I clicked on Sheila Huff's account from my now well used Apple iPhone without thinking, and was prepared for the doctored breasts which meet your eye if you click her tweet. PhillyTechGuy may get another visit from me if Huff's site gave me a virus, but I cannot role play it that way. It is gratuitous. I'm not offended, I do not protest smut, and Miss Huff may use her riders as she pleases, but a woman of 53 is not 35, driven by those needs for an embryo hormones. Menstrual cycle stoppage triggers subtle changes.
I read Craig Whitlock's summary feature carefully, and do not have an issue with his inability to offer his readers a salient exposure (after all, I cannot get case managers to admit highly discriminatory behavior toward me, not on the record). We used to be able to say men are men and women are women, and apparently the Pentagon got its zipper caught between Paula Broadwell's antagonism toward a social climber when Paula herself was the one doing the serving Jill Kelley's voluminous email exchanges with a Marine like Allen make my turn of the century chattiness seem tame. The small short story I mailed to Brian Sims may be considered private mail, but emails don't work that way. We all know it and forget it, unless we use a firewall encrypted by Captcha, which is what I used yesterday to solicit Sims again, daring my terse attitude to refer to his orientation with a sensibility of watered down aspersion. Perhaps Sims and Toomey know what I am trying to say in more uncouth terms, but these are very busy men, and Sims might ask me, in critique, if Republican austerity measures helped me out.
No. Losing Paratransit only accentuates my isolation, but that the service is now heavily restricted is partly the fault of militant activist victories, as per Cassie James Holdsworth, and Erik. The right wing is basically correct. Septa's buses are functionally accessible, unless too crowded to displace seated riders for wheelchair users, but my mobility isn't any easier. I wanted to own my own home, with a lawn, but apparently all realtors have some sort of federal contract with HUD. Part of a disabled mindset involves a trusting nativity. I'd ask someone like Joan Tarshis if she'd like a roommate if my intellect did not already know we don't do things like that-- although I did quite openly feel a surge of gusto with this guy, and had to struggle not to ask Mr. Stiles to come get me the fuck out of here, please. That would be putting a lot on libertarian self-reliance.
Showing posts with label paula broadwell. Show all posts
Showing posts with label paula broadwell. Show all posts
Wednesday, February 4, 2015
Thursday, January 17, 2013
Myeloma Glitter Maw
"You have to be careful with something like that in national policy. It corrodes the forces; it corrodes the torturer."--Gen Stanley McChrystal
General McChrystal, sir: Obama may be relieved, or not, and most likely no one will care that I face the danger of Ezra Pound in his decline, and I am aware that I face such a danger as I recoil from the sordidness of the flesh, the sordidness of urban America, but I do not dislike Barack, and sometimes even agree with him. However, if Mitt Romney had not been nominated, I would have voted against the president. Radical equality progressives are as extreme as national socialists once were, and they are destroying the United States. I think you were treated unfairly by the current administration over the Rolling Stone expose. It is not as if you endangered national security by fucking female officers, and I have your book in my queue. Here is the deal: If you have national political aspirations, the spastic_dowager will support you, as long as you give me a tasty victual. I want the federal mandate that secures independent living centers eliminated. Kabeesh? If it was up to me I'd say let's go for a coup d'etat, but since it is not, and I am debating showing up for my local inauguration event to troll for kindle users to give me a subscription, I'd settle for seeing you at the head of, or in, a 2016 transition team. I want the people in Philadelphia who hurt me punished, and I know you've seen much worse in Iraq, but sir, the third world does exist in the US, and I deserve the compassion to stop living in it, because I am a gifted woman, and should not have to be watching my soul perish, like Roy Schneider producing his own death journey in Fosse's flawed but smart aleck musical hybrid.
I miss Roy Schneider the actor for more shallow and more sexual reasons, as compared to the moral certitude of Anne Bancroft, but miss him I do, the hyper cool tight ass, the perfect foil for the damn great white shark who probably would have been a better president than the majority of the men who held the office, and for those very reasons, All That Jazz had a powerful effect on me as a young woman. Even with multiple myeloma, Schneider kept his edge, commanding the desire of women like me to unify in the elegance of his eros (the scene where he kisses the dying woman with white hair). Fosse's devil may care moxie reaches me, despite the mild sexism inside the world of dance subculture. They just don't make movie stars like him anymore.
General McChrystal, sir: Obama may be relieved, or not, and most likely no one will care that I face the danger of Ezra Pound in his decline, and I am aware that I face such a danger as I recoil from the sordidness of the flesh, the sordidness of urban America, but I do not dislike Barack, and sometimes even agree with him. However, if Mitt Romney had not been nominated, I would have voted against the president. Radical equality progressives are as extreme as national socialists once were, and they are destroying the United States. I think you were treated unfairly by the current administration over the Rolling Stone expose. It is not as if you endangered national security by fucking female officers, and I have your book in my queue. Here is the deal: If you have national political aspirations, the spastic_dowager will support you, as long as you give me a tasty victual. I want the federal mandate that secures independent living centers eliminated. Kabeesh? If it was up to me I'd say let's go for a coup d'etat, but since it is not, and I am debating showing up for my local inauguration event to troll for kindle users to give me a subscription, I'd settle for seeing you at the head of, or in, a 2016 transition team. I want the people in Philadelphia who hurt me punished, and I know you've seen much worse in Iraq, but sir, the third world does exist in the US, and I deserve the compassion to stop living in it, because I am a gifted woman, and should not have to be watching my soul perish, like Roy Schneider producing his own death journey in Fosse's flawed but smart aleck musical hybrid.
I miss Roy Schneider the actor for more shallow and more sexual reasons, as compared to the moral certitude of Anne Bancroft, but miss him I do, the hyper cool tight ass, the perfect foil for the damn great white shark who probably would have been a better president than the majority of the men who held the office, and for those very reasons, All That Jazz had a powerful effect on me as a young woman. Even with multiple myeloma, Schneider kept his edge, commanding the desire of women like me to unify in the elegance of his eros (the scene where he kisses the dying woman with white hair). Fosse's devil may care moxie reaches me, despite the mild sexism inside the world of dance subculture. They just don't make movie stars like him anymore.
Friday, November 23, 2012
Emily Yoffe: White House Procopius
Now David Plotz will never accept a future piece from me, though this does not deter my brain from its Slate bracket file (and much as anything, my Slate byline aspirations need fieldwork), but I shall raise my voice, gently, on the moderate left rollback of the Petraeus imbroglio: If the neo-Eisenhower moderates, a species with no political home to call their own, exhibit character flaws, journalists like Yoffe roll out the tape measure and say let's be adults. Eh. Not so simple. People get hurt, and even if sex that violates commitments to monogamy is no longer criminalized, the state still has an interest in containing adultery. My fling was inconsequential. All of them were, but that does not mean I could not have gotten killed, and I did immerse myself in a pathological marriage between a draft dodger and his wife, unwittingly. Young and stupid, I wanted the thrill of romance, and married men, I discovered, were not afraid of me, and if I was not florid, cranky, and breast fallen, I'd do it all again, but more coolly, smarter. There is a huge difference between the thrill of forbidden pleasure, however, and illicit affairs that damage employment and productivity. And my former supervisor traumatized me, even if she did not mean to do so, by throwing me off my guard, in an email, about her orgasm intensity, and this in spite of the fact that I sought her confidence. I concede that. I enjoyed her company and was lonely and needed work again, but putting all that together became combustible. I did ask her things I feared asking my mother, and that was my mistake, because Linda is an alpha, and like any alpha, her dominance took over, and I became anxious, and the rest is history. That damage will never go away, and I doubt it will for Holly Petraeus either, and her grief is more salient than mine.
Men with power seem to need that urgency inherent in the impetus to spread their seed. We get that, but Petraeus and Broadwell were military officers. The Bush Administration did a great deal of damage creating Homeland Security, adding additional layers to a security apparatus that may not have made us any safer. Obama will not roll it back, but he is more visionary, and as president he should care that intelligence vital to the nation is well managed; it damages his legacy otherwise, carrying over bad ideas from a corrupt and inefficient administration, like Holder being out to lunch with Fast and Furious. Petraeus and Broadwell are human, and Paula was not nuts. She was enamored, and intense, but neither she nor the general are children, and Emily, perhaps Milbank as well, in a more nuanced fashion, treat them as if they were. We joke about the CIA, but we sober up real fast if, say, China takes North Korea off the leash and Seoul finds itself hit with a warhead, si? To serve within the top echelons of power is a privilege, and that should come with certain restrictions on indulgence. Unlike my former boss, Petraeus did take responsibility for his behavior, and then hired a lawyer, which is seemingly at odds with the idea that there are no extraneous legality issues remaining.
Rehabilitating his reputation is one thing, but whisking him back into executive authority is foolhardy, especially if he could not see the implications of having something necessary to conceal before he and Broadwell became lovers.
We tend to believe our republic does a bit more than mirror that Politburo in the east, but what Petraeus and Broadwell did is equivalent to the Communist Party corruption that makes the west feel so superior.
Men with power seem to need that urgency inherent in the impetus to spread their seed. We get that, but Petraeus and Broadwell were military officers. The Bush Administration did a great deal of damage creating Homeland Security, adding additional layers to a security apparatus that may not have made us any safer. Obama will not roll it back, but he is more visionary, and as president he should care that intelligence vital to the nation is well managed; it damages his legacy otherwise, carrying over bad ideas from a corrupt and inefficient administration, like Holder being out to lunch with Fast and Furious. Petraeus and Broadwell are human, and Paula was not nuts. She was enamored, and intense, but neither she nor the general are children, and Emily, perhaps Milbank as well, in a more nuanced fashion, treat them as if they were. We joke about the CIA, but we sober up real fast if, say, China takes North Korea off the leash and Seoul finds itself hit with a warhead, si? To serve within the top echelons of power is a privilege, and that should come with certain restrictions on indulgence. Unlike my former boss, Petraeus did take responsibility for his behavior, and then hired a lawyer, which is seemingly at odds with the idea that there are no extraneous legality issues remaining.
Rehabilitating his reputation is one thing, but whisking him back into executive authority is foolhardy, especially if he could not see the implications of having something necessary to conceal before he and Broadwell became lovers.
We tend to believe our republic does a bit more than mirror that Politburo in the east, but what Petraeus and Broadwell did is equivalent to the Communist Party corruption that makes the west feel so superior.
Wednesday, November 21, 2012
Petraeus Notary
Dana Milbank's back pedaling on the Petraeus affair implies that Director Clapper was too harsh in urging the general's resignation, and while I get the point of his column, and was headed in the same direction, in the vein of a disadvantaged freelancer without the same resources as an old media conglomerate, granted, one that may have saved the country (though I am unclear why Nixon was "this close to being a dictator," to quote a long ago would be paramour of my own), I have to agree with scholars who take the long view, and feel that the Petraeus resignation was necessary. To cue in on what keeps James Fallows awake at night, if the cyber warriors in China had breached the Petraeus-Broadwell electronic trail, then this sexual dalliance would have rapidly spiraled into a potential national security breach; this possibility is what's feeding the hysteria of the Congressional lap dogs. True, it may be a stretch to say that the general's distractions affected Afghanistan, at least in terms of operations theatre, or that it had anything to do with Benghazi, but this is what happens in a society where the narcissism of need, the selfish pursuit of that fulfillment, stains true personal liberty as something soiled, shallow. I may not have elevated Petraeus to heroic status, but viewed from a distance, I thought he was an honorable military leader.
Briefly, as my time is importunate, though open for later expansion, I have been shunned by married women online, particularly aspiring suburban novelists and poets, for my frankness, sometimes graphic honesty about sexual subversion. A little comeuppance seems in order.
Briefly, as my time is importunate, though open for later expansion, I have been shunned by married women online, particularly aspiring suburban novelists and poets, for my frankness, sometimes graphic honesty about sexual subversion. A little comeuppance seems in order.
Monday, November 19, 2012
Complicity Bounding
"I meant it in the sense that we were conspirators."-- Linda C Dezenski, defending her descriptions of her climaxes with her husband. quizzically riding on the heels of their divorce.
For all the efforts taken to circumvent Netflix, and the inconvenience of a DVD collection, sometimes streaming video denies us instant gratification. It was on the ABC affliate, the aforementioned chronicle, but weak signal and laborous transfer provided only glimpses of a vehicle that is possibly intriguing. Just blanked out in blinding white panic on telephone number; synapses assured by last summer's paper bill. If Alzheimer's is in my future more than likely I will be beaten to death by a caretaker, in the sense that verbal ferocity invites provocation. You've glimpsed my Iago already, the interior provocateur of a facile sophist. With that being the opening lead of a future preponderance, the kindle paperwhite yet another catalyst in knock offs to a weakened, weakening stride, let's return to the avenues opened by Paula Broadwell and Arlington Road, though I cannot pull a rabbit out of the hat into the immediacy of revelation, there is something larger here, an overarching issue worthy of grasping, like the proverbial tiger who will maul out my innards unless I unravel the maze. It is a difficult one, but the real life event, the sexual license which seems to go hand in hand with state secrets, keeping and uncovering them, ties into what the studio reflects back. Pellington's fin de siecle is dangerous because it suggests what cannot be said in the mainstream, that everything we think we know is a front for facts not in evidence, that McVeigh may not have been an implicitly independent actor, that federal agents misdirect themselves and miss real threats that might have been caught otherwise. Clinton's sexual misbehavior, for instance, may have exhausted our energy, not leaving us alert to pay attention to Osama, though the right bears blame here too, given that Kenneth Starr suddenly elected himself the American prelate (much as I am doing by airing out the dirty laundry within the homosexual community, by the way-- I have not dug into this, yet, but can assure Blogger that spastic's probing may hit a nerve, and won't we have fun! Do we ban this disabled woman, or what, damn it, we're about efficiency, not defamatory speech! Why us?) -- and while Wiki does a good job describing Kruger's taunt script, Pellington's texture complicates things, like his jump cut to a Hope Davis replica after her supposed elimination by Robbins' charmingly superlative, and thereby incredulous, glee club, suggesting that Bridges' Faraday was so out of his depth that the only way he could have won was to join the conspiracy, vanish into it. This is partly where Gilliam leads his protagonist in Brazil, who is doomed simply because he tries to be decent, and longs for a kind of purity, that, due to its impossibility, leads to expiration. As phantasmagoric as Brazil is, it leaves Gilliam's fans uneasy, and exhausted Terry's output. 12 Monkeys and The Fisher King, though competent, lack the same force. The third film that binds all this together, surprisingly, is, The Brothers Rico, and this is not simply due to economic pressure. Then again, fans of Simenon understand that we are all complicit in the damage of corrupting and collusionary impetus. I'll take a break, pick it up next post.
For all the efforts taken to circumvent Netflix, and the inconvenience of a DVD collection, sometimes streaming video denies us instant gratification. It was on the ABC affliate, the aforementioned chronicle, but weak signal and laborous transfer provided only glimpses of a vehicle that is possibly intriguing. Just blanked out in blinding white panic on telephone number; synapses assured by last summer's paper bill. If Alzheimer's is in my future more than likely I will be beaten to death by a caretaker, in the sense that verbal ferocity invites provocation. You've glimpsed my Iago already, the interior provocateur of a facile sophist. With that being the opening lead of a future preponderance, the kindle paperwhite yet another catalyst in knock offs to a weakened, weakening stride, let's return to the avenues opened by Paula Broadwell and Arlington Road, though I cannot pull a rabbit out of the hat into the immediacy of revelation, there is something larger here, an overarching issue worthy of grasping, like the proverbial tiger who will maul out my innards unless I unravel the maze. It is a difficult one, but the real life event, the sexual license which seems to go hand in hand with state secrets, keeping and uncovering them, ties into what the studio reflects back. Pellington's fin de siecle is dangerous because it suggests what cannot be said in the mainstream, that everything we think we know is a front for facts not in evidence, that McVeigh may not have been an implicitly independent actor, that federal agents misdirect themselves and miss real threats that might have been caught otherwise. Clinton's sexual misbehavior, for instance, may have exhausted our energy, not leaving us alert to pay attention to Osama, though the right bears blame here too, given that Kenneth Starr suddenly elected himself the American prelate (much as I am doing by airing out the dirty laundry within the homosexual community, by the way-- I have not dug into this, yet, but can assure Blogger that spastic's probing may hit a nerve, and won't we have fun! Do we ban this disabled woman, or what, damn it, we're about efficiency, not defamatory speech! Why us?) -- and while Wiki does a good job describing Kruger's taunt script, Pellington's texture complicates things, like his jump cut to a Hope Davis replica after her supposed elimination by Robbins' charmingly superlative, and thereby incredulous, glee club, suggesting that Bridges' Faraday was so out of his depth that the only way he could have won was to join the conspiracy, vanish into it. This is partly where Gilliam leads his protagonist in Brazil, who is doomed simply because he tries to be decent, and longs for a kind of purity, that, due to its impossibility, leads to expiration. As phantasmagoric as Brazil is, it leaves Gilliam's fans uneasy, and exhausted Terry's output. 12 Monkeys and The Fisher King, though competent, lack the same force. The third film that binds all this together, surprisingly, is, The Brothers Rico, and this is not simply due to economic pressure. Then again, fans of Simenon understand that we are all complicit in the damage of corrupting and collusionary impetus. I'll take a break, pick it up next post.
Saturday, November 17, 2012
Porchetta Links
Things were going fairly well in the waning afternoon sunlight of mid-November's autumn, nature having reminded the latest east coast starling who is actually in charge, things settled down, and although spastic has no hope of earning a fucking cent on her poetry, playing the guilt game with the even more ephemeral literary journal was an active back step, a deceleration (do not kid yourself about my rage-- I may be leery of pushing the envelope with Google, but if I believed that I had the physical ability to carry out a tactical assault for justice, barring that I still have layers of politicians and the civil service to engage, and pity wooing, after this is exhausted, my temperament is such I'd choose this over post modern polemics, if my intelligence could counterbalance my physical helplessness, though the compassionate house nigger lifting me off the foam mattress which was just a little too low for me to do my lateral transfer suggests otherwise). I would spare Tim, in the age old tradition of objective indifference. The man may hold me back, now and again, because of his limitations, none the less, my target is the power that denies the regulatory system nearly any degree of flexibility. Rising up from the black lagoon into this tranquil interlude comes Aunt's obsession with niece and a new mattress for her daybed. My ex found the daybed and I owe him there because its sturdy wooden frame works, gives me hand grips.
For those remaining fans of Terry Gilliam's cult status, this is my aunt with the mattress obsession. Yes, the old woman with her frightening face lift, her ostomy issues, is on my side, and I know that. I lived with her before imprisoning myself in public housing. I know she wants to help, and that she sees how my sister's exploitation has hurt me, on top of my trauma (for newbies not following, I gave my sister a substantial loan during the Great Recession, wanted her to help me during the building renovations, and sister, who won't lift a finger for anyone else, wants to put me in a nursing home. She has husband, education, four children, a house worth 500k, and needs everyone else to support her; you figure it out).
Niece tries to tell aunt that niece needs to track down editor boss for cv for the editorial position, and that the optimal time was then, while I had the space, landlord leaving me the fuck alone, I have to plow through my documents, but no. Aunt and niece shatter each other's nerves, despite me telling her to throw mattress out, nope. Favorite cousin hauls ass with senile uncle. Good to see cousin, teach him kindle, tell him blog is up on Azmo for download. Coz is going to help me advertise... I really want to try for this job, one last great push, and I am screwed now, because the foam needs an inch, or an inch and a half base, and while I have to sort that out and reroute my newfound lack of room, because Tim just leaves things, I am running out of time to put a competitive submission in place. He was a terrific authority figure, my AC editor, and taught me how to be a better journalist. On deadline, I was in Paula's heat for the fellow, and I have no idea what he looks like. The odds of me finding him before this Thursday? The issue of the economically disadvantaged at a standstill in time management is not new. If I do not apply, if I miss taking a last heroic leap, I might as well be Tuttle vanishing in a layer of ordinance.
For those remaining fans of Terry Gilliam's cult status, this is my aunt with the mattress obsession. Yes, the old woman with her frightening face lift, her ostomy issues, is on my side, and I know that. I lived with her before imprisoning myself in public housing. I know she wants to help, and that she sees how my sister's exploitation has hurt me, on top of my trauma (for newbies not following, I gave my sister a substantial loan during the Great Recession, wanted her to help me during the building renovations, and sister, who won't lift a finger for anyone else, wants to put me in a nursing home. She has husband, education, four children, a house worth 500k, and needs everyone else to support her; you figure it out).
Niece tries to tell aunt that niece needs to track down editor boss for cv for the editorial position, and that the optimal time was then, while I had the space, landlord leaving me the fuck alone, I have to plow through my documents, but no. Aunt and niece shatter each other's nerves, despite me telling her to throw mattress out, nope. Favorite cousin hauls ass with senile uncle. Good to see cousin, teach him kindle, tell him blog is up on Azmo for download. Coz is going to help me advertise... I really want to try for this job, one last great push, and I am screwed now, because the foam needs an inch, or an inch and a half base, and while I have to sort that out and reroute my newfound lack of room, because Tim just leaves things, I am running out of time to put a competitive submission in place. He was a terrific authority figure, my AC editor, and taught me how to be a better journalist. On deadline, I was in Paula's heat for the fellow, and I have no idea what he looks like. The odds of me finding him before this Thursday? The issue of the economically disadvantaged at a standstill in time management is not new. If I do not apply, if I miss taking a last heroic leap, I might as well be Tuttle vanishing in a layer of ordinance.
Tuesday, November 13, 2012
Other Women Entry
Distracted this morning, I have to drive to the pharmacy in an hour and half or so, not sure if I should brew a partial carafe, no carafe, heat up a mug of instant coffee which I'd rather save for emergencies, snow storms, busy on my own manufacture, I wonder what you discern in my writing, and none of you respond, not knowing what to say. If you are familiar with independent living/community integration models, you think I am unreasonable, obstinate, that I hurt myself more by not letting institutional ruthlessness go, and that I should listen to the near dead now partially spastic and mostly demented transvestite and return to counseling psychology, but will not comment to that effect because you risk intransigence in my response. I have been in clinical therapy environments from the age of fourteen through... how old was I in 2000? Mmm. A simple subtraction blank, is not early dementia just precious? Absolutely darling, the loss of identity. I may not know all the medical terminology of the clinician, as I was a tangential addition to the narcissism of the mental health field, but I know all the tricks, and I know, in the most reasonable terms, that the cure is work, change in habitat, and why Erik cannot get his stroke scarred mind around that is beyond me. I never wanted to live here, ever, and the toll has been costly. Purely by accident, I discovered a desirable relocation option, and must investigate, at once, and cross my fingers; you can hope for me as well. Perhaps the force of mass consciousness will wax good vibes. Kate's Place is another somewhat less desirable option, but I have to get myself up to 15k sustainable, not easy, and credulously, Kate's appears less accessible than Presby. But whether you are healthy and ambulatory, wheelchair user, cancer *survivor,* rehab patient, 80 year old scholar with cataracts whose gentle optimism parries against me, or Paula Broadwell, the new age Monica Lewinsky, so intriguing!, disability centers generate moral erosion, and they have to go. Big task, little woman, but someone has to stand up.
Married women flock to Holly. Married men--Barack, the silent Clinton, the rumored McCain, wince as if they singed their balls on the stove. My commiseration is for the outlier, the Other. Broadwill can get through this. Right now she is paranoid, with justification, and Paula, honey, emails can be broadcast to anyone? I am speaking as the woman embarrassed more than once, and not just with this pixie on canes. You lost your head, and I do not know what your darling deity is going to do, but you will crash, and you will crash hard, whether or not you write a tattle at the end of the president's term. I got caught once, and this was a Canadian beatnik scandal of minor proportions, but Mrs. Beatnik tracked me down. She cried bitterly about her son, and would you like to know what that felt like, her pain glancing off my chest while I sat on the edge of the ghetto burning Everything He Gave Me? A crucifixion, that was the sensation. The centurion nailed those spikes into my wrists, latching my ligaments to the cross. I had three more affairs after that, but you, lady, are a blithering idiot, hopefully not a double agent, and you shit on your kitchen table by confusing amorous pleasure with your career, his, and altered his marriage beyond repair, even if they stay together, the general and his pedestrian wife. Eventually you'll flee the notoriety, but it will cling to and sicken you and will be obligatory in your obituary announcement. However, I understand the conflict involved in iconic conflagration and sexual desire, how it later became subversive even if it can be fun, and fulfilling, but it is not a reward unless your feminine needs can evolve and come to realize worship of the male principle as a safe haven is a backfiring mechanism. I am old, and bitter, and don't think Americans should revel in the efficiency of Petraeus as a catch valve, but I will extend an offer for luncheon on me. Maybe a sympathetic agent can pull some strings and get me out of this city so I can then be assaulted and beaten to death on K street, or Utah, for that matter. My email is easy to find. I have to roll soon, however.
Married women flock to Holly. Married men--Barack, the silent Clinton, the rumored McCain, wince as if they singed their balls on the stove. My commiseration is for the outlier, the Other. Broadwill can get through this. Right now she is paranoid, with justification, and Paula, honey, emails can be broadcast to anyone? I am speaking as the woman embarrassed more than once, and not just with this pixie on canes. You lost your head, and I do not know what your darling deity is going to do, but you will crash, and you will crash hard, whether or not you write a tattle at the end of the president's term. I got caught once, and this was a Canadian beatnik scandal of minor proportions, but Mrs. Beatnik tracked me down. She cried bitterly about her son, and would you like to know what that felt like, her pain glancing off my chest while I sat on the edge of the ghetto burning Everything He Gave Me? A crucifixion, that was the sensation. The centurion nailed those spikes into my wrists, latching my ligaments to the cross. I had three more affairs after that, but you, lady, are a blithering idiot, hopefully not a double agent, and you shit on your kitchen table by confusing amorous pleasure with your career, his, and altered his marriage beyond repair, even if they stay together, the general and his pedestrian wife. Eventually you'll flee the notoriety, but it will cling to and sicken you and will be obligatory in your obituary announcement. However, I understand the conflict involved in iconic conflagration and sexual desire, how it later became subversive even if it can be fun, and fulfilling, but it is not a reward unless your feminine needs can evolve and come to realize worship of the male principle as a safe haven is a backfiring mechanism. I am old, and bitter, and don't think Americans should revel in the efficiency of Petraeus as a catch valve, but I will extend an offer for luncheon on me. Maybe a sympathetic agent can pull some strings and get me out of this city so I can then be assaulted and beaten to death on K street, or Utah, for that matter. My email is easy to find. I have to roll soon, however.
Monday, November 12, 2012
Arlington's Dialectic
I do not know if Mark Pellington earned his directorial skills on Oliver Stone's knee, but his transitional Arlington Road is a dangerous film in ways that have nothing to do with the orchestrated plausibility of collusion. It opens with a riveting bracket of Mason Gamble as a child, hobbling along the road, minimally lucid, with voice overs by the scout troop Robbins and Cusack use for indoctrination that seem to suggest the Fenimore's were going to sacrifice the boy as collateral damage, or that the boy got caught in the explosion of a terrorist act. Pellington may have wanted to depict Brady as an evocative Holocaust victim, or he may have wanted to reclaim traumatic war images, for those of us with long memories. The burn injury to the arm suggests as much. When it comes to Ruby Ridge, my memory is as obligatory as the next, and whitewashed the tragic turn of events, though the congressional inquisition that litigated the event was as much strum and drag as any other congressional inquisition before or since: the impeachment over an ejaculation stain, the sexual harassment allegations of Anita Hill, the deposing of Oliver North, and now, the latest boffing of David Petraeus may have led to compromised intelligence. Well, hello Dolly. I do remember Oklahoma City and Timothy McVeigh vividly, and Bridges' character is damaged by the consequences of federal overreach, then destabilized by conspirators more proficient than the federal agents trained to police such reactionaries, and then he was sacrificed to the truth, and both Pellington and Phoebe Hoban, writing about Mia and Woody, intimate this truth can elude the most rigorous public exposure. Do I believe in the Tim Robbins character? Not for a second; if he was that good, why not just run for office and put tea party conservatives in charge, but I do believe in Pellington's contention that human ineptitude leads to institutional burrowing. I do not believe in Petraeus. He salvaged, rather than saved, a war in Iraq that should never have been fought, and despite the fact that he is probably a competent manager modeled on Eisenhower, we all know Afghanistan will wind up as a travesty of blood and treasure. In hyperbolic mode in the first year on my other account, I suggested this sorry excuse of a country be nuked, but in more brutalist fashion, if you really want to pacify a territory, then you not only occupy it, but divide and govern it, much like fascist Germany became East and West until the collapse of Stalinism. W43, the cowboy cheese puff, wasn't going to waltz that bride to the altar, and Obama underestimates the tenacity of zealots. Extremists put Afghan girls in my high school class in the latter days of the Carter Administration in 79. By 2020 my sister's younger children will be spoon fed the same refugee dosage, because we have lost the stomach for ruthlessness. Paula Broadwell seemingly put all her passion into a belief, and much as I did thirteen years ago, lost her composure when that idealist bubble seemed about to be pierced. I am sitting here laughing because not 72 hours after Messiah Obama seals his legacy, his new term is rocked by a cat fight over who possesses the rights to sexually feast the American Achilles.
Earlier in the summer, I reacted to Greg Zacharias admonishing me on the James list when I was trying to be witty about spam. He wrote, in context, that the spam filter was not a conspiracy against me, most likely because I used the phrase "collusion of peers" in factual innocence, but the subtext in the public transmission between us was this: I was riffing the man, playfully, subversively perhaps, to suggest, "well, I am a Jamesian and belong in this club". And the subtext of his retort, that what I wrote was silly, was, "no you don't; you forget your place." My brother used the same rebuff, that the family was in a conspiracy against me, because I saw a united front, uncle aunt, sister and grandmother, telling me I belong in a home, as something from which I needed legal protection, and much like the stalwart Bridges in the film, I am damaged, but I am not wrong. If I stop fighting, if I lay down my head and do not force Liberty to accept responsibility for bad acts, and some denial, as well, I'll be as burned as this besotted woman, who is evidently about to be torched, but I also want centers like Liberty eliminated. They waste your time and your money. You don't have to trust me on that, simply look at the evidence. Romney may have been a poor candidate, a shoddy conservative, but liberalism is just as eroded. How inflammatory do I have to be for the FBI to give me a file? Thrilling notion, isn't it?
Earlier in the summer, I reacted to Greg Zacharias admonishing me on the James list when I was trying to be witty about spam. He wrote, in context, that the spam filter was not a conspiracy against me, most likely because I used the phrase "collusion of peers" in factual innocence, but the subtext in the public transmission between us was this: I was riffing the man, playfully, subversively perhaps, to suggest, "well, I am a Jamesian and belong in this club". And the subtext of his retort, that what I wrote was silly, was, "no you don't; you forget your place." My brother used the same rebuff, that the family was in a conspiracy against me, because I saw a united front, uncle aunt, sister and grandmother, telling me I belong in a home, as something from which I needed legal protection, and much like the stalwart Bridges in the film, I am damaged, but I am not wrong. If I stop fighting, if I lay down my head and do not force Liberty to accept responsibility for bad acts, and some denial, as well, I'll be as burned as this besotted woman, who is evidently about to be torched, but I also want centers like Liberty eliminated. They waste your time and your money. You don't have to trust me on that, simply look at the evidence. Romney may have been a poor candidate, a shoddy conservative, but liberalism is just as eroded. How inflammatory do I have to be for the FBI to give me a file? Thrilling notion, isn't it?
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