Hulk Hogan Machismo

"What is your primary concern?"
"The overthrow of the federal government."-- a conversation with an anarchist where spastic dowager reads the tea leaves for good grades.

Actually, with two glasses of beer in me I managed to upset the socially tolerant computer programmers with my astonishing level of hostility for the LBGT community, and I am not sure I should risk banishment by writing what my assertions were, in the public square, about lesbians, transsexuals, and mind fucking in my new found community. Anarchists are hot, and got my blood flowing with excitement at the inquiry of "It was mass murder, but was it wrong?" I inquired as to which mass murder this was, but my voice failed to reach the beef steak's attention. And if I think I've found a solution hobnobbing with volatile paranoid reactives who make their money in computer science, precisely what problem is being solved with this delightful carnivorous indulgence remains obscure. The anarchist who offered me his approval for my intent to vacate public housing said I'd manage, and we'll see about that, but I am still to some degree my mother, entranced by men with an aura of danger, even as my views of crisis management grow more dismal. Why Judy Woodruff went on a fishing expedition with Michael Nutter about the speed of the Amtrak engine on Wednesday evening is baffling. Philadelphia, as a municipality, has nothing to do with regulating the publicly funded railroad. I, on the other hand, know something about scheduling mass transit tours to the minute, and the pressures operators and drivers face attempting to make up delays. I used to believe in well funded mass transit.

But it is obvious we're being overtaken by systems complexity. Even with Michael Apted turning physical abuse into a world wide wrestling spectacle, Ebert misses a beat or two. As a professional critic, he isn't wrong about Enough. It is an excellent disservice in terms of its sociological interpretation of domestication in a world defined by testosterone, but Kazan is playing with tropes of Social Darwinism: the alpha male up against the effeminate male, the woman taking on the attributes of aggression, even this loses itself to the dynamic of the processes we've created and spread in the western hemisphere: legal jurisdiction as a preeminent solution (custody battles, divorce proceedings), juxtaposed against the overwhelming tendency of American men to game the system. Fred Ward and Noah Wyle are in the same operating theater in this regard. Billy Campell's unpleasantness as Mitch is explained in the salvo of the opening scene: he is a manipulator, and is out manipulated.

I have written about the embarrassment, and conflicted loyalties Josie Byzek caused me before,and will not continue to milk how she treated my long ago prospective cyber interest, but I'll throw down a gauntlet, cognizant it will go unanswered: If she is so holier than thou, and so damned correct as a liberal, why can't she offer me a public apology for betraying my trust? Her behavior wasn't simply one of lashing out at a man who had my interest. She made an observation to me that he had a thing for me, then turned on him, disrupting what I created my disability group for, causing him to quarrel with me. Homosexual self-righteousness is sacred ground, until they bite like vicious ferrets. Where is their humility? Packed in their anal plugs?

Revenge Fantasy

"A Feast for February," is an unpublished constant, a tie to my youth in Dixon Hall, sitting at my desk then in Chester as I am sitting at Tom Reid's desk here on North 23rd street, wishing I could give Riverside's owner a coronary by demolishing his building and perk my engines up after that in a wild chase with federal agents where I'd win, overthrow the constitutional government of the US, to revert to an old idea, the city state, which actually still exists, beneath the surface, if we take the Vatican as the Medieval model for regional principalities. "February" was written before Philadelphia made its substantial contribution, other than medical and institutional torture, to my well endowed social fear, based on the same premise as Quindlen's book, as Michael Apted adapted it in Enough. My protagonist kills a taxi driver in New York who was stalking her. Violently. I don't explain certain things in the story, but like many things when I am on, it was a driven piece, fueled by the hatred of the damage done by the scum my mother allowed to damage her children, fueled by my hatred of knowing I'd never snare a good hippie. A later editor who later changed her mind liked how I depicted violence against women in the piece, hence whatever Trudy Richardson and Ken Cantrell think they observe in my antagonism toward them as rental agents attempting to put me in another institutional portfolio has always been there. I'm simply older, more ready to illustrate my contempt for black competency, regardless of how offensive this is to minorities. Many blacks openly tell me to my face they think I'm possessed, and you do not see that.

J-lo's character goes off grid and wins, kills the misogynist, who has the ability to do what he does to her through the convenience of privilege, and Apted gets canned for a sharply delineated film with a beneath the radar approach-- but he isn't wrong. The law cannot rectify the punishment battered women sustain. Me? I get stalked by Debra Horne and her assessment team, who insist I return to receiving services through a corrupt disability center which expurgates as many people as it lifts, and then I ratchet up the volume, and dare to deny Trudy Richardson a fifth inspection of my unit in as many months, and play a game of send in the clowns with Department of Health civil servants who apparently like naked spastic women. Must get them off, maybe they have a vested interest in fetish porn. 

Apted's solution for Jennifer's working class doormat is a mechanism, a vicarious pleasure for those who cannot create a careful plan for departure. The only thing I can do is seek self-reliant alliances, fall on deaf ears, or sacrifice myself in a noble death, or give up and go wait to die in a home like Inglis. Such options make terrorism appealing, especially when one knows the clock is ticking. If viewers find that frightening, I never had a say in what orthopedic surgeons did to my body. My little brother, relenting to be one of my followers, had some years to get conceived when I was defecating and being deformed in plaster casts, and I've earned the right to end my last viable years as I see fit, even if this means I force the state to kill me.