Cagliari has been the capital of Sardinia since at least Roman times. travel guidebook, p 1071
If I was stranded on a desert island, one of the most prevalent of literary motifs in American literature, regardless of genre, as Lost in Space owes its analogue optimism to Robinson Crusoe, and on this island, had the ability to steal wireless passcodes, but could only have one serial, I'd opt for Bruno Cremer's Maigret, not solely based on my fascination with Simenon's ability to be unsparing, stripped and terse, with flourishes; there is just an aesthetic appeasement in the France Belgian production, sadly absent from more contemporary grafting of other writers, like Higgins Clark. These mysteries may be done in France, but they feel like hatchet jobs. Cremer transcends this, when it comes to marrying Simenon's exposes to the modern world, and any number of these teleplays can be studied again, and again. Simenon recognizes provincialism, and the people Maigret knew often serve as lynchpins, either as victims or perpetrators. Maigret's schoolboy friend, from the estate where his father was a steward, initiates the action which leads to the death of a courtesan, and that is still the proper term. We can argue about prostitution as a designation, but these are more properly street walkers, risking their lives, and I am not sure what the local LOTR chapter hopes to achieve today in demonstrating against violence street walkers face as par for the course. I certainly cannot say that legalizing whore houses makes whores any safer than a Craigslist notice. I am, never less, confirmed to attend, rather irritated. I had intended to show with useless objects in a shopping bag, a twenty four dollar butane lighter I no longer use, old Glimmer Train issues for five cents, other things. All this takes time to prepare, and hard winter is around the corner, with my disability insurance static, once again, even if a small COLA was restored for 2017. I am going to have to opt out of Medicare shortly, if I do not want SSI-- SSI has stringent overpayment rules, and even if I never sell another article, I cannot live with threats from Social Security. In 1987 they suspended my entitlement, for what I'm not entirely sure, and I had nothing, for months, in the dawn of getting sucked into Presbyterian Homes-- so those of you who marvel at my obstinacy may want to reconsider. I was a kid, a student, and the Social Security Administration halted Supplemental Income because ?-- I don't know. Lack of case management review. I cannot remember how I survived, but now I'm in my mid-fifties, and I fear government more than I hate Thiel for taking a media outlet away from me and others who challenged boundaries.
I rushed another piece on Daulerio's settlement with Bollea's legal team, against my better judgment, but if I go down, I go down fighting. I'm building a dossier. Why, I'm not sure. Nick Denton revolts me. Every homosexual does, but there are degrees, and I'm still a bit bruised over the fact I wanted to save a radical British faggot's successful media model-- but Peter Thiel, there we have revulsion combined with fear. Homosexual psychology cannot be trusted, and I'll never get away with asserting this in mainstream outlets. It will not stop me from trying, notoriety, name recognition, notwithstanding. If Denton had survived, yes, I would have had the utter nerve to tell him he was a radical abomination, and then showed him my CV, and would have expected him to take me seriously, at least under the ADA. Bafflement away.
Showing posts with label nick denton. Show all posts
Showing posts with label nick denton. Show all posts
Saturday, December 17, 2016
Friday, September 16, 2016
Viral Transmission
"This is just to test your blood pressure," said Art reassuringly, noticing that the sweating was becoming excessive. As soon as the first slight pressure was applied to the bulb, the man moved. Without warning he screamed in terror and Art was on the floor... The Onion Field, location 459
Joseph Wambaugh's depiction of gay panic is quite different in text than in the screen play adaptation which led to the film, so different even the dowager isn't sold by what is going on in the company Ian keeps on his way to becoming a martyr in the name of law enforcement. In the movie, Ted Danson's Ian is a hastily contrived pastiche, because Wambaugh's underlying concern, as transmuted by the director, is the reverberating impact of justice as a convoluted process. In the book itself, whatever Ellroy's introductory praises, all of Wambaugh's character development seems like a hatchet job, as if he is desperate to imitate Capote and swallows his tongue in the process. This makes Onion Field a fascinating period piece, despite itself, and Wambaugh's hatchet has a nascent driving energy which intimates a command to skip the movie and read the true crime saga in the troubled years of Nixonion paranoia; but the screen writers for the film at least made homosexuality and vice recognizable. Wambaugh, by contrast, seems quite incidentally to border on science fiction.
By 1973 the dowager was growing up in the world, forcibly incarcerated just like Art's patient, and people didn't flip out over a blood pressure cuff due to sexual impulses. They might cry over girls on the ward engaging in mock lesbian teasing, to establish pecking order, as primate groups do, but this curious piece of exposition in the first chapter teeters on the edge of dramaturgic abstract art, as if Michael Rooker's serial killer was introduced on stage by Becket.
If the dowager was inconsiderate to Nick Denton in tweeting her repugnance for Michael Hall's brave and brief exchange with his fictional minority law enforcement officer, it was deliberate, but not quite due to prudent shock. Denton looks ambiguous, the way most radical Britons out of the radical left Labour wing do, and just as most radical Anglo Saxons do, male or female, they reach out to minority short order cooks to make political statements, perhaps covertly, through their sexual liaisons, and Denton does the same thing with his partner, besmirching marriage as a sacrament, defiant and in your face: I'm gay and love a black American. So what? The Western middle class has found a method of appropriating gay difference: elevating homosexual monogamy, even while medical epidemiologists' like Fauci hover in the background. Oh, they don't judge, but they are they failsafes policing sexual adventurism which by normal social standards are still considered criminal, like the use of handcuffs for restraint, for instance. And in a gay cross race relationship, there is always a bit of a hustle going on, cashing in on white privilege. I know it because I've been there, and indeed, could roll out on Market Street in my haggard skirt attire and pick up three black men willing to sleep with me, a broken welfare spastic, but a white broken welfare spastic, nothing more than a reprehensible power play, damning me into abomination territory. I'd like to remind the Holy Father, in this vein, that whatever his Marxist sentiments due to his Argentine background, he is the last Prince on the face of the earth whose statements have world renown impact, and one of religion's remaining functions is to name apostasy for what it is. You are not just a victim's advocate Francis, you carry thousands of years of Roman authority in that burden on your shoulders, and the growing material power of people like Thiel and Denton needs to be countermanded. The battle between them is almost akin to the sins to be plucked out of the Divine Comedy. Denton revels in sexual exposure because he wants to be accepted as a non-deviation, while Thiel blows 10 million on civil tort because he isn't quite gay enough to flout it in a parade, while broken withered crones can't even get a paralegal to do a case assessment on her life long toxic environments and medical model brutality which improved nothing on her original issues wrought by brain damage. Being able to blatantly buy the law simply because an individual created a flicker of a wrestling personality are episodes through which class resentment could trigger serious social unrest.
Joseph Wambaugh's depiction of gay panic is quite different in text than in the screen play adaptation which led to the film, so different even the dowager isn't sold by what is going on in the company Ian keeps on his way to becoming a martyr in the name of law enforcement. In the movie, Ted Danson's Ian is a hastily contrived pastiche, because Wambaugh's underlying concern, as transmuted by the director, is the reverberating impact of justice as a convoluted process. In the book itself, whatever Ellroy's introductory praises, all of Wambaugh's character development seems like a hatchet job, as if he is desperate to imitate Capote and swallows his tongue in the process. This makes Onion Field a fascinating period piece, despite itself, and Wambaugh's hatchet has a nascent driving energy which intimates a command to skip the movie and read the true crime saga in the troubled years of Nixonion paranoia; but the screen writers for the film at least made homosexuality and vice recognizable. Wambaugh, by contrast, seems quite incidentally to border on science fiction.
By 1973 the dowager was growing up in the world, forcibly incarcerated just like Art's patient, and people didn't flip out over a blood pressure cuff due to sexual impulses. They might cry over girls on the ward engaging in mock lesbian teasing, to establish pecking order, as primate groups do, but this curious piece of exposition in the first chapter teeters on the edge of dramaturgic abstract art, as if Michael Rooker's serial killer was introduced on stage by Becket.
If the dowager was inconsiderate to Nick Denton in tweeting her repugnance for Michael Hall's brave and brief exchange with his fictional minority law enforcement officer, it was deliberate, but not quite due to prudent shock. Denton looks ambiguous, the way most radical Britons out of the radical left Labour wing do, and just as most radical Anglo Saxons do, male or female, they reach out to minority short order cooks to make political statements, perhaps covertly, through their sexual liaisons, and Denton does the same thing with his partner, besmirching marriage as a sacrament, defiant and in your face: I'm gay and love a black American. So what? The Western middle class has found a method of appropriating gay difference: elevating homosexual monogamy, even while medical epidemiologists' like Fauci hover in the background. Oh, they don't judge, but they are they failsafes policing sexual adventurism which by normal social standards are still considered criminal, like the use of handcuffs for restraint, for instance. And in a gay cross race relationship, there is always a bit of a hustle going on, cashing in on white privilege. I know it because I've been there, and indeed, could roll out on Market Street in my haggard skirt attire and pick up three black men willing to sleep with me, a broken welfare spastic, but a white broken welfare spastic, nothing more than a reprehensible power play, damning me into abomination territory. I'd like to remind the Holy Father, in this vein, that whatever his Marxist sentiments due to his Argentine background, he is the last Prince on the face of the earth whose statements have world renown impact, and one of religion's remaining functions is to name apostasy for what it is. You are not just a victim's advocate Francis, you carry thousands of years of Roman authority in that burden on your shoulders, and the growing material power of people like Thiel and Denton needs to be countermanded. The battle between them is almost akin to the sins to be plucked out of the Divine Comedy. Denton revels in sexual exposure because he wants to be accepted as a non-deviation, while Thiel blows 10 million on civil tort because he isn't quite gay enough to flout it in a parade, while broken withered crones can't even get a paralegal to do a case assessment on her life long toxic environments and medical model brutality which improved nothing on her original issues wrought by brain damage. Being able to blatantly buy the law simply because an individual created a flicker of a wrestling personality are episodes through which class resentment could trigger serious social unrest.
Sunday, September 11, 2016
Bared Fangs, Spastic Werewolf Remembers
The issue at stake for humanity is broader than the climate change that is beginning to gain needed attention. -- Carl Folke, Respecting Planetary Boundaries, Chapter 2
Meet the devil incarnate. It blows the dowager's mind that David Ward survives, thrives yet, taught my niece, and can be telephoned, as in Yo, you philandering prick, still want that paper on atheism and ontology I blew off, disappointing your respect in my willingness to wrestle a thesis to its grave? My animosity toward Dr. Ward was an early flag I should have heeded better, sooner, but for my frustrated hormones driving the engine. It is not quite accurate to stipulate that I hated him during my naive quest toward my own genius, whatever that is, still sweeping up the dried dung of my aggravating deceased little black cat, a cat whom I'm grieving as hard if not harder than his beautiful fluff of a teddy brother. So much pain over a pet. But David Ward exemplifies everything I hate about progressive liberal sensibilities. If you are wondering why Jerry McGuire, (who I actually called by his first name) and Michael Clark, David's former colleagues, are spared the wrath of my overbite, that is a more complex question. The hippie aroused me, and Michael, who is presumably mostly skeletal at this stage of the second decade of his death, is the husband I might have married making me more in line with Aunt Mary. If I do not post a great deal of detail about Mary, who has survived my mother's death age by one year so far, there are reasons for that, namely that our accounts are linked on twitter, secondly, she was a Catholic principal and she'd kill me, if you catch my drift, but thirdly, she accomplished what the spastic dowager didn't, and this deserves respect. David Ward, on the other hand, would have been drawn and quartered in Foucault's medieval examples of criminal torture, and I am rather antagonistic toward his memory, though he looks better minus that bloody beard. He had jet black hair in the day, and the best way to describe him is as a lecherous porcine trickster from whom I should have given berth. He was one of the earliest authority figures to hint at clinical depression, with that cocked eyebrow expression suggesting do something about it. So when Erik, demigod of ADAPT, worn out with me on his couch. diagnosed me with the same eyebrow cock, the superimposed memory between the philanderer and the almost -transsexual, now merely a skin and bone Dr. Seuss, suggests affinity of anathema.
The dowager is cognizant of the fact, that while Nick Denton did not engage her in any fashion, he allowed her to use Gawker's tools. He did not judge me as I judge him and Peter Thiel both. If Jerry was here with me, his reprimand of my livid disgust would hurt, tangibly, and Ward would give me that cocked eyebrow, but it is due to boomers like Ward that such evil continues to perpetuate itself, that humanity has lost its compass, that Islamic terrorism learned from the IRA playbook, that transhumanism is on the verge of making things worse. Through the approximately 8 years my persona has been posting, much of what she has been doing was game theory according to her rules, not the CIA whiff of great sex with Victor Garber in Alias. I am still too much the cripple in her own head to repudiate Denton entirely. I liked Gawker. I'd like to kick Thiel's ass, and the light has dawned on me as to the utilitarian value of Roman crucifixion. And that is not good enough, of course. It is rhetorical hyperbole that a nigger lover garnished my sympathy, and a gay libertarian has me burning mad, and I mostly want to vomit.
My non-fiction collection will be lengthier than first assumed, but the formatting, the revisions, the possibility of retyping an entire hard draft into it makes catering to influenza seem nearly like a vital excuse. While I am not a great admirer of David Brooks, and mailed him that sentiment, I too, have lost a little bit of my soul, to echo his Friday analysis. I'm dispirited. I want to fight with professors, bury Paul Krugman in Donald Trump's cemetery tomb, replace Lenin's waxed body with Hillary. No one would notice.
Meet the devil incarnate. It blows the dowager's mind that David Ward survives, thrives yet, taught my niece, and can be telephoned, as in Yo, you philandering prick, still want that paper on atheism and ontology I blew off, disappointing your respect in my willingness to wrestle a thesis to its grave? My animosity toward Dr. Ward was an early flag I should have heeded better, sooner, but for my frustrated hormones driving the engine. It is not quite accurate to stipulate that I hated him during my naive quest toward my own genius, whatever that is, still sweeping up the dried dung of my aggravating deceased little black cat, a cat whom I'm grieving as hard if not harder than his beautiful fluff of a teddy brother. So much pain over a pet. But David Ward exemplifies everything I hate about progressive liberal sensibilities. If you are wondering why Jerry McGuire, (who I actually called by his first name) and Michael Clark, David's former colleagues, are spared the wrath of my overbite, that is a more complex question. The hippie aroused me, and Michael, who is presumably mostly skeletal at this stage of the second decade of his death, is the husband I might have married making me more in line with Aunt Mary. If I do not post a great deal of detail about Mary, who has survived my mother's death age by one year so far, there are reasons for that, namely that our accounts are linked on twitter, secondly, she was a Catholic principal and she'd kill me, if you catch my drift, but thirdly, she accomplished what the spastic dowager didn't, and this deserves respect. David Ward, on the other hand, would have been drawn and quartered in Foucault's medieval examples of criminal torture, and I am rather antagonistic toward his memory, though he looks better minus that bloody beard. He had jet black hair in the day, and the best way to describe him is as a lecherous porcine trickster from whom I should have given berth. He was one of the earliest authority figures to hint at clinical depression, with that cocked eyebrow expression suggesting do something about it. So when Erik, demigod of ADAPT, worn out with me on his couch. diagnosed me with the same eyebrow cock, the superimposed memory between the philanderer and the almost -transsexual, now merely a skin and bone Dr. Seuss, suggests affinity of anathema.
The dowager is cognizant of the fact, that while Nick Denton did not engage her in any fashion, he allowed her to use Gawker's tools. He did not judge me as I judge him and Peter Thiel both. If Jerry was here with me, his reprimand of my livid disgust would hurt, tangibly, and Ward would give me that cocked eyebrow, but it is due to boomers like Ward that such evil continues to perpetuate itself, that humanity has lost its compass, that Islamic terrorism learned from the IRA playbook, that transhumanism is on the verge of making things worse. Through the approximately 8 years my persona has been posting, much of what she has been doing was game theory according to her rules, not the CIA whiff of great sex with Victor Garber in Alias. I am still too much the cripple in her own head to repudiate Denton entirely. I liked Gawker. I'd like to kick Thiel's ass, and the light has dawned on me as to the utilitarian value of Roman crucifixion. And that is not good enough, of course. It is rhetorical hyperbole that a nigger lover garnished my sympathy, and a gay libertarian has me burning mad, and I mostly want to vomit.
My non-fiction collection will be lengthier than first assumed, but the formatting, the revisions, the possibility of retyping an entire hard draft into it makes catering to influenza seem nearly like a vital excuse. While I am not a great admirer of David Brooks, and mailed him that sentiment, I too, have lost a little bit of my soul, to echo his Friday analysis. I'm dispirited. I want to fight with professors, bury Paul Krugman in Donald Trump's cemetery tomb, replace Lenin's waxed body with Hillary. No one would notice.
Monday, August 22, 2016
Denton's Grail
Why I cannot get to heraldica at night, my eastern standard time, is probably related to the fact I no longer purchase virus protection, and if you're going to ask me why I don't just kill part of my online service, that issue will be rearing its head, soon. I did, however, succeed earning partial supplements through 08. So I'm breaking my back, literally, trying to hold on, ignoring all the rules about blogging, but let me assure you, that if I had done the right fucking thing and left Riverside in 05 after I broke up with Frank and mama collapsed and died, you would not read such a dismal tone. My chairs broke around 06, and building manager's trench war with me started 07, and I spent down, with no money coming in, from that time, perhaps no longer a target employee for one of those wedge businesses. Gawker is dead, and if I was a very good blogger I'd know how they acquired the Bollea tape which led to Thiel's litigation. I know what Gawker did with the tape, wrote about it in my vanished Yabberz profile footprint. I know Gawker's former editor testified. I know Thiel is pissed about something which doesn't matter; I'm anti-gay and even so, it doesn't matter, and I've worn a lot worse than a tweet using the word faggot to scold.
Yes, libertarians would say Thiel read The Fountainhead and played it out, and fuck that. Gawker uses fuck; for them it was sartorial; for me it is menacing; this is what 22 years of screaming at my family to get me the fuck out of Riverside adds up to. The scar runs deep, a virtual gouge. Is Thiel going to help me? Ease my pain? Let me have my freedom? Doubt it. I'm ruined, because I let Protestants and minorities scam me like an EBT magnetic strip-- though I am on Nick Denton's side, however, the rancor is starting to grate, one note of chopsticks, leaving us to wince. I don't know what is going to happen to me. I'm got going back to a home though. I'll die in Houston raped by a gun muzzle sooner, and some of you know I no doubt mean it.
I will have more to say later. I may not have a contract, but my nose knew the Bollea victory would ripple. I just do not want to do extensive edits now.
Yes, libertarians would say Thiel read The Fountainhead and played it out, and fuck that. Gawker uses fuck; for them it was sartorial; for me it is menacing; this is what 22 years of screaming at my family to get me the fuck out of Riverside adds up to. The scar runs deep, a virtual gouge. Is Thiel going to help me? Ease my pain? Let me have my freedom? Doubt it. I'm ruined, because I let Protestants and minorities scam me like an EBT magnetic strip-- though I am on Nick Denton's side, however, the rancor is starting to grate, one note of chopsticks, leaving us to wince. I don't know what is going to happen to me. I'm got going back to a home though. I'll die in Houston raped by a gun muzzle sooner, and some of you know I no doubt mean it.
I will have more to say later. I may not have a contract, but my nose knew the Bollea victory would ripple. I just do not want to do extensive edits now.
Warning Signs of Indigestion
Ashlock told me many a tale of the Indian wars then in progress. -- William T. Sherman, Memoirs, page 18
I understand the arbitrary nature of social media, and had more than a few bouts of distemper on twitter, most of which aren't any fun, but to my recollection I haven't harassed or harangued any followers recent or long term. I may have mentioned a few of them, but certainly have not aimed any missiles, hence my puzzlement over a recent September 9 block, as I cannot fathom why it occurred; if anyone knows something for which I might consider an apology in order then I'll consider it, as I prefer to claim ownership of the sin: it is not the loss of a follower, but the block. The block in and of itself I find mystifying. I am what I've become, and if this summer and my COPD are any indicator, I am going to drown to death in my own phlegm soon enough, or head into congestive heart failure, and shall not apologize for what Southeastern Pennsylvania living has done to me, nor my frustrated and forceful assertion as its outcome.
Gary Johnson's honest ignorance in relation to the city of Aleppo is actually classic libertarian indifference to nation-state viability, while Thiel's war with Gawker is not really a traditional libertarian response. I was going to go on about this for at least a few paragraphs, that Thiel's purchase of civil tort hurt peoples' livelihood, until I looked up some biographical facts on Nick Denton, saw pictures of him and Derrence Washington, and my reactionary synapses said okay this is a homosexual war of thermonuclear proportions.
I have been caught in such cross fires of men with such emotionally regressive traits, and blocking it all out is only delayed prevention, in essence, as this unfortunate quadriplegic does not have the strength, this evening, to bring down the wrath of a little pig bitch like Jimmi Shrode and his allies. Just as we cannot kill our way out of disability, we cannot kill our way out of homosexuality, but the LBGT activism and its growing power is cause for concern, as there are numerous examples of others becoming victims, and I am not writing this in merely to be a provocateur, but as a victim of progressive egalitarianism at its finest. The dowager understands why liberals feel they're on the right side of history. I was in a great deal of pain when I boomeranged from the Chester-Ridley Park axis to unwittingly burrow myself in Philadelphia's Third World destitution, but I had the liberal cause burning like the spastic orgasms over which my former supervisor liked to gloat, and I was dead center wrong about what I believed could be accomplished, and now I have to perish with all my actual potential squandered.
If I had listened to everyone and had not moved into Diamond Park, I'm not sure what my counterfactual would have been, as life in the rowhomes of my aunts was little prettier, at the end of the day, but I'm no longer young enough to turn the stern and get myself out from under, even with all those wonderful behavior modifications of the health police. Like Ellen Muth's character in Dead Like Me, I cannot go back, and my bronchial flares are worsening, though I've contained them. Loss of control hasn't gone too badly this season, but it's over. I'll never recover the exuberant life which I believed possible, and the culture wars had a great deal to do with it.
I understand the arbitrary nature of social media, and had more than a few bouts of distemper on twitter, most of which aren't any fun, but to my recollection I haven't harassed or harangued any followers recent or long term. I may have mentioned a few of them, but certainly have not aimed any missiles, hence my puzzlement over a recent September 9 block, as I cannot fathom why it occurred; if anyone knows something for which I might consider an apology in order then I'll consider it, as I prefer to claim ownership of the sin: it is not the loss of a follower, but the block. The block in and of itself I find mystifying. I am what I've become, and if this summer and my COPD are any indicator, I am going to drown to death in my own phlegm soon enough, or head into congestive heart failure, and shall not apologize for what Southeastern Pennsylvania living has done to me, nor my frustrated and forceful assertion as its outcome.
Gary Johnson's honest ignorance in relation to the city of Aleppo is actually classic libertarian indifference to nation-state viability, while Thiel's war with Gawker is not really a traditional libertarian response. I was going to go on about this for at least a few paragraphs, that Thiel's purchase of civil tort hurt peoples' livelihood, until I looked up some biographical facts on Nick Denton, saw pictures of him and Derrence Washington, and my reactionary synapses said okay this is a homosexual war of thermonuclear proportions.
I have been caught in such cross fires of men with such emotionally regressive traits, and blocking it all out is only delayed prevention, in essence, as this unfortunate quadriplegic does not have the strength, this evening, to bring down the wrath of a little pig bitch like Jimmi Shrode and his allies. Just as we cannot kill our way out of disability, we cannot kill our way out of homosexuality, but the LBGT activism and its growing power is cause for concern, as there are numerous examples of others becoming victims, and I am not writing this in merely to be a provocateur, but as a victim of progressive egalitarianism at its finest. The dowager understands why liberals feel they're on the right side of history. I was in a great deal of pain when I boomeranged from the Chester-Ridley Park axis to unwittingly burrow myself in Philadelphia's Third World destitution, but I had the liberal cause burning like the spastic orgasms over which my former supervisor liked to gloat, and I was dead center wrong about what I believed could be accomplished, and now I have to perish with all my actual potential squandered.
If I had listened to everyone and had not moved into Diamond Park, I'm not sure what my counterfactual would have been, as life in the rowhomes of my aunts was little prettier, at the end of the day, but I'm no longer young enough to turn the stern and get myself out from under, even with all those wonderful behavior modifications of the health police. Like Ellen Muth's character in Dead Like Me, I cannot go back, and my bronchial flares are worsening, though I've contained them. Loss of control hasn't gone too badly this season, but it's over. I'll never recover the exuberant life which I believed possible, and the culture wars had a great deal to do with it.
Friday, July 1, 2016
Gonzo, sans Hunter
I could be running the rent downstairs in my bare feet and my stained beige skirt, in violation of the dress code. I could be going to bed, having sucked two Vuse cartridges back into my system, and instead, I am just the dago who keeps getting kicked. Liberty Resources wasted no time soliciting a law firm to threaten me, this after years of institutional abuse, breach of contract, toxic environment at their hands, and I? What am I going to do? Probably get arrested after the holiday, going to jail to experience even worse instances of being the prime mud crab in the dish. Oh, no one cares, when it's me, what I've been through, no one, not that I haven't tried a wee little, politicians notwithstanding, legal aid, ACLU. The only thing anyone sees is how angry I am, and so they get the Presbyterian Corporation, with its financial collusion with the Department of Housing and Urban Development, to back down, as I weaken, and weaken, urinating with increasingly diffident aim into a broken disposable urinal, even without the attendant, still getting abused by an attendant, and so this is what I do, martyr myself on an obstinacy only as obdurate as blood pressure allows in a 53 year old woman with strange accretions of psoriasis under her thighs, but hey, this is the oxygen of social media, and a great piece of trash for Nick if he wants it, perhaps an item for Tony Stiles to air as well.
There is a little thrill all the same, one defiant spastic greasy and weirdly drying matron, spiraling down against the system which invariably crushes us all. There is no Grisham crusader here willing to sit and take my whole story, point by point, just the blood in my face, the social fear at my rage, absent the reconciliation barbecue with the vindicated client, wounded, but at peace. I have no idea what that is, as it involves going through more than you care to stand. I told the lawyer I'd use the press. And so I shall. Let it play.
There is a little thrill all the same, one defiant spastic greasy and weirdly drying matron, spiraling down against the system which invariably crushes us all. There is no Grisham crusader here willing to sit and take my whole story, point by point, just the blood in my face, the social fear at my rage, absent the reconciliation barbecue with the vindicated client, wounded, but at peace. I have no idea what that is, as it involves going through more than you care to stand. I told the lawyer I'd use the press. And so I shall. Let it play.
Monday, June 27, 2016
Editor's Note
I have five days to go, and need to breathe, and work out a wheelchair fumigation, get the HP formatted and shut the fuck up before I really start a riot. I will never be able to cure myself from using tobacco, never, not that I am reverting back, but functioning without the vapor, being a good reporter, is hell, and I thought about approaching Denton to cover Rendell on Wednesday, but how can I? As strong as I am, smoking is the Achilles heel. It is so difficult, being already dead, dying to live a last few good years, package a small writing legacy, and WTF have I done but let disability kindergarten mentality destroy me?
Wednesday, June 22, 2016
My sister is in therapy
And I am not. My mind, despite itself, refuses to stop working, and I may have to roll back my flight date, as of 8/24, while I'm looking for my sources and services papers; still with information on hardcopy that I need. Many sources have suggested that Thiel's capital injection into Bollea's suit wasn't illegal. As it pertains solely to the jury verdict, perhaps not.
I may be a journalist whose circumstances would have caused 10 ambulatory suicides by now, but my right to claim my place in the fourth estate stands, even if I am going to be destroyed by urban liberalism. However, I understand people fear being pilloried. Look at what I did to Linda Dezenski's reputation, or Erik's, and since the gollem of von Schmetterling's living carcass cannot respond to what I write, yes, I may be taking unfair advantage of a biologically confused female who took a male child as a partner, and can be judged accordingly. But both the Lina and Erik I knew were master prevaricators who hurt many in highly unethical, if not illegal fashion, and I took these platform tools, dispensed with propriety-- and something shook out, though I may be just another blogger, and not really much improved 17 years after so much turbulence-- hence, I am not quite sure that Thiel's ability to buy contiguous litigation is altogether above board. Denton certainly raised the issue of tortuous interference.
I still want a piece of this story, in other words. I think Thiel needs to be taken out before he fucks up something which has more direct repercussions.
I may be a journalist whose circumstances would have caused 10 ambulatory suicides by now, but my right to claim my place in the fourth estate stands, even if I am going to be destroyed by urban liberalism. However, I understand people fear being pilloried. Look at what I did to Linda Dezenski's reputation, or Erik's, and since the gollem of von Schmetterling's living carcass cannot respond to what I write, yes, I may be taking unfair advantage of a biologically confused female who took a male child as a partner, and can be judged accordingly. But both the Lina and Erik I knew were master prevaricators who hurt many in highly unethical, if not illegal fashion, and I took these platform tools, dispensed with propriety-- and something shook out, though I may be just another blogger, and not really much improved 17 years after so much turbulence-- hence, I am not quite sure that Thiel's ability to buy contiguous litigation is altogether above board. Denton certainly raised the issue of tortuous interference.
I still want a piece of this story, in other words. I think Thiel needs to be taken out before he fucks up something which has more direct repercussions.
The Love of Theoretical Constructs
stop cursing everybody-- unattributed
I worry a great deal about Palantir. Peter Thiel commands in his online captions "let's change the world," but this facial recognition software and complex data analytics contravenes the very notion of personal liberty, and seems less innovative than simply more of the same. Asimov predicted, rather uncannily, where global conglomeration is taking us, long before David Mitchell earned a tsunami of critical acclaim with Cloud Atlas, as early as 1952, with Foundation and Empire. The protagonist, whose name is beyond recollection, discovers at the close of the novel that robots--for all intents and proposes androids, have programmed absolute control of human destiny, an ending more chilling than Mitchell's grim predicate of our decline and fall as a species, and here we are with these massive monopolies to which we've already ceded our lives, today nearly a prerequisite for existence, barring a reversion to a nomadic existence. Examining Thiel's media hostility under another lens, however, Thiel's destruction of Nick Denton's business is eerily similar to what Ayn Rand's mogul publisher Gail Wynand does by silencing a columnist who has co-opted his paper. Wynand cannot stop the man from preaching to his readers, so with an improbable ruthlessness, Wynand simply shuts down his presses, giving The Fountainhead a spiritual stridency for which Rand is often criticized. The Fountainhead is Rand's best polemical writing, undoubtedly, but she eschews the media because journalists, by definition, are shepherds, trying to penetrate, reform as much as inform upon its audience. It points to an old fashioned conceit about gay men and lesbians as a class, a retentive prudery.
I worry a great deal about Palantir. Peter Thiel commands in his online captions "let's change the world," but this facial recognition software and complex data analytics contravenes the very notion of personal liberty, and seems less innovative than simply more of the same. Asimov predicted, rather uncannily, where global conglomeration is taking us, long before David Mitchell earned a tsunami of critical acclaim with Cloud Atlas, as early as 1952, with Foundation and Empire. The protagonist, whose name is beyond recollection, discovers at the close of the novel that robots--for all intents and proposes androids, have programmed absolute control of human destiny, an ending more chilling than Mitchell's grim predicate of our decline and fall as a species, and here we are with these massive monopolies to which we've already ceded our lives, today nearly a prerequisite for existence, barring a reversion to a nomadic existence. Examining Thiel's media hostility under another lens, however, Thiel's destruction of Nick Denton's business is eerily similar to what Ayn Rand's mogul publisher Gail Wynand does by silencing a columnist who has co-opted his paper. Wynand cannot stop the man from preaching to his readers, so with an improbable ruthlessness, Wynand simply shuts down his presses, giving The Fountainhead a spiritual stridency for which Rand is often criticized. The Fountainhead is Rand's best polemical writing, undoubtedly, but she eschews the media because journalists, by definition, are shepherds, trying to penetrate, reform as much as inform upon its audience. It points to an old fashioned conceit about gay men and lesbians as a class, a retentive prudery.
The Nine Tenths Aspect, Dowager Version
In light of Gawker's battle over the Terry Bollea sex video, I did some research on Thiel. Some. I did not scour every link, nor do I know the entire story of the trial Gawker Media's lawyers lost to the powerful venture capitalist's investment in painting a man like Bollea as a victim, but here is a surprise for you: I like Gawker. This comes late, admittedly, and I wish I could make corrections to their platform editor after I hit publish, but anyone who can run a headline asserting Zuckerberg is a paranoid fuck has my admiration. If I make threats against my disabled community, I come under intense pressure from Blogger and twitter, but Zuckerberg has a high bar to meet as a public figure to go after Denton. I also followed Thiel's ominously quiet twitter account and used "faggot" like a whiplash noun, so is this not suspiciously against my libertarian vibrations?
Even Reason Magazine might hesitate to applaud Thiel's wealth as weapon against journalism. I'm a writer; it is what I damn well do for Christ's sake, and if Peter Thiel doesn't want to be outed as a stool softener, he should not be a public figure, but that ship has definitively sailed due to Ebay, Paypal, which I use, reluctantly, and had to use for Examiner's chump change, however many years it's been now. I am too ashamed of the fact that I bowed to Examiner's cut rate foreskin content aggregation to include it on my resume, but it consumed nine months of my life and added up to fifteen dollars. Whatever depression may have done to my Harvard acumen, I am still better than that.
Gawker is too, and I like it's meanness, Fleet Street bite. Thiel sets a dangerous precedent. I'm an individualist. I hate the New York Times, but if I had Thiel's money liberals would set me up for target practice if I sued Carlos Slin to decouple him from one of the most powerful newspapers in the US. I also shouldn't be paying Blogger for this domain name, assiduously applying myself, three bucks in a dead Adsense account, money which I actually need, as my budget is that bad, but I'm aging, frightened of that, and bitterly wronged.
Is media as an enterprise deplorable? Yes, and even Woodward and Bernstein should be challenged and deconstructed, but without narratives, we'd be murdering each other in crocodilian riverbeds.
Even Reason Magazine might hesitate to applaud Thiel's wealth as weapon against journalism. I'm a writer; it is what I damn well do for Christ's sake, and if Peter Thiel doesn't want to be outed as a stool softener, he should not be a public figure, but that ship has definitively sailed due to Ebay, Paypal, which I use, reluctantly, and had to use for Examiner's chump change, however many years it's been now. I am too ashamed of the fact that I bowed to Examiner's cut rate foreskin content aggregation to include it on my resume, but it consumed nine months of my life and added up to fifteen dollars. Whatever depression may have done to my Harvard acumen, I am still better than that.
Gawker is too, and I like it's meanness, Fleet Street bite. Thiel sets a dangerous precedent. I'm an individualist. I hate the New York Times, but if I had Thiel's money liberals would set me up for target practice if I sued Carlos Slin to decouple him from one of the most powerful newspapers in the US. I also shouldn't be paying Blogger for this domain name, assiduously applying myself, three bucks in a dead Adsense account, money which I actually need, as my budget is that bad, but I'm aging, frightened of that, and bitterly wronged.
Is media as an enterprise deplorable? Yes, and even Woodward and Bernstein should be challenged and deconstructed, but without narratives, we'd be murdering each other in crocodilian riverbeds.
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