Terminus, foie gras

"I saw a bunch of scared actors afraid of losing their jobs."-- John Corbett, who manages to make me curl, pleasantly

It was gratifying to see the late Patty Duke Astin in the instantly forgettable 05 Bigger Than The Sky, its two hour run time consuming my salmon pate preparation, a steady diet of which usually revives my energy, but not today, not even with a thousand milligram caplet swallowed beneath it. The amount of caffeine I have absorbed, the real shift in humidity as the summer season shifts into full gear, this accentuates my plaque build up, my arthritis, and the strange irritation in my rectum which has been and remains not part of my normal biological narrative since I allowed the late Frank access to it. A former aide named Kisha assured me that Frank's enthusiastic anal experimentation would not have done anything harmful to me. She is probably correct, as my intimacy with him ended within the first year and six months of our relationship, and any infection from his hazardous body would have done more to me by now; it is, nonetheless, a basic truism, before 2006 my colon in and of itself wasn't raising the potential of malignancy. The tendency towards polyps runs in the family, as well

In mid 2016, I understand the situational irony of actually being dead alive, almost as well as Duke comprehends, in either her maudlin or satirical modes, her emotional pendulum swings-- my mind and its acuity still relatively intact, but knowing the end is in sight, giving into it despite my libertarian exhilaration. Just getting through the day, making myself a meal, grinding what remains of my occlusion to get through my ligaments, breathing shallow, let alone driving this battered vehicle about my limited range, or throwing a load of colors in the wash, is doing me in, much like the labor of the Comtrex freight, protesting its heavy metal elements on the rails.

I was rather stupid to allow myself to get drawn in to the Yabberz community, and I'm extracting myself from it, reluctantly, true, like a puss-faced toddler. There are some sharp witted users who habituate the virtual dynamic of Golden State liberal hypocrisy, but the best of them visit infrequently; not all of them may have mental health issues, but one of the return users, harleyboy66, is an exact replica of the clientele I used to case manage, possibly dangerous under the right provocation. I can tell because of his lack of coherence. He was the wrong person to be having an online discussion with about quadriplegia and ideation. I am not quite certain what I'm going to *do* with Mike and Melissa's volatile maven. I agree with a Romanian critic that Yabberz has an unpleasant political miasma to it, but on the other hand, as a blogging platform, it does have its uses, and as I'm not under commission, I can still keep my account active enough to experiment with ideas, if I can keep a lid on threatening the faux liberals, as well as the true left, with total annihilation. If anything, Yabberz has contributed to my own polarization, and I am still not particularly fond of peripheral views to which a Cyclops is limited. And since I have forgotten my fatigue, obviously I need to be true to myself, and work, in the time I have, work.

I also want to scream at Tony Stiles to steal a hydraulic van and come rescue me from an African American punk majority, if only as a charitable contribution. Perhaps I should contact the Koch brothers.

But can Verdi do Chicago Slam?

Let a free woman fall in love, Camille declares, and she will gladly submit to her chains. More than one hundred fifty years later, the question is whether this has entirely ceased to be true. -- Toril Moi, Introduction, location 209

I cannot provide the exact date I flipped myself in my old manual wheelchair after frothing at the mouth with Jennifer Barnhart. June, I think, and I had an agreement with the ex to come after me, and had a technician visit due. Flipped between bedpost and katty corner in such a manner I could not undo the seat belt, and therein lie the danger, as opposed to the fall itself, Jennifer's voice in my head intonating defensive disengagement, I hated the disability center all the more, her voice in my head, breast painfully wedged on the cat carrier. Knew I did not want to die and that independent living centers were nothing more than exterminating enterprises, simultaneously. Jennifer and I didn't know each other. She came in to Liberty under Tom Earle, but my rage intimidated her, as it intimidates most of Liberty. Even Linda emailed me back, "Why are you so angry?"

I suppose this isn't a good way to head toward entropy and putrefaction, this constant inferno of distemper which isn't sure, with the certitude of Islamic State adherents, that she would not enjoy the delivery of a few significant contusions. Why I hate certain figures, like Debra Horne, with bituminous discharge of scorn can be summarized with the knowledge that Presbyterian Homes hired her to intimidate people. She is not a compassionate person, with that new orange dye hair and thick lard ass, sense of inadequacy around black men who possibly find her sensuality to hover around zero, I stood up to her, hard, very hard, and yet I am hardly victorious in making a nigger matron who wields her invisible truncheon eat rust. Do I hate her enough to see her hurt? Only insofar as I remain trapped here. Oh, the activists whom cannot be trusted, they have her number: Ugly women without prospects have only so many options.

Madeleine Stowe mediates being an fairly attractive brunette with traces of elegance in an interesting way with the 1994 Blink. The plot is somewhat contrived, and the contacts the actress wears in the opening, as always, have a Friday the 13th effect. (Putting real disabled individuals in film, blind or otherwise, brings us into the problematic terrain of exploitation.) But the subtext between Madeleine and Quinn is intriguing. Stowe isn't competing with Patty Duke's spectacular and dramatic habitation of the Keller child, who quite ably controls her family until Bancroft, with compassionate cruelty, wants to give the girl a chance. No, Stowe is negotiating the wounded chick meme. 

Haven't we all been fucked over in one way or another? The surgery her Emma undergoes gives her back her sight which all but the blind take for granted. It takes her out of the security of damage and darkness she knew from having an abusive mother, and makes her newly vulnerable with restored senses she cannot trust, with Aidan alternating between an insecure jackass who wants his cake but not the threat of commitment, and the tough love cop, no genius, no glory, but this is Chicago with its smokey interiors and oily alleyways, conscience smote by anger of Madeleine's fist and the anger of the child of one of the killer's victims, Stowe discovers, once faced with the truth of a deranged fixation, that she is resilient. Given her later habitation of Dumas' Mercedes in the ABC series Revenge, the contextuality of Stowe's femininity mediates between deceptive vulnerability, and a woman's pain over lost causes.

Pop Up Recollection: Enemy Consortium

"I'm a puppet of a high functioning sociopath."-- Megan Boone

Patty Duke is given a diva scene in the tepid drama, The Baby Sitter, tapping into her varnished mania to have an episode made leaden by booze, and it is sadly camped, almost stenciled in to a talented actress'es notable itinerary. 

All aging actors seem to encompass these plot points: the breakthrough, the rise, the critical accolades in the train toward the apex, and then they attempt to cling to their glory through hackneyed scripts which then go to DVD. Shatner is no exception, and the only reason he had a resurgence on Boston Legal was because he played with audience nostalgia for his embodiment of James T Kirk, lampooning the action hero with considerable sophistication as the barging litigator. Boomer middle age anxiety was cruel, however, and heads rolled in the dust. 

Duke is a footnote, and Shatner plays the gallant, and we're indifferent. Respectful to the elder celebrity with a nod, but know in the back of our minds he is fish meal for obit gurus. Duke's exit is more consequential.

Her bipolar disorder initially cycled her creativity, and in The Patty Duke Show, between the lines of the starched script, runs an argument for accommodation of mood differentials, as opposed to their classification through the ever gargantuan medical model. Arguably, Duke herself may have put a dent in her ability to get roles through her embrace of the term as a medical definition. As a teen, she channeled that intensity to humanize Helen Keller, but failed to transition over in maturity, in contrast to Sally Field, who dramatized the condition for ER.

If we're going to deconstruct our humanity through microcelluar biology, the potential cyborgs which emerge from Google's Tonka Toy kit in AI might provide an answer as to why self aware intelligent life destroys itself before a hospitable planet cooks in a nova event horizon. By the same token, competing theories, in certain instances, do more harm than good. We're all assuming Lubitz died a mass murderer, perplexed by his actions. Unless he left a manifesto in a drawer, we'll never know, and shouldn't automatically consign his fate to the need for advanced neuroscience.