Voyeurs to Spastic Climax

"I've been in worse places than your apartment."--the proprietor

It is not that I cannot work, I am recalcitrant about starting something new when I was in the middle of other things, but I suppose I can marshal my forces, weakened as they are, evaluate whether or not I need to interview Woods, and then form my questions. One thing I am not interested in, and this goes for O’Neal as well, whose publicist chose not to respond to my inquiry, though I intend to persist, is prurient “gotcha” profiles. O’Neal was too candid with Tavis Smiley in 2012. The interview was memorable, by media standards a successful expose, one in which Ryan may not have meant to reveal he was a bit bitchy, but it didn’t serve his legacy, and I prefer to learn more about craft, sans Al Pacino, who has taught his fans, fantasy fuck melt girl here included, about the art. If I do approach James, this is what I want, not his sex life, or his scorecard political bites. I want the work, some intangible insight into his magnetism, and if I’ve fallen in love just a little, from a distance, I can afford it. It may even smooth out my ability to finesse over and above letting the world know I’m owed for my own continuously browbeat ability: Dana got me on the toilet, and I am weak, but not quite that weak, and perhaps should sue Mike. The code, in disability culture, is wheelchair mechanics are supposed to get it, and I feel betrayed, because Mike’s sensibility is I’m supposed to know how to build my own chair. That is his job, even if his wife is sick, I don’t know how it assuages his personal life to drag me down the drain with him. What I do may not matter if what I do is too late, and he places demands on me I can’t meet, Trudy Richardson wants what’s best for me? How is pressure sores on a bad machine good for me, not even able to go to the bathroom without a thirty year old woman pole vaulting my body because I can’t help her on a scooter device which impedes me? And the answer to this is to have a rookie cop haul me off for psychiatric care? Penn Medicine bounced me back to Riverside in record speed, the police having washed their hands, and Trudy says “well you don’t have to be so aggressive.”

Yes I do. I would not have survived independent living collusion if I hadn’t been so aggressive, if I had not made an effort to put dirty laundry front and center, and then there’s Mike, like a damn body slam, toss the product and then reel the hook, so long, and good luck, an old man with a sick wife burying me along side him, this is why I believe violence needs to create upheaval. Trauma teaches the complacent a lesson.

Not Paddock’s way, no. McVeigh was closer, and he and Nichols posed a threat to the state. This is what disability activism needs, a leader smart enough to threaten the compliance models represented by the Richardson’s and the Nancy Lotz’s of the world. But whether it is cousins, or private hires, or state aides, housekeeping takes precedence over what small contentment I held to. “The apartment looks cleaner,” a false positive, signifying nothing, other than I am right, and have been right all along. I need to be sacrificed for the sake of sanitation, and if that’s the case, why not let me go to sleep? Because the Pope says all life is precious, to the last. If we really believe that, Presbyterian Homes and Liberty Resources would have admitted negligence long ago, but we deny, then reveal too much, and burrow, the damn human race. I claim the right to pave the way for a new age militancy, as good as my word, researching Krugman on trade, a militant that will follow in my wake, since I am not diabolical nor quite ruthless enough, not gouging out the eyes of my CO, like Alvarez, in his senseless, senseless cage. Tom Brady critically injured on the field? That would be a start. A call to arms!

Robert Preston's Cloudburst, Joe Scarborough's Alarms

If Oz was the first serial prison drama on HBO, there are a few scenes in the early episodes which seem too convenient, or gratuitous. The elimination of the Schibetta’s without much pushback from the families who once ran New York, while clever, smacks more of an Agatha Christie murder mystery than any real life crime syndicate. The godfathers weren’t that stupid, nor so blind as to not be able to put two and two together, even if their power was on the wane at the time Fontana created the show. Walker’s Said rejection of Governor Devlin’s clemency is too  strident, regardless of what sociology teaches about recidivism. If Kareem had been a real life figure the Catholic Church itself might have been hard pressed not to nominate the man for sainthood. His entire character arc is passive aggressive martyrdom, riot and fundamental flaws in justice aside; and though one might ask why a lawyer guilty of vehicular homicide would be placed in Oz, while acknowledging that rape and physical torture desensitize, Beecher’s slasher killing of the relatively civil Nazi Metizer strains credulity, just as Alvarez blinding Officer Rivera is medieval barbarity, even for a hard time facility. That type of mutilation, goaded into or not, falls into the category of sensational gore on display for shock value. Fontana doesn’t know what to do with the character after the graphic reverberation of the assault, and it can be considered a failed story line upon which Krauthammer’s “blame the culture” mantra may be duly aimed, spilling right into the Dick Wolf universe like a stream out of time continuum, a prelude to hard boiled Baked Apple.

Although I was aware of Meloni being in the cast when I put the first season on my watch list, I had no idea I would be playing musical chairs with eighteen years of Law & Order spin offs. Barring the majority of Wolf’s big guns, every Law & Order recur is there, like a revolving door from cable’s seepage into network, Erbe the delusional child killer marinating into Kathryn Erbe street wise sidekick, Simmons the Aryan potbelly to Simmons the urbane criminal analyst. Eamonn Walker, even Edie Falco, let alone that Meloni is barely credible as Keller. Yet I did a partial run through to season three to remind myself how miserable progressive outrage marred my life, stark inner city, sterile public housing, so much calamity, now fighting and failing and wasting every medically subsidized dollar into an acute ulcer, or a bad case of heartburn. I was never vain about much, but my long hair is ugly silver, matted beyond decency, an owl’s nest, with ill trained Africans driving me insane, all due to poorly rationed technology. Even my attempt to hang tough for the sake of my published work seems a dismal exercise, amidst a streaming glut which hasn’t proven itself a healthy anchorage. Austin Petersen had a couple of interesting tweets about big corporate which made me think it is no longer such a sharp divide, Marxist to free market models, but my big event this morning is rolling my torso on the hospital bed by myself. I’d like to torch it.

Idiopathic Lung Expansion

"It's like I keep losing people."--  Christopher Meloni

So Oz too has a wheelchair bound narrator. Even on an a la carte basis, I cannot afford an HBO subscription, but I'll try to remember this series might be worth viewing, unlike Orange Is The New Black; I read the reviews of the series, and I know as a Netflix exclusive it is a quality show, but, as I wrote years ago, the series has too much proximity with my life in the inner city; it is with studious deliberation that I do not want to get involved with it, even as a rerun, but since I miss Meloni, and he makes for a good conflicted Catholic, Oz might have the requisite distance for not too much wincing, even as I am still confused about what is going on with Philadelphia affiliate stations. With two movie channels lopped off my free broadcast signals, I'll be forced to stream more, which I cannot truly afford, even if I'm streaming free content. You may have a family mega data plan. I don't, and the FCC isn't going to level that playing field at the point of Napoleon's bayonet in the interim.

I am working, through some miracle and perhaps shakily, but working; it is not the morality of a tobacco company like RJ Reynolds which comes into question, but why addiction needs to be punished. It seems to come with the turf of higher mammalian function. I've caught on to how far they will go to subsidize my habit, so perhaps next month shall be just that much less brutal, but unless I find some type of employment suitable foe my decline, I might as well market my pubic hair as a new and improved micro mop head.

Though not by much, some family members are more empathetic shields than others. Billy is a cop, which perhaps cuts me some latitude, not that I flash it, or sew it onto my breast pocket, but this is sort of a greyish area between yours truly and more ideological libertarians--not that I am singling out my faux brother, but I am ambivalent about aggrandized police cover ups. Like me, way down here scraping my survival in America's true police state (the welfare system), cops know what they know, and they know eventually they have to put people like me down, barring a controlled alternative form of incarceration. That my cousin doesn't follow me doesn't perturb me, given that I've characterized his mother as a Philadelphia archetype, but he cares more about individual suffering than my sister, and certainly doesn't want to use his piece on anyone. Federal agents may or may not be a different story, but they don't have the resources to worry about me. I called the disability center, cursed them in the pain of my failing strength, nothing happened. I uttered "fuckwits" as an epithet, four times or so.

I am not particularly desirous of getting mauled in a prison cell, but learning how to manipulate others is a skill some deviants can learn. I've done it once in awhile, but when it comes to certain transsexuals, certain areas of learned Jewish prevarication, I am outmaneuvered. This ends my break, though I've been writing all afternoon.