Homeostasis

"We had joy we had fun we had seasons in the sun, but the hills that we climbed were just seasons out of time.--if you ask yourself did the recording industry propel sentimental crap like this, the answer is yes.

I do not always follow the topic of the day, and in concurrence with Philadelphia sage Dick Polman, who has only corralled 3,279 social media accounts, which might be an indicator of public broadcasting malaise, and a very talented writer never quite making it to the top of the heap, which means that I learned something from him within his deconstruction of the now caramelized cultural shock of Psycho, it speaks to something beneficial to veer off topicality, resist the flash points, though at best sometimes all we can do is recycle and echo each other. Where David French would use the phrase “high voltage outrage” to designate Tucker Carlson’s segmented air time within the Fox News pantheon, the dowager would write “blockhead,” and at her most charitable, simply say the little big man anchor is a well defined Neanderthal who puts beefsteak in a three piece suit. Fuck him. Out of near death curiosity I had to stream the interview which led to Durden’s termination and feel Emory was wrong to terminate Durden solely on the basis of a blowout out with a redneck, but he’s our redneck, not some foreign invader like Llhan Omar. Viewers still have the ability not to watch what’s fed into the camera, but this medieval regression seems to be what we prefer, terrorizing wife and children rather than formulating well thought out refutation. Even thoughtful conservatives like Scott Walker cannot do what is necessary for longer term viability: shrink the damn regulatory paradigm and its wilding out growth. He may have succeeded in making us question the wisdom of public sector state employee unions, but pension funds do indeed have to be examined. I can tell you here from the bottom, that Medicaid funding is a sprawling exercise in futility, in my erroneous belief that I could have a normal life, wrong word, a presumption that I could move out of my caste, but  it's more accurate to have supposed a fulfilling one. Krauthammer could do it because his paraplegia was a tragic mishap. He was still dispassionate enough to transfer his skill set from clinical psychiatry to the science of policy. Poor Joanne wanted to excise Norman Bates' mother for Janet Leigh's poise, and wound up far more paralyzed in niggerland than John's boot camp visits entertained in our graduate years.

Kindling Off the Plate

What I want, which I do not have, insofar as I’m aware, is for a prominent conservative to look at disability, trim away the Orwellian pork rinds, and come up with something less draconian than what Harrisburg has done with Maximus, and I want it despite the aphorism that stipulates doing it yourself. People generally pay attention to recognized personalities, and not to me, unless I am blatantly illegal, and when I’ve pushed that envelope, I have paid on a personal level, let alone social media drubbings and my oscillations of up and down. The Speaker has *said* something charitable on occasion, and I gave him the savant-cute hug, prior to his failure on healthcare, for his highlights. There is James Woods too, expending his industry capital as an ambassador. This is a good thing, and brought my attention to him, which prior to Twitter had been casual. Praise is deposited where due, but Woods is an actor keeping his profile relevant, not an analyst who can influence policy. It doesn’t have to be a Briton like Niall Ferguson or Andrew Sullivan,  (obviously outraged beyond consolation in my link) but someone like them would be useful.

I have taken my potshots at Andrew, very unfairly, as he is not the “deep state” behind the militancy of disability activism, hoping to goad him into castigating me. Despite the fact that Dr. Ferguson was equally cursory in his own way, and despite the fact that I was once many many years ago merely another spectator scrolling The Dish, it rankled me that a man with such a mind sent me a damn screen shot of my Amtrak building. It is a landmark around center city, but what’s that? Should I have responded with a photo of anti-virals? If I was on equal footing as a disabled female journalist, Sullivan might say you cannot alter the fact I have AIDS, right, so what do you want?

Not being patronized would be a start, as opposed to being challenged. I am also the type of person to get involved and interject myself in socially inappropriate fashion, much like the fictional Dino Ortolani hearing the plea, and smothering a dying AIDS patient prior to his own savage murder. Mercy killings are harder on the actor than the recipient, but have their place.

My solutions are only a partial stab in the muck:

1.       Women need to curb high risk obstetric births. If an infant is not viable without acrobatics, allow it to die. I agree with male authority that women with children and without have gone too far.

2.      If the above assertion is to be dismissed, families with such children need better planning, as any parent can die unexpectedly or otherwise.

3.      Look for areas where technology can reduce the dependence on caretakers.

4.      Architects can solve many of these problems without that much inconvenience to ambulatory majorities.

5.      Institutional innovation is rather long in the tooth. This needs to be addressed.

Junk Food Gas

We have no housing suggestions at this time.--Toomey's regional offices

I was a little more unkind to Jayne Anne's legacy than I had intended to be here, was mildly surprised Niume allowed me the ventilation, and shall perhaps make up for it at a later date. I cannot remember much about Fast Lanes or Black Tickets, and have yet to restart the earlier vignettes which earned the studiously silent professor her acclaim; no, I am not pouting that she will not respond to me; I simply thought emailing her would be the fastest method to get a copy of my poem back. I may even no longer have a draft, and murderous contempt for vacant Christian idiots doesn't solve the problem, does it now?

I know the alt.right doesn't give a fig leaf for my liberal brown nosing, blow upon blow. The state GOP, Toomey. They seek my loyalty, my monetary support, and if I have committed nearly irrevocable acts against black monolithic bull dykes, as long as the lava vein doesn't lead to property damage, who cares? So why have I switched sides? Because Toomey would have evicted me by now; there may have been some humiliation involved, but not this slithering nigger poison on its daily saline drip, and I like straight forward talk, think the man got the CIL to declaw my supervisor. The most cognizant rationale I've read about McConnell's breach of Beltway decorum, allowing the Garland nomination to expire, was that the party wanted to keep Scalia's seat solidly conservative: I've enough independence of mind left to be critical of "unicarmelizing" the federal legislature. It only gives libertarians more fuel, as we all grow more suspicious.


Sure, Obama disillusioned me, and his policies did jack to help me, as quads are always dismissed, third class humans, at best, if we require too much mending, but he was still the president. Trump wants the same respect, and in that light, Garland should have had a hearing. Gorsuch gets in, yes, but after I am dead, does Scotus become a dog and pony show off Broadway? If I can be nearing 55-- just barely, and be cynically disgusted, it is quite an erosion. Mr. Delvechio's history student, 36 years ago, was a patriot. She believed in her country. Philadelphia, as a chronic condition, destroyed that by the time the broken half-wit from the Bronx proposed to me. I think I was 42, thinking I'd stay well built for a while. Now I am ejecting myself from the inglorious projects which consumed health, virility. We'll see if JFK security shoos me off, like a mad woman, if I present myself to the Senator's staff, in the interim.

Romans and Celts

"The North, I mean the living North, was suddenly all transcendental. It went behind the human law, it went behind the apparent failure, and recognized eternal justice and glory." -- Henry David Thoreau, cited in Weird John Brown: Divine Violence and The Limits of Ethics

The second generation kindle which my broken urinal splashed has fully recovered, though the controller was not amused with me. How many of these things has Amazon manufactured? Thousands? I understand that the micro-bead ink is made in Israel. I am rather attached to the one the retailer shipped me originally. I have a relationship with this kindle, curse it ferociously but derive more comfort from it than my marginally younger Paperwhite, though I know the 2Gk has to be exchanged, deregistered, soon. I am sad, because the device has it's own character, and do not wish to deactivate it, Russian trolls notwithstanding.

The above paragraph serves as a rationale as to why I'm solidly behind Toomey, despite the sense, intuitively derived, that his staff may believe I need a nose ring and some manners; who bothers when the mare is barren? In point of fact, if Toomey's circle saw how I live, bipartisanship would turn a leaf or two, and that circle would coax me to die as I had lived, in medical model institution, siding with the intellectually limited minorities who manage the building (but not themselves, blacks seem to repeatedly confirm they behave like Chinese villagers with petty vendettas, and I am getting out, one way or another, fall on my sword, if I must). If I know what I know, that obscene fortresses like Inglis House are reliable portfolios, and I applaud Toomey's business acumen as a necessary aggression, then why don't I fold in my hand?

Because I know what it's like to have money, and a beautiful 3 acre home, une poppa who taught me the value of work and self reliance, and I did all of this before progressives ass-kissed federal mandates like the ADA, which, as statues, are simply useless repetitions. I may baffle the left, may confuse the Christian right wing, and other libertarians may not trust my authoritarian streak, granted, but every liberal biased negative ad against Toomey makes him a proper capitalist in my eyes, willing to bury the hatchet over such unspoken skeletons. The Celt and the Roman married the same faith, but despise each other. Keep it under your hat. 

It is to my misfortune I did not push to be a flunky to get what I wanted, but if he keeps his seat, the mare ninnies another day.

John Carradine in Milan

John Carradine didn't need special effects prosthetics when guest starring opposite his grandson David in Kung Fu. His hands are gnarled, and he looks the part of a blind elderly cripple. Perhaps, despite his crepe wrinkled face, he did not have his grandson's range. This might have something to do with his training in theater as a Shakespearean, or perhaps vaunted legacy Jewish liberals like Ed Spielman, who created the cult classic martial arts serial for Burbank, weren't around to apply their intellect to give this Don Juan something better to do than lose a battle of wits against Greek goddesses, but Spielman's writers take us through the inevitable paces of rehabilitation law which existed in my childhood days, days when David Carradine was still an on going New Age concern. Kung Fu is a paean for the counter culture of my era. Disillusioned hippies get to see one of their own defeat monopolistic tyrants, whether in China-- Burbank's version-- which isn't all that more stereotypical than Beijing's version in the 21st century where Michelle Yech, for all intents and purposes, is the Asiatic supergirl, linear abstract fairytale heroine skillfully merged into the Chinese tradition, which bears some relation to conventions taught in Egyptology.

John Carradine's con artist may be blind, but the holy priest shows him what he's still capable of discerning, taking grand daddy through the liberal ideology of no pity, which collapses in the condensed span of serial time as John senior marginalizes himself, a frail old man, clearing the path for David's superstardom, which David radicalizes in his seventies, in turn. His last performance, on Mental, was nothing short of a fait accompli, a near virtuoso rebellion completed in a silent 50 minute arc, with a creative genius rivaling Verlaine's operatic intricacy, as if to pre-stage his ironic, speculative, death in Thailand, an auto-erotic exercise mishandled, taking a life long capitalization of body art a bridge too far; perhaps seemingly preferable to his grandfather's multiple organ failure, but David never sold his audiences short. Caine might as well have been the living embodiment of the Jesus Prayer as he was an adherent of the Tao, and in more neo-realism applications, if David was going to be a ruthless bastard, he lived that murderous abandon to the point of enthrall. What woman wouldn't want to make love to this projection of apex masculinity?

This liberalism, in its apogee, foretells the doom of its own exhaustion, even if a palsied quadriplegic removes the personal experience from the equation, and the level of expectation. For example, taking a downgrade of 250 per commission to 15 dollars for Examiner posts was a resentment generating exercise, but Clarity Media promoted her to an AXS writer, doing original articles, 5 to 10 USD. Had she persevered, rather than giving the automated snags the finger, it would have generated more revenue than these exercises. Impulse control only aggrandizes how the deck is stacked, but is no less countermanded by the evidence that it is. Burbank's idealism hasn't altered the social realities on our ground game, whatever our nostalgia for its morality plays. It represents another reason to solidly remain in Toomey's camp, the relatively invisible tea party heir who bestowed mercy on Stony Brook, to little avail. Do I expect to get past the gateway to utilize his legislative agenda for my own?

I am not a liberal

Do not think that because I hate my landlord that I'm a liberal. Presby's power comes as a direct result of congressional classification, and while I am sure this Councilman-At-Large, the go to gentleman for special needs, is a sweetheart, I remember this bastard, his wife, rumors of the black mafia and the corruption swirling around city government under John Street, whom I met, and the look in the mayor's eye said "be nice to the retard," which I did not countermand. I had a craving for a burger and threw on a threadbare skirt and one of Monica Carr's blouses absent the reserve of a brassiere, and when I saw Street in the parking lot, I posed an incredulous interrogative, "Is that the Mayor?" then rushed home seized with fervor to crucify the bastard with the voice of New Republic finesse, and my confidence cratered, unfortunately.

Not that I had not achieved my goal at fusion before, with my appearance in the Inquirer's metro section, but a TNR byline would have sustained it, and now achieving that is problematic. Marty Peretz, whatever his flaws, was acute, sharp, penetrating in the selection of his contributors, which at times aroused my zeal. This is not TNR under Hughes as a privileged candy man.

What am I, in the political sense of the term? An annihilator with libertarian sympathies, close to making myself expendable because women in case management have absolutely no fucking idea what they're doing, and Presby's owners aren't about the good works of their doctrine. Persecuting my non-compliance is a business model to them. Bad things happen to good people? Let it go? How many bad things? If my sister lost one of her children, I doubt she'd continue with the pragmatic conduit role of reigning me in. My mother is dead because she miscarried, birthed two cripples, one who should have been euthanized, and lost a son. My stepmother is her friend from nursing school my father married to survive, and she is an invalid on her last legs. If I was Louise I would not hesitate to bake arsenic in almond cookies and consume them. She hates my sister, Benjamin and I, which is probably transference. My father is a misogynist and doesn't love her.

I have serious doubts about whether or not I would have been better off if the 1963 neo-natal unit had shut off my oxygen. I am not exactly sure by what magic I had prevailed, but what is in store for me? Bed ridden dependence on the descendants of Jim Crow or Hispanic drug mules, and I'll be damned if I'm going through that, mark my words.

It might be too much icing to assert Dr. Carson has my admiration, but I do respect his honesty despite my racism, and it may be a tempered racism, as I do not want to engage in slaughter due to ethnicity. My virulence comes from forced diversity, my intolerance based on the fact that I cannot define my own boundaries because the system says I cannot discriminate. The question remains, however, if a mixed race constitutional scholar disillusioned our expectations, why we expect any better from a conservative neurosurgeon. I'm thinking about doing a piece on Carson.

Discrimination will always be part and parcel of the human dynamic, hence, Imperial Companions comes a bit late to my table. I ain't working for you, but I should never have had to be defeated by inner city violence and the polemic of HUD's lies when it comes to housing low income tenants. It might be hard for me to die like a militant, but that is my preference, if it comes to that.

I bought more cashews. They make me happy, but just a handful now and then.