As goes the District

"I am confident section 202 housing can fly again to serve the low income elderly and the handicapped."-- a pontificating Senator

Black journalists like Jonetta Rose Barras always do this. As long as its a member of the minority media doling moral sanction and speaking to the corruption of minority politicians, then progressives of all stripes can relax. Poverty and negative behavior like destruction of property is indicted, and CBS engages in grand larceny against intelligence marketing "Big Brother" as gen x reality television. If it is the likes of Eric Edwards I am trying to reach, I have been partially successful, but only that, as I tersely told the actual humorist of his little non-fiction pamphlet and local celebrity status in San Diego to go stuff it, after indicating a willingness to be kind to his work. I managed the first paragraph of his introduction, and felt myself akin to Nathanael West in his Mardi Gras guise counseling suicide to his victims of Prohibition era misogyny, in yet another iteration. I might have lied, and wrote something pithy, handed him our convenient two or three star rating, Clarity Media would have pitched me a few more pennies in my wallet, and on we go, not deigning to interfere. Nathanael West is actually an amazing predictor of the future, for Examiner.com does not have to fire me. I am not staff, keep my content parenthetically innocuous, and we're on our merry way. Offering me what I want towards the end of my viable productivity might be a nightmare after all, so I should consider myself lucky to have survived the modern black police state, fossil that I am beneath the harmony of the Pro Publica strivers, busy fighting for capital offenders in Muncy and other pristine terror wards, or a misjudgment might leave me at the mercy of a less gruesome Ariel Castro. Such a house arrest is a plausible scenario of my desperate desire for change, as what is unsaid in my actual quest for an attorney to litigate my freedom with the least possible negative consequence is my own indictment of African American bigotry, the indifference and unwillingness of my own class to support me toward my own esteem of what I believed my empirical value to be. Gwen Ifill, like me, is from an era where submersion was the price one paid to climb professionally, only tacitly acknowledging the brotherhood which paid in blood for her to become a top national anchor. Gwen no longer has Jonetta's space to spearhead the issue of real estate and our diseased socialist model so succinctly, but her platform doesn't offer anything innovative, as chastisement has been with us since Clan of the Cave Bear.

I am not guilty of any of the problems associated with the public housing tenant save one, and in this vein of reigning in, none of my early instructors did me any favors through the recognition of my own promise-- and in point of fact, Sheldon's later encouragement is equally null, equally void, not because I am unable to write a biography of Alice James and her pitiful succor on the breast of the woman in service to care for her, but because such a despicable exercise is no bulwark.

Interstitial Eardrums of Jason Robards

"Man has a tropism for order."-- Miss Lonelyhearts, p. 30

There is a subtextual chill in the opening to the turn of the century Cast Away (2000). Tom Hanks is at the peak of his power as Chuck Noland, and Hollywood decided to do something useful by appropriating Federal Express to make us worry about the future behemoths, like Google and Amazon. Precision and exact empirical measurement toward the best efficiency model is no protection against the fact that humanity spins on a large egg shell in the 93 million mile sweet spot from our star for no reason except one: Process will always find a way if there is a way. Process simply is what it is, and phenomenology may be able to offer some observations about intentionality and the directional nature of self-awareness, but consciousness is a process, not an object. Sartre claims we have to objectify it in order to exposit it but not in the motifs that made Hanks one of the last great American superstars. This discounts Cloud Atlas, which should not have been filmed, though any writer understands Mitchell's impetus to do what any other writer does with the capital on acclaim. For Hanks, it is about faith in the trajectory. It may kill you, as it does in Road to Perdition (2002), and it may be mawkish and badly written in made for television format, as is the case with the young Philadelphia, which needed a better focus and a less multitudinous  outlay: Robards as the happy hating partner in the firm is the only cast member who brings any life to this staid legal drama which only barely wrestles with the reality of infectious diseases to expose civil liberties for pleasant cream puffs.

Why did Robards excel towards the end of his life with the ferocity of emaciation? It is there in the social uptake of the 1980 Melvin and Howard, but what is the gravity Jason uses? He understands the nature of pain, even anguish, that unalterably takes Hanks out of the world in his great treasure island movie. Hollywood, being Hollywood, is not going to be explicit about the price tag of Noland's survival once he gets back home and urged to "sign for" anything he needs, but damage changes who and what we are, even in the quieter possibilities of a more nuanced relationship after battle.

Urban Telemetry

In the ongoing battle of wills between Lady Rambo (a.k.a. kimmy would you like her?), little black panther Vincent, and human spastic mother, Lady Rambo has succeeded in setting the stage for global dominion. Vinne, for whom I have no picture, is nearly terrified of this kitten-sized female, and virtually refuses to leave the kitchen. I was advised to lock her in the bathroom, but this seems unfair. Vinne may be a small wing man, but tackled his brother daily, so I fail to see why he cannot stand up to a little girl; my fatigue is telling, and instead of arguing with my aunt, I may just have to circumvent her and do what I feel is necessary. Not immediately, as I believe in the no kill methodology even if I am slightly more ambivalent about TNR. I believe in the dignity of other species as much as you tend to believe in ours, and I am trying to help CK out. However, as much as we tend to ridicule cat ladies, suicidal or not, I meant what I wrote about Joey being the pet love of my life. My relationship with little brother is not the absence of attachment, but it is more mercurial, and I am resistant to the little girl, who might outlive me if she is as young as she seems. If in so many weeks, it  appears I will be hurling toward hell, I will be relieving myself from the burdens of ownership. I understand Debra Horne's concern, the social worker for my landlord whom I denigrate with my interior voice in sentiments that would appall Amy Gutmann, whose circumference is close to the range of my disparity, but whose status is in league with the Davos list; if la Presidente Amy sat in my wheelchair and heard and saw Debra screaming at me, maybe she would take a more nuanced view of what keeps racial tensions alive and inflamed. I have at least three times the education level of Ms. Horne, and yet I never broke into getting an interview past my very high scoring civil service examinations. Ms. Horne did get in, and yet mysteriously floats out of vocational rehabilitation to work for Presby like an obedient Doberman, tagging problem tenants.