Rosewood Massacre, circa 1923

serious question. do you have any African American friends, because you really seem like a racist. I always thought you were a great actor, but wow! you come off on here as a very bitter person.

— Ddot R (@Derrick82397251) December 10, 2018

For what it's worth, the dowager reads this tweet from Ddot as an authentic attempt at a dialogue with Woods, and James made the choice not to meet the sally. Is James Woods a racist? Depends on the prism through one wishes to view it. In terms of inner city paternalism, the actor's views certainly skewer toward a highly charged prejudicial attitude, and yet this is a man who admires Kanye, and Kanye West is at the very least diffident about black identity politics. Ddot may have missed, as well, the actor's offer to pay for a sweet nappy-headed child to go to Disneyland. And while spastic could care diddly about West or his music, she does, with sincerity, admire his gracious act of charity and generosity to the family of Jemel Robertson. What happened to this man in Rahm Emanuel's city (the former saving grace operative of Obama's soaring expectations) is the worst of American sins, more horrific than the 1923 events in the Florida panhandle that gave Michael Rooker his asinine role as a law and order man willfully allowing minority property owners to be lynched in the name of a loose woman who was treated like swamp sewage and might have given Harper Lee her chilling revelation of shameful sexually held secrets which lead to the defendant's death in Lee's self-same novel and in Gregory Peck's canonical approach to deconstructing falsehoods on our silver screens. I cannot and do not dispute that the actions of Florida's citizens in this early modern century was a Reconstruction era hangover worthy of a purge by Mussolini's authority. This is where my great grandfather was at the time, in Roma, a caste level artisan oblivious to Europe's refuse somehow unfathomably creating the world's last superpower on fear and loathing burrowed under by Protestant magnanimity. What I dispute is the industry's reconstruction of what happened, and it amounts to as much paint by numbers chicanery as any hard line intolerance of America's ruling class. Ving Rhames was only cast because he is a linebacker and Apollo Creed rolled into one. No doubt the death toll is open to dispute, but trenches filled with corpses of 140 colored? This is one quadriplegic who sees the agrarian tendency to exaggerate the numbers as being a colorful fixation of liberation theology. 

I've honestly forgotten what type of article it was I hoped to do with Woods' sympathetic and charitable cooperation. It has been 13 months since my near elimination from society, and I was not taking notes, only struggling toward a thesis-topic here on Entertainment Arts, but if Woods has reasons to be bitter, it may be due an indubitable realization that Hollywood executives huff ether in their creative parallel universe. I esteem and admire the European intellect and picked up another variation on this theme in a bio-engineering Icelander, who, if she bothers to absorb the implications of this link, will be appalled. The reason it truly no longer penetrates is because I in turn realize it doesn't matter. I have been murdered, as it is, by a broken-hearted graduate lunging into a progressive holy grail, all of 23 years old, never able to successfully rectify her mistake, a little late now, oozing in symptoms and disposable wear, as expendable as an innocent blacksmith.

Italy isn't a nation state either

De Sousa is speaking out about her decade-long ordeal, which started when an Italian court convicted her in absentia -- along with two-dozen others -- connected to the 2003 U.S. government-sanctioned kidnapping of cleric Abu Omar.

I am still somewhat indignant toward Karina over my scrapbook, and this is why writers need to murder custodial employees every so often. I know, people, thank you. No one clips, and I don't even purchase tabloid copies any more, but I had tons and stacks of things I cannot replicate online. It was my tool kit. The woman is lucky I deflected and took it out on the poor house nigger doing her job. [Why are you blaming me?  I have ten years of Trudy's chirpy intonations running the gamut, and why am I blaming her?] Because. She intimidates me with such relentless veracity I am always having to deal with lies and losses and personal effects. But my hard copy processes did not always work. My fatal attraction toward fascist grandiosity started early, if my obsessive curation of all things Italy evinces such. It startled me, many years ago, when the caramel taffeta bitch baby thorn in my side was undoubtedly   learning her evasive survival maneuvers, that in writing a poem about Medici assassins, I had a nostalgia for the urbane brutality leading up to Mussolini. I still have illegible carbon copy of mio originale, and finally pulled through a revision, nearly complete, less exhortation toward the overzealous Il Duce. I'd take Benito back in a heartbeat however, which leads to the diffident castigation of Black Adder, from Liberty On The Rocks: "You want to blow up buildings and shoot [humans according to ethnicity]. Why are you even here?
Excellent question, but right wingers like freedom also. They accrue it in the will to power. You can view this for yourself in the fun frolic Kirk Douglas, Tony Curtis, and Ernest Borgnine have in The Vikings. Maiming was a way to live, not an identity. But to correct the software developer who doesn't want to get on my bad side, I do not lactate over arbitrary genocide, just my enemies. I am sure, by now, you all have my list penciled in, waiting for the next catapult. I'd go on, but intend to dither some usage on a submission.

The Interstice Between the Blades Which Run Us Through

"A story about a British actor who never was, one who couldn't even make it here."-- Rue McClanahan, with the best lines.

It is difficult to believe that Petersen's Das Boot is nearly 40 years old, given how well made and modern it still offers up to repeated viewings. I studied it with a military history professor whom I might have paid the appropriate courtesy, and didn't, of respecting his syllabus. To echo his words, however, Petersen is a little too adroit at humanizing the German military under Hitler's rule, and Jurgen Prachnow, I have never fallen out of love with. He represents the best definition of European masculinity any woman with a reasonable chance would kill for, which is the best restraint I can offer in terms of printable aspiration, with a feminine zeal to match that of his wolverine U boat captain. Subservience to that male principle speaks volumes about why sexual unification predominates, whether or not its impetus is child rearing-- but to rebut my former instructor's caution, Petersen is brazenly cutting through the superlative bombast of master race sensibility in the very act of deploying how our soul goes into what we create, like the marvel of submarines. The captain miraculously keeps his submersible in one piece, returning to dock in national honor, only to have crew and ship torn to shreds by Allied squadrons. For 1981 it is a daring argument, one that Eastwood would later imitate with the Japanese, but by that time, with the war nearly out of living memory, mature audiences could handle that the conflict wasn't quite so binary.

Levinson and Link, Columbo's creators, were active in the same decades as Wolfgang Petersen, and we can only observe how things have to be obfuscated: to my knowledge, Peter Falk never allowed himself to be Jewish on screen, much as his longer survived contemporary, Nimoy-- but Nimoy, if you spend time listening to what he reveals about grafting himself to speculative genre, was a sneaky bastard. Much of Vulcan culture was appropriated from attending synagogue. What's that tell you? The later Columbo mystery movies have an uneasy tension between the formula and adaptation to the modern era, and the 98 "Ashes to Ashes" might have been a good place to close the book. Neither Falk nor McGoohan are having much fun, both are shrill, though Patrick stays preserved to a greater degree, in the ever wondrous anomalies of biology. Sympathizers can see here that Peter Falk is losing his touch, on the verge of dementia, when the Internet and smart phones were just taking hold. Levinson, Link, and Falk combined  have to sublimate a great deal to comic antipodes, against what liberalism, even Zionism, promulgates with the scourge of history behind it. Petersen does exactly the same thing, through Heidegger's dictum of focus on the thing itself-- he evades, simply looking at the empirical process of survival in futility.

"The end of history," is a catch phrase. What it means, precisely, is no one is entirely justified? No one has the absolute cause, whether or not causes themselves are now null and void, and we're better off just raising hens to lay eggs before we lose memories of husbandry altogether. Despite how familiar I am with the routines in my unhappy environment, I no longer feel safe, not simply from urban crime statistics. I'm frightened. Is it old age? Or my fault for breaking so many bonds simply because I must by necessity only appropriate the mobile world, by and large? My only intimacy is through a damned device with my own voice, dropping depth charges. I legitimately started my examination of disability in entertainment to bring us together, looking for commonality, and I've failed, holding myself together only by sheer force of will, one which prefers, at this point, to compromise my personal security rather than complying with the rules your taxes, and mine too, pay for. I only have a few days to hand over the documentation these minorities who've humiliated me repeatedly need, knowing full well that vacating, with such scant resources, makes me that much less human, even though I couldn't be, ipso facto, the crazy homeless hag everyone ostracizes. Without power, I'm helpless, a brain crammed with world weary absorption through her filters, not even having the decency to sink in the harbor, conceding surrender.

The Untouchables, with grave detail

He felt so guilty about this that he became exhausted and started having nightmares. Then one night he dreamed that someone came to him and said, "Don't worry, Ashura has its own master. It will look after itself.--p xii, The Nuclear Sphinx of Tehran

My viewers probably do not realize my interest in Holocaust deniers stems more from personal experience over and above proclivities in examining extreme rhetorical utterance: Picture a sexually vibrant invalid on the phone arguing with her former deep chocolate building manager who invited himself over for a drink. "I have a girlfriend," and this slammed the door on a spastic who lost her cool, honest enough to tell you I have my regrets, but it was probably for the best. However pleasurable a hard intercourse session with an oversexed son of a reverend named Michael Washington might have been, my latent racist tendencies, lusting in the university media center, would have felt soiled, as I do anyway, had that drink occurred and we had taken a roll that makes cinematic pair bonding look like a kid's birthday party, layering icing on the cake promising satiable gratification. It never delivers, does it? Our generic desserts for these ritualized, stale, celebrations.

While I was doing my balancing act with my doomed liberalism with pretty almond eyes on one end of the wire, a student possibly named Sherri was to my left, condemning homeless predatory behaviors on pity. "I would say to them 'I won't give you money but I'll buy you a sandwich if you clean up the litter."

I was rather indignant to discover she mistrusted the genealogy surrounding the Third Reich and fascism at the height of its ascendancy,  and in this nondescript student office, desks, black phone, my memory annoyed by off yellow lighting, Sherri and I battled over the history of the 1930's, and this was 1986, at the latest. She backed down, but remains part of a curious sub-contingent, sometimes political, like the former lightening rod of the post revolutionary Iranian presidency, Mahmoud Ahmadinejad-- but such positions, perhaps embodied in Jean Marie Le Pen, speak of the desire to obliterate moral guilt. Their voices are a small minority. I am not sure designating their speech as a hate crime stifles the dissent it represents. 


It is not that video archive footage of emaciated bodies and Berlin in ruins has registered as sacrosanct verification of the worst genocide on record-- not that I believe these images were manipulated, but I cannot disavow my family history, which was a product of WW2, and this is the dowager taking a break from her work. I imagine you think it would be pleasant if I could still go horseback riding in New Jersey on a long made dog meat stallion named Big Red. I loved that damned aggressive and powerful beast. It nearly broke my mother's foot.

Manifest Compressions in Option A

"A cordon sanitaire was created around us. Don't go near the Le Pens." -- Marine Le Pen

Sitting up past bedtime, contemplating my lack of species optimism, I skimmed through Michael Gerson's column on Trump's Harrisburg rally, where he quotes Havel on the politics of the possible, the Kantian high road against Trump's illegitimate anti-immigration bigotry, comparing it to mine, mostly in house, against primarily four linear minded black women, realizing that national analysts by necessity cannot look at the localized details of the communities in which we abide. I pity Trump, distain him as well, but have to acknowledge his divisiveness speaks to certain truths, as I spent part of nine o'clock watching a true crime video of hip hop and heroin. Despite my inner city quicksand tragedy, my immersion into black culture never went that far. I was disgusted by what I was viewing; by the same token, I am too tired, too worn down, to worry about the concourse of Google's censorship, if I deign to use my mouth as my weapon. Not all blacks utilize counter culture music as a front for subterranean drug culture, but if we took Gerson off his beltway establishment deadlines, and his vaunted efforts to roll back Trumpian myopia, and had him instead share a cell with crack hoodlums filmed for the sole purposes for exposure to minority gang culture, the conscientious anxieties of Eastern European humanism, filtered through a true conservative professional rhetorician, always wary of Slavic bears, would come face to face with ghetto machismo; it might be likened to two alien species, one of whom could barely interpret the other. The urbane would fracture against such brutalism, and most of us realize this. Education does not change how expendable most of us beneath the surface are. For every Sheryl Sandberg, with her pedestrian sentiments about making elbows in the creek for option b, there are undoubtedly 300,000 people on minimum wages, fixed incomes, and Sandberg's job is what, exactly? Running Facebbok's automated systems, as if this is somehow vital, a billion images with a few hundred words per post attached. Immigration, at its core, is about mobility as a counter agent to community stagnation, and we have complicated it for thousands of years. Citizen versus foreigner. Global conglomeration and transport technologies accelerate it, but only on the presumption that journeys are survivable, however affordable or not they are.

Not that I'm any expert, but Jackson simply used a superior military strategy to destroy indigenous inhabitants, and open the Midwest for non-landed gentry. Today we call it development, a revolving door between government, industrial, residential spaces, with varying degrees of turnover, unless it all falls apart, driving around in our vehicles, stealing wifi, dying in hospice, or ever sure fire African famines. I'm old, miraculously survived through sterile regimentation, on the verge of homelessness because I'm stuck, after a lifetime of inefficient hydraulic lockdowns, driven to offices, rehabs, facilities. My great grandfathers were Austrian solders and Roman artisans. I curse their graves.

Listening to Beyonce is not my currency

"It is easy to kill; harder to be loved!"-- not the Michel Lonsdale  of Jackal

Why I log on and then drive to the kitchen for a hot coffee at the end of the month is one of those things, an inefficiency of poverty overwhelmed, restraining myself from writing a rather graphic notice to Trudy Richardson, building manager, threatening her safety, not her life. I am attempting to hold off just a week or two more before I crash any last hope on my head. I put Sanchez's Freeman article in my file not as a compliment, but as a store away to argue with later, as I basically disagree with most of it, having read it all before. Bullet points from the Left:

• genocide is politically generated
• resurgent nationalism leads to suspicion of foreign nationals (how many Chinese Americans are covert agents, we wonder)
• war is an invention of modernity (right)

I myself have argued for sympathy for Fascists, nor am I the only secret admirer of Mussolini. Porn stars drop his name to stir the paparazzi, but I am not facetious this morning, sadly. I am a murderer of intent, not of fact, as long as I would not draw it out, and obey my code, a dehumanized survivor who believes that dehumanizing is a necessary psychoanalytic mechanism, and slightly fascinated with Hoover's legacy in aftermath, I did a little digging into the Seberg Cointelpro case. There are a slew of urls on it, and maybe this is worth my time, a little investigating. I do distinctly remember that Hoover had been retired by 79, the year of Seberg's ruled suicide. But what I'd ask the conspiracy minded is what would federal agents have to gain by putting her under that level of duress? She was not the first mediocre actress to push the political spectrum to extremes. Law enforcement makes us all expendable at the street level, particularly black males, but the truly powerful fear soldiers like Kokesh more. Military men like him know the system and speak simply, spitting in chunks. As I am manufactured, I'm more deadly, capable of playing a long game.

I am not the least interested in assassinating figureheads, be it de Gaulle or Obama. I want to upend entire regulatory processes and then some. I am also slightly disenchanted with Fee's appreciation of my little donation. I told Jeffrey Tucker I believe in patronage even if I can no longer afford it, and 15 dollars is a pittance to publications fighting for survival. I don't know if I'll try with Jeffrey again. I failed to hold up my end, and as it stands, I'm tapped, not sure I have any ability to capture the attention of kids in their twenties, but I may, and suspect he and I share similar attributes when it comes to shirking accolades. 

Going Back To My Lair

Before I log off to try to really work the way I used to work before I equalized religious pluralism with Nazi Germany, I want you to keep something in mind: I left my student apartment in Chester when I was approximately 21, to go to a dorm in Temple University, to bounce to the home of my now dying aunt. In that home I had to dump my own stool in plastic bags, which is in part why I leapt at Diamond Park, without realizing what I was getting into with urban violence and section 811 housing, which differs from section 202 housing only by virtue of age as a classification. You have to be 62 to live in section 202. I was 34. The rental agents, then, in 1994, used me, without in any way contributing to the Pew Grant which funded my position, to case manage the other tenants here, then castigating me when I got home. It was a conflict of interest Richard Baron rightly objected to-- but my point is public housing is a merciless system, with the people in charge equivalent to prison security guards. If I have no further prospect of anything better than to decline in an equally brutal medical regime like Inglis House, I claim the right to pull the plug.

I wanted something more, some place less sterile, and it is virtually too late at my age, but I sent Medium my resume. Just to do it, dinosaur or no.

Triumph of the meek?

"Libertarians believe fewer people should vote."-- John Streck

Despite my skills, not everything is in my immediate grasp, and this pertains to Bulgakov. I do not dislike his classic contribution to the Menippean form, but I bookmarked my e-text in place and started over with The Master and Margarita. Dissident voices have reasons why they need to be decoded-- something that the episode Schotty's Struggle points to in dealing with Germany's legacy. The moral lesson here is more complex than it seems, and skirts the edge of our human abyss with as much guts and more subtly than some of my tirades-- but it also points to why I rebelled against Martin Amis in his promotional tour for his Holocaust novel. We make Hitler's rise, and to a lesser extent, Mussolini's, a man who sometimes looked the other way, an exceptional thing, enshrined, as 9/11, in more sybaritic fashion, is memorialized in the US, but fascist extermination only seems to exceed the human capacity for destruction due to the sheer size of its genocide and its mechanization.

And Hitler is nearly a metaphysical intrigue for authors like Amis, and Norman Mailer-- which is really just feeding the machine. If Adolf was a paranoid schizophrenic, this does not explain his Nietzschean will to power, nor the ability to control his brown shirts. He cannot be dissected that way. Leaders and events converge, and there will always be hate crimes. Pause to consider the developmental spectrum, and the extremist anger of my once activist colleagues; even Stephen Hawking wasn't always shielded from the natural inclination for omnivores to exploit the sick. Omnivores are intelligent opportunists.

Bulgakov is a bit of a puzzle. I do not see orthodoxy in his wonderful subversiveness. He trained as a physician, and it shows in his humor and descriptive ease with cadavers. He too understood materialism and was uneasy with it, and seemed to prefer the aspiration toward salvation that hope embodies. My mistake has been my lengthy pauses. I forget the keynote to the disruptions that create the comic tensions in his dissent. Dangerous in some ways. If this is the profile of the Streck I once knew, he might be gratified. I am not in denial about my age, nor physical vulnerability: What I'm fighting is the welfare system. It's hurt me, and I want these viable months I have to myself, until I decide otherwise, not the Department of Public Welfare-- who essentially wants me to assert a declination of services so that my rental agent can then proceed with its next step, which is nonsensical. In six months I might change my mind.

Medicaid, HMO, I assure you, to doctors I am merely a specimen, their protests to the contrary notwithstanding. They stopped me from dying, treated my lungs, signed paperwork. My quality of life? Polite fictions.

Curtsey

Despite my usage bill and my need to file my legal griefs, as if this is going to protect me from finishing my life as a hate crime, I am honored to have the European views that I do, and will not ask the Europeans why, or expect affirmation or its opposite. My ISP has been kinder to me than any humans of late, despite its settlement with consumer advocates over things it never did to me, at least as far as I know. If I cannot die with my lips kissing sampietrini, becoming a collusionist in Rouen might be my second choice.

I bow, grasp your shoulders, fluent kiss on each cheek. I'd also raise Mussolini back from the dead faster than RAI could recycle Inspector Luca. Unlike Jennifer Rubin, and this is one area where she and I differ as conservative women, I cannot consider myself a patriot when I have been at the mercy of extermination, life long. 

Top Ten

All this phrase making was a game, she thought, for if she had said half what he said, she would have blown her brains out by now.--Virginia Woolf

When I was all too briefly on Daniel's gmail group, I asked his clique what was the best movie on disability. I am not sure I saved their answers; I have my regrets about Schneider, though one look at his page says our personalities are too similar, which does not excuse the fact that I did not have to react, to him, or anyone. I could have just hit delete and hit delete and pulled on him or the clique when I thought it useful. Not sure what his complaint about Google Search means. With my colorful level of denigration I am lucky Blogger doesn't reinvent the wheel and blow me a kiss. I see nothing wrong with gay panic as a self defense, for example, since women have hit on me, four, five times. Aggression is justified when a firm no doesn't halt the behavior, and I am not a still virile Kevin Spacey gently disengaging Chris Cooper in American Beauty. The more I think about the edits made to this film due to screen testing, the less I like it, but American dysfunction and broken bodies are not quite the same.

The disability movement as it is recognized today started with the American Civil War, and in symbolic and actual terms, this fucking country always reenacts the conflict, so of course one of the most radicalized studio dares is the 1946 classic, which ends with its celebrated inclusion due to love. The double amputee lets his little woman on the inside. Aw. Love. One of Josie Byzek's favorite words of emphasis. The activists she profiles agitate against the able bodied world out of love. The thought occurs. If I log onto twitter and have a row with Hillary Clinton's account, then I'd possibly be in real trouble, and laugh silently due to my curious thought processes. An FBI dossier would get the right individuals to pay attention, and I'd launch the wheels of justice. This is probably why the poor utilize violence to resolve disputes.

Next I'd pick A Patch of Blue, so forbidden and sexually charged. It was a great influence on my desire to become (no, won't type it but I do think it) a black man's lover, which almost happened twice. The third time my father threatened my life, but that third time was a deliberate provocation on my part. I yelled at da last week "I am a throw back to Mussolini and now I am worse than you!" I guess I was trying to tell him he should have killed me. The man is now eighty and cares about absolutely nothing. Not me, his grandchildren, nothing. I am not including The Miracle Worker. All of these films carry Scott's "too schematic" charge, but this play turned movie about a favorite patron saint over does it. Beyond this there isn't much which isn't worth forgetting until we reach the present day. For me this starts in the nineties.

Eastwood's Million Dollar Baby makes the list as a backhanded compliment; the film is not about disability, which the rabid protesters either would not, or could not understand, and I defend its message without necessarily defending the actor's politics. The same entrapments closing over Swank's fighter are the ones I want out of as well.

Beyond this there are allegories, other titles, vulnerable wheelchair users, demonic wheelchair users, the *uplifting* biopic empowerment narratives that bore me in the same way a ritualized prey kill becomes a banal inconvenience, but nothing which reaches the magnitude of Orson Welles, and his ground breaking work, with the exception of Diving Bell, which Amazon finally bought for instant video. I may not view it till next month, depends.

Stories like this give me wicked, diabolical ideas, but with my luck I'd kill the worm after a fest of trots.