though it vibes like Masterpiece theatre on steroids, presents its maimed with a live and let live aspect. There are no phalanx of visiting nurses doing absolutely nothing, certainly not with effective treatments, simply adaptation and aid by and whom is at hand. In the life of Emperor Claudius, which coincides briefly with the harsh rabbinical life of Jesus, there were no overzealous fathers who created found wealth for 24 hour nursing care, no persistent vegetative states used for dramatic purposes to portend malignancy. You were butchered, or tortured, wounded, survived or not. This is more beneficial for bipedal primates than blood thinners allowing a 94 year old to catapult into thinking her care givers and relatives are demons boring holes in her skull. If some of you would like me to cease hating the devoid lives of so many invalids I've lived through in this bariatric driven Commonwealth, stop elevating Megan for her stoic coping, and for those of developmental birth who can, let us hope too, like the slim minority of paraplegics and amputees in the mainstream, that we can earn establishment prominence. That's real inclusion, not government contracts with religious organizations and state civil servant intake that can't tall it's asshole from its dung heap.

Logic behind defiance

This is what I'm trying to protect myself from, and couldn't, despite mt IQ, my investigative work for New Mobility, Josie the pissing milch cow's bread and butter, or any lies and subterfuge I engaged in to stave off worse than a sexual pass from the most gluttonous mulatto I ever laid eyes on. It happens more frequently to the disabled than any outside of disability centers know, hence my support for morally cool unpleasantness like eugenics, euthanasia. In 1991-93 I had a true quadriplegic client named Don; his aide put him on the commode and cleaned out his apartment. Not sure how he managed his rescue. Could you forgive or get over that? This is why state Medicaid Waiver systems need to be stopped, and it has nothing to do with conservative astringent.

If you read the fine print of these federally "mandated" centers, and you comply with the paradigm, they have a "no liabilities" clause for pairing clients with fly by night providers like Unlimited Staffing, an agency against whom I had had the most cause to seek redress. That "no liability" clause is written into contracts because disability centers couldn't function otherwise, and still, like medical supply vendors, they unravel like a ball of yarn. Homemaker Services broke up its incorporation a number of years back. I first signed onto the waiver as a "federal employee" in 97, then the state treasury said I owed them taxes, because I was assigned a deaf case manager who was accused by the next one of bad faith procedure.

Centralized institutional care is hell, cushioned by money or not, but decentralization doesn't work, I am sorry. Very few people like me, without some kind of professional earnings valve, are freer within being constrained by services. Wapo's reporting illustrates this fact. All the state statues amount to nothing because of substantive victimization between client and paraprofessional, left to their own devices. Get rid of it. In the interim, I found an old housing list, by virtue of dumping and cat knocking and then straightening up; dated, but it is what I need, a list, and maybe I can kick box a summer transition.

Pizzo

"Intuitive improvisation is the secret to genius"-- Christopher Walken, playfully Zorin

On the other hand, as some of my early viewers may recall, I want to return to Italy to die there, so maybe lack of accessibility wouldn't be such an issue, if all I wish is to close my eyes and press my fatigued lips to the sampietrini, Roman basalt being the basic sequence of my DNA. Going home to be robbed of my dignity by clever ladri may not be the most peaceful way to expire, but transporting the greaseball to Philadelphia hasn't succeeded in erasing the dago from the flesh, and at my age I have to make a choice: throw every impoverished energy I have into setting my sights on Tuscany, or fight the disability center. Perhaps my ambulatory viewers do not quite comprehend the sequential spiral of events, between 1989 and now. I've given bits, and hints, and turned Linda C Dezenski into a byword, only occasionally objective as to the shared blame between the two of us, but the problem of Liberty isn't simply her exorcism, nor my exile. Independent living centers generate their own bigotry, and the only way to put a stop to that is in eliminating them, or at least redistricting them to reduce the constant litigation. Employers get sued, it is a fact of life, and we mitigate that with reality television transforming executives into camera philanthropists to avoid insurrection, at least most of the time. Dushey's humanitarian conscience was a dog and pony show for the camera, not to be believed, ultimately unsustainable. The sole reason spastic paid the plight of Shoppers World any attention was a dearth of material, indifferently checking in with NZT, but intake centers like Liberty are in a class by themselves, and only the disabled who emerge from them truly understand this. Reasonable accommodation means, in CIL culture, that competency is a nice idea, much like Gandhi's barb about western civilization. EEOC lawsuits are the norm here, and this is truly why I prefer reactionary retrenchment to the progressive spectrum. Tom Earle is an attorney of disability law, and yet, utilized his legal blindness as a cover for negligence. To me this is incredible, though passing the buck was a blatant admission of his predecessor, Fern Markowitz. "I am not responsible for her conduct."

Direct quote. Again, this isn't simply about what Liberty did to me. No one accepts responsibility for the abuse and stigma which is a daily occurrence in IL. No liability might be the motto of the entire country, let alone the state, or the city. I'd break the law to get Liberty closed down, and only my exhausted scrambling prevents me from acting, but when I'm ready, I'm going to load my guns and put up a hell of a fight. I want a better future for those after me.

I nearly hurt myself in the winter of 2000; that is how distraught I was, racing around to find a therapeutic lifeline, and I will not permit them to do this to others in perpetuity, the bedridden who are abused. It may not be as rampant as nursing home neglect, but the very activism Liberty trumpets hides its secret holocaust on a small scale. This is not progressive, not for all Krugman's blue blood whinny about socialized medicine, and Shoppers World inadvertently exposed these skeletal fossils, if you listened to the vagaries of the employees problems: nursing homes, pregnancies, dialysis. Executives like Dushey cannot bankrupt themselves due to lack of awareness over shoplifting and the inadequacy of Medicaid. On the positive side, if I do get across the Atlantic, the ladri would discover I'm an excellent enforcer. My first allegiance is always to Rome. Don't forget it.

Too Late Baby

The longer I remain at Riverside Presbyterian, the harder it becomes to hold myself together; if I give my notice the city will be forced to scrape me off the sidewalk unless I become dazzlingly clever, but the longer I stay the more difficult curbing my anger becomes. To stop living manufactured illegality and the intimidation of deliberate, or intentional bull dykes like Debra Horne remains difficult when fear and its past is omnipresent, but what I have been dancing around is responsibility for incitement when one's personal hell is the knowledge that ambition can no longer beat biology, and I'll probably die indigent, in more pain than I deserve, because social services is fucked, and nothing I can write, investigate, repairs this for me. Can't beat the clock, and the supervisor who hurts others remains secure, while I face incarceration because I'm furious enough for a jail cell on short time, at least before I'm forced on oxygen, should we get that far.

Yes, I know the drill, but Trudy Richardson has succeeded in pissing me off enough that the owners under Presby's corporate umbrella will soon make me someone else's problem. Do I blame myself for grinding the axe on my family? I do not know, but I'm defeated, whether or not I'm now criminally liable. No one would obey me because I'm pissed. I just wish I had understood the bullshit in the Waiver system sooner, did something, and I had hoped to control my ex to that end. Barring a miracle, I don't have a way out, even if I find a creative way to still have legal standing to sue Pennsylvania into perpetuity.

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.

Maggot Larvae

Where I first heard of David Frum? Perhaps Charlie Rose. Moderate conservatives like him always reign in Libertarian militancy toward the two party system with statements such as these. Once you get past a certain age, Brian's dictum evinces itself through politics. The laws of nature tend to repeat themselves. Frum is Douthat is Johan Norberg, is Niall Ferguson, and I happen to be an enthusiast of Ferguson's ideas.

Frum's chastisement presupposes that NSA and the Defense Department are powerful enough to keep rare specimens like myself in check. For a while, but I have serious doubts about what comes after the post-Obama era. I make the assumption that most of my viewers on the outside don't understand Medicaid Waiver services, what a lifetime of entitlement is like against ecumenical insistence on the inherent value of human life juxtaposed against medical warehouses like Inglis House, which belie such pluralistic niceties. Most of us don't dwell on beneath the surface insecurity all the time, not even I.

But I've lived it most of my life, and at 53, it threatens to suck me down the drain; this is the kind of rage which permeates revolutions, velvet, or otherwise. Remember Philip K. Dick's short story about android political candidates? Remember what it signified? But there was also what Dick didn't say about electing representatives, about the limits of political processes.

I'm living off my father's guilt at the moment, and don't like it, having come full circle, little spastic slum dog, repeating the same thing over again, like one of Patricia Highsmith's lesser known protagonists.

I'm never going to vaunt past the sterility of the welfare state, simply because I could not stay inside it to earn a living, and allowed you to read what a vicious maniac its scar tissue has maimed within me, to the tune of Google's reluctant unease. What do I have left to aspire to? Beneath the surface, the entitlement system is like a lava slide. Slow, molten, deceptively destructive. Heavy enough to make the West Wing's security apparatus as thin as a thimble.

The Mercy of Adam Kokesh

In many countries, lesbian, gay, bisexual and transgender people are persecuted, attacked and killed.-- Fred Hiatt, an admirable opinion writer otherwise.

If I attempted to throw myself on the mercy of the Libertarians, just as with the the leftists, it would be to little avail. Some of you may or may not know I tweeted the indomitable Tony Stiles a direct message asking him if he could help me leave Philly to let me know, and I did not expect his largess to follow through and leap to my rescue in the shadow nation we'll call Nigerland, as I'm not sure I'm ready to risk total banishment in digital space just yet if I allow myself my true nasty colors-- for which Poets & Writers did ban me, but in my four years of running my mouth on Speakeasy, my vitriol had not coalesced into extremism in this unfortunate spastic frame. I list to my right, my right arm flexes in, and I'm peasant trash who really believed she could be a matriculated establishment player, after years of fighting the welfare state, I'm right back where I started leaving a large impersonal city campus without enough money to wash the piss out of my laundry. I became distraught with every resignation from every job I hated, and leaving the Matrix Research Institute was no exception, but the difference then, in 1996, was I knew I was fucking finished. Circumstances merely dragged things out. I started to write for money after dear lesbian bitch dead in my own heart published Leaving The Matrix Institute in a PA council on disability chapbook, and I managed to get lucky, and then surprised when mommy dropped and her insurance carrier left her children money. My younger sister wanted my cut and I said no. She and Ben joked about how long I held onto that nest egg, and now it's over. I'm on the verge of irrational flight out of one of the better 202 housing units in center city, mostly due to shame over my creativity with skid marks, my inability to get along with the wastrels in this community, the wastrels who make up the majority in this country, broken by the Roosevelt's culture of dependency. You want to come clean my apartment as an act of charity before the exterminator shows up tomorrow and my war with Trudy Richardson begins again?

No? I thought not. This fucking Jazzy is hurting me, and all I want is to run, and pray for luck, when I actually logged on to research Medicaid's health care plans. If I could I'd slide into a hole and starve to death while the beat goes on, and as yet, I endure, but probably not much longer. I wonder what Hiatt would have to say about gay activist corruption that had such a disparate impact on my well being. He'd parse it no doubt by differentiating bad acts from equal treatment. And my response?

Fuck that.

Retrofits we don't have very long

From an ambulatory perspective, the older Quickie P-200 is not much different from the Jazzy Quantum. They are both six-wheeled motorized vehicles, both with large center tires balanced by front and back castors. The Quickie, however, is a performance chair, which Medicare decided "was a luxury," and so the horse's ass at Jazzy reversed the axis. The Quickie is slanted back. The Quantum tilts forward, and I've taken slight dips even opening the door. It is a dangerous unsafe machine, developed in a skewered and corrupt rationing system. Journalists do investigate corruption in health care. The Washington Post exposed issues at Walter Reed, but dissecting how fucking sick the system is becomes a mission for Lionel Shriver, and I can only stretch the chain links. I have never known one medical supply company to last more than five years, and the provider which furnished me the chair, JeffQuip, is now New Motion, and they refuse to service me. Magee, as well, is going to give me a hard time. My life is in danger in this contraption, and I let Mary, the therapist, pick the provider, pick the model. I liked another one similar to this Quantum at the time, and the well meaning rehabilitation expert said she'd stand with me for that over this, but I need a performance chair, and I no longer have the ability to empower myself with this narrative.

This is going to consume all of my time. My savings are gone. My life might as well be a hologram on Brian Greene's debit card, and Midwesterners observe, "your anger is frightening," get me banned from communities I care about, and tweeters are left to marvel at my savagery. I could try Moss. I was a patient there once as well, but Moss cares more about its contract with Septa, and denial of service options.

This all makes me puke, and it essentially forces me back on the Medicaid system. Tarantino's protagonists manage to cut the net, and the pleasures to be derived no doubt come in part from our merger with  their fantastic liberation and ability to dash on the freeway at dangerous speeds. The first half of Quentin's Kill Bill is the only thing running this afternoon, and I am surprisingly ambivalent about the beginning of the end I already know. I love David Carradine, always have, but I am not sure what the point was of all this fun loving gore. Kill Bill is, obviously, a homage, and allows Carradine to bring out his inner prick, something he had done in the past after Kung Fu, but being creative and decorative with human capacities for anger and torture simply for its own sake could have just as easily been animated.

Straw Dogs, whatever one feels about it, had a message, and a dark, concordant irony. Kill Bill seems to have a singularity of purpose, but doesn't know what it wants. To celebrate ruthless bastards? To celebrate taking extraordinary levels of punishment need to achieve one's objective?? Something gets lost in all this conflated wilding.

Sherwood Forest

Patrick Stewart makes the resolution of class conflict something of a utopian uptick in Next Generation. "Humanity solved its economic problems," he tells one of the series varied and populous humanoid inhabitants, swept under the rug for the kids, in order to glide over real world pain and make it easy, like Philadelphia's nonchalant and urbane progressives, but 31 million Medicaid recipients in the US is not exactly something to rejoice over. Single payer systems, be they federalized benefits, Medicare, VA benefits, criss crossed under the imperiled ACA, is not only bankrupting the US, it is destroying American initiative, and every member of my family, barring my father, thinks Pennsylvania's social service system is a candy dispenser, while my landlord is using a rear guard action against me, a blunt force trauma that is akin to warding me off like a zoological aberration, because I am attempting to curtail costs by declining what is an abusive system by default, and they'll win, because I'm too tired, Presbyterian's management is deliberately exacerbating my social anxiety, my sense of vulnerability, to lock me into a paradigm which will only add to duress, as opposed to gratitude. Even behaviors from paraprofessionals, or idiots like Karina, which cannot be classified as abuse, still lead to bad outcomes. I've detailed as much in past posts, 

So I took council with my father, paid the room mate finder the not exorbitant fee they asked, left my link on Craigslist, and good luck with that. The public policy guy I spoke to after Sims charming town hall bit, I told him I was so unhappy where I was that just giving my notice would make me happy, and it would, in the vein of Alan Greenspan's "irrational exuberance," and I myself acknowledged the desire wasn't rational. "No, but it is an argument," the young man said, and he was correct. I'm being treated like a prisoner by a Protestant corporate entity whose very negligence contributed in significant part to my stress disorder. Oh, Trudy and Debra and custodial staff will say what Miss Eddy did in terms of her conduct was "wrong," and beneath the surface, the tenants who remain and survived the intra-building renovations can count their blessings, but the building, the property, supersede the value and the dignity of the lives they house. The company once had an on-call tenant housekeeper whose position was eliminated with her retirement, hence the burden of securing reliable assistance falls to the tenant, and even when I purchased Tim's labor, or bought another company, nothing they did changed much, and a CNA isn't going to really care. They deal with nursing home eligible bodies day in and day out, changing diapers and bedpans, and like police officers, need emotional armor.

Eventually, this is all going to come crashing down on the generations ahead of me, and if I am in pain and want to stop having my body constrained in brutal institutional fashion, I do not see this as unreasonable. Disability activists may, but the only choice I have is centralized regiments or decentralized regiments with the same "N.H.I.," factor, to ferret out a Cold Case catch phrase. I'd be delighted to stay on with robotic intervention as opposed to the human kind. A programmed device doesn't have opportunistic needs to exploit, doesn't make judgments over hygiene or poverty. I am sure Japanese intel will be right over to donate an I, Robot to alleviate my justified fear of more of the same.

Paradigm failures like mine cost far too much money.

Ineffectual Inoculations against den mothers like Nancy Salandra

Zhang Fan and Lyu, another member of the group, called the victim an "evil spirit," before Zhang bludgeoned her head with a chair, then jumped on her and trampled her head, --a Beijing correspondent

That mammalian progeny imitate their elders should not create a cultural dissonance, but fame seems to lend itself to surreal gawking in the face of tragedy. If Whitney Houston OD'd herself in bubble bath, it seems par for the course that daughter Bobbi would follow suit, in a similar vein to Chris Farley following John Candy in their mutually respective spirals of self-destruction, which is why I've given the event the 15 minute news cycle attention. We tend to believe that success, which may be generated by celebrity, or create the celebrity, generates happiness, but those in the recognition game have to develop complex coping strategisms, or not, factoring in those troublesome issues related to ethnicity and its norms.

I thought I read, in the news items on Bobbi, that she found her mother in 2012, but don't expect me to verify this. I saw the consequences of my mother's third suicide attempt, sitting on my knees as a kid, in a posture my former supervisor would understand, while EMS escorted mother on gurney out the front door. EMS would escort me too: dislocated index finger, my third degree burns from setting hair on fire, a slit chin worked on by a black trauma intern? at Temple Hospital, when I still consulted for deese Stalinists, though their facilities were on city line then.

I had a brambling argument with Nancy at five yesterday. She claimed she did not understand my demand, in this email, for restitution, but of course she wouldn't. She knows perfectly well that Medicaid Waiver administration is red tape smothering Bedlam, and we argued. Liberty doesn't provide attendant care.

Oh really. Back and forth. Did I want a housing list? I don't know what happened. Sue Liberty if that's what you want. Back and forth, the new provider is SHCB (or some similar anachronism, I did not care), back and forth, she is treated like a ferret goddess within the independent living paradigm, and all I heard was a peevish brittle whippet who wanted to know what I wanted if I did not want to reengage intake all over again. Our single payer options are hellish affairs, and this is how outcasts are treated, and I am sure the bureaucrats in Harrisburg are going to fall over themselves giving me full disclosure on Medicaid bidding wars. I do not intend to let it go. I won't. I want better outcomes, less abuse, fewer EEOC lawsuits. I am in my 53rd year and want to seek asylum under Rand Paul's auspices. I want to restore benevolent dictatorship and put myself to sleep, when the time comes; I've never dreamed of my mother's pills.

Following Money

"Contact the police ma'am," Tim Keller, coordinating

Watergate was the singular political crisis of my formative years. Despite Woodward and Bernstein, despite the court battle over Nixon's tapes, despite John Dean, despite Liddy, despite the Gerald Ford pardon "for the sake of the country," despite the film, the narrative arc of Nixon's paranoia is not entirely cogent. I lived it, and after the JFK/RFK/MLK assassinations, the notion of a conspiracy nation came of age, despite the fact that McGovern was a political neuter, the dust of history hasn't made my grappling with the high crime of the break in any easier, and corruption has since grown quieter, more systemic.

The more I learn about the staff of politicians, the more I am tempted to go "suck up power in the streets," to channel Patrick Stewart playing Lenin (bad casting choice but who cares, I can imagine a hard driving and virile Stewart to the point that he can slice ham for money at his discretion; I know he has children and is a divorced knight of the Commonwealth and the only way I'd ever set eyes on him is if Yahoo News gave me a terminal disease story and the old man sighed and said "jolly good, I will do the bloody dying cripple bucket list, but I get a Tonight slot for it!")

This is the carcinoma that drives independent living center exploitation of the most vulnerable populations in this country: the corruption of the Medicaid dollar. Policy regulators know it, so does the coordinating staff here. And the police have better things to do than to freeze disability center accounts simply due to the fact that I can get investigators to the cadavers, even if I do not know the exact location of the graves.

I do not want to alienate Sims; he is my state legislator and has a civil rights background, and I have been through some significant, sometimes even heavy duress. Maybe he can assist me in unraveling some of that damage despite the fact that I have chilled my heels on gay equality. Ditto for my other representatives, especially Toomey. If Toomey's aids have checked out my online footprint, they might conclude my liabilities outweigh any asset I may pose to them, but damage due to continuous trauma does not mean that I am wrong: Consumers are made expendable by IL policy and governance all the time, maybe made worse in the rust belt than elsewhere, although CA may be just as bad. I am the real thing, and if I am the real thing, this gives Toomey the cover he needs to roll back on some of the corruption that is to some degree insulated by the threat of litigation due to that favorite GOP buzz saw: the federal mandate.

I cannot say I became loyal to WaPo because of their seminal exposure of a national disgrace, but like Woodward once was before he turned himself into a presidential portraitist, I am hungry. Whatever its problems, and it has them, the Post whets this appetite. Journalists make excellent sociopaths, excusing Kathleen Parker's aptitude for fuzzy wuzzy was a bear. National mainstream media needs that type of voice, one which doesn't command respect. Keeps power players off their guard.

Decadent Valet

That Wells Fargo has fraudulently processed mortgage documents using a process called robo-signing has been evident for nearly two years, since scandal enveloped the mortgage industry in 2010. That it kept doing it even after the scandal broke has been known for months. --Travis Waldron