The Long Pincers Umbra

"That statue is not about football," Gleason, straining to speak because of the effects of ALS, said moments before the formal unveiling on a rain-soaked Friday afternoon.-- a hero in continuing pan shots of emaciation

What I see in the above image is the less than illustrious rise of an ancestral peasant class, with its nearly denuding and uniformless dressing of the crone age female body, mass manufactured couture, making the best of it on a parochial teacher's salary, representative of the culture wars surrounding gender today, more den mother than feminine, all in slacks. They would not use the terminology of Gloria Steinem, but there is no doubt they've benefited from the feminist generation, emasculating males who simply do not have the fortune to be a Monsignor in charge of secondary education. They submit as the obedient second sex to Catholic priests, but dare I say this is primarily pro forma. The large woman in the back right is a retired principal, and doesn't live in the same building with a priest who let her go, many years ago, relieving her of her responsibilities, unlike myself, forced to delightfully reside with dying clients and one heinous transsexual who protected and covered up my toxic humiliation at the turn of the century. More on the limpid retraction of disability independent living due to the centralized triumph of Maximus later. However bad things were before under the decentralized Medicaid Waiver before, things under Maximus are like lining up humans over fifty for slaughterhouses, and this merciless safety net for indigence is traded on the NYSE. I can only snicker, starkly, not even compliant with near dying well, with brave smiles. Oh, my aunt, she only wants what's best for me. Not offering the same appearance of frailty as Justice Ginsburg and bubble wrap, she nevertheless encloses herself in a dome, with her own fears, near to 70, with allegories of rebirth in heaven. She is upset with yours truly for throwing a spear at the sacred pantheon of her mother, my grandmother, who sits at a table with a geriatric aplomb, zoological spectrum of vacancy. And exactly what, you ask, does this have to do with Robert Mueller's Russia probe rumbling along in avalanche? Aside from the need to demystify Putin, who has the same financial inability to restore the former Soviet empire as any other colonial power, Mueller's applied brute force is destroying lives, as opposed to protecting domestic election integrity. Manafort is no more or less unethical than the flash boys of Wall Street, and my eyes glaze over with the new, if recycled, Slavic paranoia. that's right, but I got sucked into a Twitter brawl with blat, and Mary. It cost me, but doesn't it always, at that? If Pelosi decides to impeach the ignoramus in chief, and starts to chip away at Senate solidarity, it doesn't change the continuing erosion of our former unifying ties as a country. Regular readers can scroll through 1600 posts, to discover my integrity in disposable linens. From this perspective, Justin Cronin manages to convince me of world's end. We're overwhelmed with pathogens, meaningless, aimlessly frail identities. His trilogy is so similar to Carey's film I thought the series was a clever spin off. Another error. Worried? Alas, don't be. I have decided to suspend medical services, soon. That will be the start of my journey as well, as if I am the first of the last. I am determined to leave Philadelphia.

Potatoes in the Dacha

The Kremlin concedes Snowden is a Russian agent-- XX committee

Despite the fact that yours truly bends and wipes after inadvertent miscues with feminine urinals, the other day I had a choice: pivot, or face loss of bowel control. Despite echoes of lifelong slip ups, the dowager took the pivot, and much like a baller on the field, it might have gone either way, but, utilizing the Jazzy castor as a counterweight, things prevailed in her favor. The mechanics of age and tremors on wet tile aren't going to change if the line is crossed, and Presby initiates eviction: as a practical matter, I cannot functionally wander the street, so, behind as I am on my escalation plan, technical homelessness is moot, barring I do not get killed, authority would force me somewhere in relatively short order. I still comprehend this, rationally, as an event I shouldn't force on myself, but I cannot bring myself to comply with the rules. It will take me a nearly insurmountable force of will, and thus you have the end result before of 32 years of life with minority modals, on the basis of the fact that in 86, I had no where else to go, but to the twin Diamond Park unit on Page Street. If I find myself out in a back alley being raped by an alcoholic with the clap, that purportedly would put Miss Richardson's contiguous duress in a different light, but not in the seams of my scar tissue it doesn't; I'm very nearly starting a racial incident with every black resident who attempts to engage me. It's virtually an intolerable bind for me psychologically. I've already written off the corporate office for southeast PA, in Spring Mills, however.

My prestige jobber is starting to take shape, in my new adage learned via Mr. Tucker: if you're not getting paid, take your fucking time. I have to tie in some bits and ends from Mueller's "expanding" areas of interest, Manafort's kickbacks so much more aggrandized than inner city extermination of best and bright invalid minds, minds which readily concede mild conflict: I can see my way through certain spaces to defend Trump some of the time, diagramming the gaps in his aphasia, but he won't slow down long enough to give me a reasonable accommodation. At the same time, despite utter loathing for Clinton, he makes me ashamed, on any number of levels. I've carried pain all my life: before, during, and after histrionic adhesion to academics, but I know, as well, my reactionary warfare has made an irrefutable stamp, my last vestige of any decency to be concentrated in love of the feline, despite undercurrents of weariness with our pet children.

Mueller's Absorption Rate

They still hate us! Adolph Caeasar's dying declaration


On the basis of Associated Press access, and the fact that I'm doing ancillary background research, duly assembled by NYT's  Mark Mazetti and Matthew Rosenberg, Michael Flynn allegedly mischaracterized his contractual arrangements with Russia Today, an airline cargo transport, and an American cybersecurity firm called Kaspersky Global, to the tune of $70,000. No longer a great deal of money, not even for Pentagon career officials This is i n addition to his transition team dialogue with the Russian ambassador, and his lobbying efforts on behalf of Turkey after he was forced out of the Defense Intelligence Agency. The best alternate narrative I have been able to find is that Andrew McCabe had an adversarial relationship with Flynn, and the FBI's investigation into the general's conduct is a retaliation on this basis. On some level, this has a plot similar to The Friends of Eddie Coyle, where an aging Mitchum tones it down to be a screwed, ineffectual humbug, played by his treasury agent, left hanging in the wind, his balls in a vise for unwittingly transporting Canadian liquor, desperate to avoid half nickel short time in prison for the sake of his family and the onset of his golden years. Perhaps we're all that expendable. Coyle is not a Bigelow thriller, with her stark realism of the price we all pay for deep state, whatever the hell that is, but the Nixon era set up, as true to seventies realism as anything I know, shows what is sacrificed for the system, and will continue to be. 
I have no affectation for Flynn other than, like the paralytic Krauthammer, trying to reason out the puzzle of why he wanted to return through the revolving door, and why he believes US Russian cooperation will necessarily pacify the intractable Middle East. Even if Israel dissolved itself, or should have never been forcibly formed, I give up trying to comprehend what seems to be deep seated cultural inadequacy and resentment. I know all the progressive arguments, and lived through a great deal of jingoism with you, viewed wretched documentaries which resets my financial stresses as extravagant, and though I may have trace elements of Semitic blood in my veins, it seems Yemen, Syria, Somalia, are appendages, like gall bladders, and the United Nations would be that much less a laughing stock if these sovereign fictions went away. It is a little too simple, too brusque, which is why the Pentagon would find me useful. I only voted for Trump as an act of punishment, so I cannot really complain about Beltway roiling, but I don't see any smoking guns here. Eastern Europe is what it is, and its mistrust of its own playbook reflects what is a seemingly universal need to beat the system. From that perspective, Manafort's kickbacks, Putin's undermining, seem deserving of some trivializing. I had a brief hope, returning to my conservative inclinations, that I'd get some recompense, but if I allowed the baser aspects of human cruelty to scar me too deeply, the right may tolerate my vitriol, but they aren't going to help me. They want my loyalty, my vote, getting me legal help, or extracting me, or finding clever ways to help the aged re-integrate the work force, that is sucked up by the oxygen of federal cannibalism. It is not helping Trump supporters, or anyone else. Can such skepticism ever be prevailed upon to change its view?