Elusive Hotspot Mastery

There isn't going to be a next time!-- Ryan O'Neal, against his romantic inclinations in an unhappy monastic focus.

There is something off kilter about Los Angles which, succinctly, is integral to its geography, integral to California’s veneer about its own progressive sensibilities. The dowager may no longer offer regressive members of ADAPT the tolerance she once doled on the teaspoon, but Jimmi Shrode was not in error when he warned me about the state’s cosmetic fraudulence, after a fashion. James Ellroy seems to pick it apart in his novels, gets at its essence through rather brutal citrus peels, terrible phantasms, grotesque, obsessive drives, like Harry Bosch going flintly in the face of a threat. Welliver’s character is an unabashed liberal, playing off a hip sidekick of a partner and a lesbian lieutenant who has parity with the title character when it comes to testosterone and an honorable pair of testicles, but he is also a frightening vigilante, and this behavior stems not from liberalism, but from cowboy culture, easily superimposed on Walter Hill’s exposition of the sprawling metropolis as a location. Just as Ellroy’s literary LA has a very dark undercurrent, one that is not comparable to Austin but might run parallel to tortured white male psyches. Walter Hill’s LA is a function of the underground. Though The Driver has scenes shot in sunlight and even pastel-light backgrounds, it is a movie about what happens after dark, beneath the surface, by those who have no desire for Bruce Dern’s zealous attention. Ostensible reality cop shows too though, illustrate LA’s bizarre bicameral indigestion with cultural appropriation. Only in LA does a patrol officer allow bygones to be bygones, counseling a crippled white gimp about a twenty dollar fuck with a toothless black ho whose gaunt frame was claimed by narcotics long ago, sad, but just as much Hollywood kitsch as real, and rather fragile, glamor. Entertainment’s intersection with the street is only a part of the whole, a synecdoche distinct from other cities with stark impersonal landscapes, like Tokyo, part sprawl, part superhighway, part architecture which looks like pastry boxes. Somehow, we don’t all get along, in this desert of 4 million, iuterlaced with a nearly predominant Mexican culture and so much sometimes tragic, sometimes braced, tension, by disaster or design.

He died of a heart attack in a swimming pool; so much for igniting headlines like an earthquake, coast to coast.

Clay Warner's Anticipatory Erosion

"In the real world, the value of human life is relative."-- Saul Rubinek

I rushed my column, winced at my typographical error in misspelling Kinsley's name, repaired this after the fact, and now I'm sitting, belabored, speculating about whether it's worth getting more pissed off and trying again, as perhaps my point about Donald and Serge was contradictory. Zakaria can rehash white suicides on a subtle curvature, and I cannot even get back in the game, for obvious reasons, and perhaps more effusive ones; debating about whether annoying busy editors with personal slants will do any good. When I wrote about my broken nuptials for Philadelphia Inquirer's Metro section in 2005, I tapped into a national sentiment unexpectedly and felt incredibly gratified, had absolutely no other writers to share my good fortune with, and the residents and managers alike at Riverside said "I read your column," (the good old days) but that I earned the byline caught me entirely off guard. 

The situation is now reversed. I feel the media owes my voice for the injustices of my late middle age, and I'm lucky if The Nation responds "this is too national in scope," and I never truly countenanced that my 53rd year would be the beginning of the end, not senile, but livid enough to alarm Google, enough to earn a cautionary note about my lack of reticence, not knowing if I'm capable of killing my former supervisor. Statements such as those, in such a battered intelligence, is relegated to creative non fiction, or the screen writers guild, not an online account, even with an adult content warning, especially as said supervisor is a real person, a disabled woman herself conditioned to humiliate her like.

While my twitter application sat in my wheelchair pouch at eleven am, I had a skittish transfer to the porcelain throne, a rather painful evacuation, and almost did not make it back to the cushion, crooked in my pivot, flexed hand on the bar, better left hand on the arm grip, gasping, trembling a little, urging myself to release my grasp, perhaps a bad day, or conversely, my quality time has a more immediate expiration, but I will not allow authorities to re-institutionalize me, which, in essence, has an inevitable conclusion.

Of the lengthy Sam Waterston arc as the indomitable Jack McCoy, "Genius" is not the most scintillating in the Dick Wolf neural net, but between the lines, the writers were challenging the very essence of regulating human deviation. They did it on the sly, of course, as Wike doesn't off sympathetic victims, especially as a Klan leader incognito with bodies on his conscience isn't something even angry old bitches want to go to the mat for, but Clay Warner does not represent a magnified human aberration, took no pleasure from his actions, and saw his eliminations as rather justifiable. If we dispense with the outer contours of the plot, (creative genius as a subversive threat, and Warner's willingness to dispense with his life) the argument challenging judicial process for an intellectual acuity which correctly assesses bad actors essentially implies that adjudication cannot always achieve an equitable balance. That is one caveat I've been arguing all along, one that creative minds recognize. And with this note in mind, let's return to Sandra Bland.

Spastic believed initial reports indicated she crossed traffic lanes improperly. Now it seems Encinia loses his job over a turn signal. If, among other things, the ACLU and libertarians like my licentious twitter ally Tony Stiles have their way, the US dispenses with civilian police forces, perhaps hiring volunteer eunuchs at a cheaper rate to remove collateral corpses off the asphalt after the weekly LA driveby. What happens? Communities invariably police themselves, the margin for error increases, invariably enforcers naturally reoccur and we're back we're we started. The dowager has no idea why Bland is dead. If it was homicide, it seems the state troopers are going to incredible lengths over very little: not every bigot thirsts to lynch those they hold in contempt. If she hung herself, deflated by a disreputable environment, Encinia is being wrongly punished, because it is a sign of the times that millennials are coddled by the rose colored glasses of their parents. It was a fucking holding cell, not a pleasant place, and I fail to see why correction officers would have harmed her deliberately, or even another prisoner. No evidence was found to indicate this. She would have been released, and had she actually caused a collision, reporters would have decried laxity in state license suspensions. We've gone so far afield we really cannot distinguish anuses from dirt holes.

Aphasia

Many scholars lake to make safe nods to multicultural orthodoxy by implying that human races do not exist.-- Nicholas Wade, Chapter 4, A Troublesome Inheritance: Genes, Race and Human History

There is a documentary on You Tube which summarizes the Lionel Tate case through 2015, now coming to a close with typical confetti glitter surrounding the winter solstice, and spastic has flagged for consideration doing a book on the subject, which supposes I live long enough, and have the clout to get some of the primary players to open up to a relatively battered journalist with her fingernails just above the sewage canals beneath the streets. The good Sheldon Novick once encouraged me to explore the curiously destabilizing aspects to Alice James chronic condition and her brothers' gallantry, which in William's case bordered on incestuous compassion, but my triggers of interest are apparently aroused by the firestorm surrounding a child murderer who seems compellingly inconsequential in his interior aspect, in terms of self-realization and responsibility, and yet electrified intense emotional investment which failed to redeem him regardless of the ideological spectrum involved. Liberal empathy, conservative bluntness, failed to redeem Lionel Tate, the judicial hours spent disputing the facts in evidence failed to rectify the arc his troubled young adulthood, and a movement like black lives matter, what redress can it offer if Tate and his mother can't step up to the plate to address their own negligence, not without facing self-incrimination, in the death of Tiffany Eunick?

Institutional bias had no bearing on the events inside Mrs. Tate's dwelling. That bias only came into perception, if relevant, once the six year old was dead, and who spoke for her? The wings of Tiffany's mother were clipped because the monster wasn't a television manufactured psychopath whose behavior could be so carefully circumscribed by the genius profiler played by Matthew Gubler, just an overweight 12 year old with typical aggressive indicators of dysfunction allegedly tied to maternal indifference, and then it gets buried, superseded because Trayvon Martin gets killed by a paranoid vigilante, or disadvantaged individuals die in police custody, with little weight given to how overwhelmed police forces are, these days, the blue line of last resort. I am nearly positive my district now has a flag on me because I've complained about the terror and the hatred of the elderly I've experienced under the corporate banner of Presbyterian Homes.

Certainly, to pick up on Tony Stiles' point, all governments are so much more powerful than people, but that is everything. Landlords necessarily supersede impoverished tenants, because the concept of property is the lynch pin of capital-- even though we know that however it is zoned, structures on a landscape aren't owned. We exchange them, relative to the value of the location, and create space in the livable atmosphere of storied buildings. In essence I am conceding certain critiques to Marxism, at the same time flipping it. If I owned what I wanted to live in, I'd fight and fend for it, but section 202 housing is a classification designed by default for expendable classes, to treat you like a problem, not to help you climb, but to spit you into a hospice, which had its nascent inclination in the 19th century, in the birth of the sanitarium, and regulation on the federal level, leads to the spiral of dilapidation in more subtle fashion, as surely as shanty towns breed the next pandenic.

Lionel Tate is a footnote of black on black predation in the uproar over police brutality toward perceived civilian threats, black, white, Hispanic, Indian, and he shouldn't be. The familiarity of contempt generates more murder than the use of excessive force at the end of a gun barrel, not that I can drop everything to run with this, as my pet is guilty of capital  endangerment.

Arrest Worthiness Metrics

"Do you think I'm over-reacting?"-- Patrick Stewart as Loomis

The beginning of the end of sedate misery, not yet transmitted, barreled through to simmer, a day, two, no more:

To the ninth district:

I am writing to file a discrimination complaint against Presbyterian Homes, their present supervisory agent Ken Cantrell, current manager Trudy Richardson, and long time former vocational employee Debra Horne.

In 1993, under the duress at my former location, the Diamond Park Apartment complex on 1500 West Page Street, I was a victim of an aggravated assault by the grandson of a tenant.  Presby's owners had some liability for that home invasion. The grandson, whose name was Brandon Phillips, had free access to the building. The grandmother either could not or did not escort her relative out after his visits, and I bore the brunt of this by being staked out by a minority, without even so much as a hint of security at these dual complexes, on a day when I had taken off from work. There was no eye level peep hole for me to look out of when the Phillips boy knocked, and perhaps, had I not been worried about clearing my cabinets for the exterminator, had not rushed to open the door, Brandon might have gotten lucky and actually killed me later on, and I wouldn't be sitting here 15 minutes away from the area, virtually penniless, and still traumatized.

The detective who investigated the case closed it rapidly and the perpetrator served his time. My issue is Preby's culpability. I wanted to pursue litigation against this huge rental corporation, so much more powerful than I, and allowed their manager, Terri Way, to talk me out of it. I know there is nothing any officer can do about that. It was many years ago, and reluctantly, I followed Ms. Way to Riverside, with great resistance. The supervisory agent then, Ellen Hovey, knew she dodged a bullet, knew how traumatic becoming a crime victim was for me, and under her manager, Michael Howard, I was treated  with deference until he left.

Since he was replaced by Debra Schwab in 2005, I have been under repeated duress. I was banned from the dining service during that time, harassed by the tenants knocking on my door and pelting me was bars of soap. An attorney named Steven Gold assisted me with that, and undoubtedly as officers you might suggest it is over and done with. Of course, but then I was molested and robbed by two personal care attendants from Unlimited Staffing in 2006, at which time I ceased getting aides on the Medicaid Waiver, out of fear. At least one in three of these woman attempted to exploit me, and I've let it go and let it go, and can't anymore.

Up until last year, I used my personal monies for housekeeping help, and that is now gone. I am unemployed with the exception of sparse freelance commissions. Trudy Richardson, her boss, and Debra Horne have repeatedly threatened me and excoriated me at every opportunity, and if I had stood up to Ms. Way in 1993, I could have litigated the Diamond Park owner's negligence and returned back to Delaware County near my immediate family. I want an admission of liability from Diamond Park's owner, and given what I've been through, if Presby is a so called Christian company, let them pay for unit cleanings. I am strangled in debt, trying to go back to work, and if Ms. Horne is so concerned about my mental affect, she and I had a meeting about the fact that my former supervisor at the local disability center had created a toxic environment for me, but in 2007, with an assessment team corralling me in the doorway, they insisted that I return to the disability center for services while my supervisor was Vice President and chief officer.

Every white professional I've spoken to about what happened to me due to my interaction with Linda at the center understands I cannot return there with their coordinators, but not Debra Horne. Her role here at Presby is to attack every vulnerability, and treat wheelchair users like zoological specimens who need to be caged. I refuse to go down this way after years of fighting for viable matriculation. If this company wants to evict me, that is an option freely available to them. If your officers think I am now falling into the troublemaker category and want to remove me from the building environs for not being able to measure up to ambulatory standards, then do that. I do not do drugs. I don't drink, but I'm going to put your motto to protect and serve to the test. This company violates my rights, and I consider the fact that I've lived in a senior living facility since I was 23 tantamount to a hate crime. I want out, and I want this company's conduct toward the disabled investigated. Copies of this complaint will be going to the ACLU, state attorney's offices, and the Human Relations Commission.

I realize you have much more traumatic domestic issues to deal with, but I am not going to die like Danieal Kelly begging for water while this city's governing competency continues to generate national embarrassment. I apologize for the two or three minutes of your time this took to read. 

Decisions Once Made

I cannot survive on the street, a mere biological fact, but I have made my decision. No television, no cell either without a solar charger. Entitlement disruption down the road. I've queried over 20 potential room shares and made polite contact with two. The woman I like, but she will probably pass. I have stressed my ailing immediate family, who are screaming at me about reality, one of whom cannot face their own. No, daddy and horrid stepmother too. Louise doesn't want a nigger washing her ass, and yes, I hesitated, but you see the contradictions. I have to have to have evil slur washing my ass and I don't want African caretakers. Will I die as a direct result of all this drama? Who knows. Not I, but I'm illustrating reality for you. Accessibility laws mean jack shit. I've never had equal standing with ambulatory individuals, and none of you want the Burden. You see? I may drag my heels, at least until 5/1, but what the state has imposed on me in more pressurized gradients as time goes by is the equivalent of Fascist strong arming. I want my parent rental agent to own up to its liabilities, and the DHS guy shrugged and said, in essence, "nothing doing". I was inflicted upon, with lethal violence, systemic if more tacit abuse, EEOC violations. Nothing can be done about it, and if this begins my long goodbye, there you have it, my wonderful people. I'll BBL

Dragon's Hundred

It's always the eyewitnesses to an event that can provide the most powerful testimony--Indoctrination

Hundred Days aired seven months to the day I was born, and of all the Outer Limits episodes in its initial tacky two year run, this tap into America's Maoist hangover made its indelible impression, cheap play on the Manchurian Candidate it may be, I believed the Communists were capable of such parasitic infiltration, haunted by the death masks and skin molded like putty, as laughable as it is, Pine shutting down a Washington engagement with a minimalism that would make Vice President Biden blush, and Sidney Blackmer using mincing eye movements as a substitute for Pavlovian stimulus. Childhood naivety superimposes itself on mature depreciation of camp. "Dragon," "The Mutant," and "Feasibility Study," these provoke powerful emotions still when they run at four am, whatever the popularity of Zanti Misfits as best in concept, lying to first professor. "What did you read coming up? Science fiction?" Yes I did but down played it with false pretensions, the only time, I believe. I read copious tomes of science fiction, filled my fucking bloody head with it, and God-genius divined that with one look at me. I wasn't about to give in, you see. Is it his memory I hate or my asinine, totally asinine worship-- if the man had told me Ho Chi Minh was a savoir, I would have went home to my father saying Korean servicemen were pigs and padre would have thrown me in the basement. Yes, I know, some students even fuck them, teachers, marry them, even in South Korea, wind up utterly disillusioned. Jerry was the only good thing that ever happened to me (or not). He was not Linda Dezenski, abusive manager, did not take advantage of me, encouraged whatever the fuck it was I possessed, and I'm throwing magnificent literary tantrums, my father cursing my every accomplishment, his dying guilt superimposed on my failing airways. "No one is going to put you away."

Dad has himself been putting me away, aged 9. Then 13, 16, my high school graduation. Consigning myself to a certain shorter lifespan, I had resolved to give notice on my lease this week, releasing myself to vehement castigation of Trudy Richardson, but one or two things dampen the pulse, Karina either being offline or blocked me, which I might reasonably expect, though she said she'd help me pack, nightmares of the Taipei crash play like a mechanized Seaworld kill. No one believes political ideology with such stark lines of demarcation, but this doesn't mean the heirs to Amazon and Google won't have a hard on for microchips, their implantation, stimulus, response.

Kidman Arc

I hope that Nicole Kidman is not a Scientologist, like her unfortunate ex-husband, because her artistry is more interesting than Tom's, more sinister and intriguing, offering something for a contemporary woman to chaw, even in watered down vehicles like Birthday Girl, a story line too improbable, though she can be applauded for ambiguity. I myself have closer ties to Jodie Foster's man girl obstinacy, and Foster consumed many of my earlier posts on this project. I am not yet satisfied, but grew up with Foster, as opposed to Kidman. Nicole has had currency, more than a decade of it; my perspective on her is still that of a shiny coin, because I am rapidly aging beyond relevancy, and if I should make it to my 70's, like my dialectical rival, of whom I look nothing like, I will be worse, perchance gone baby gone, a freak show like this curiously ugly and gritty little Affleck vehicle, minus Harris and Freeman, and that, simply because these veterans are too well branded, this film is one of those that tells the truth about the hard core underside of dealers, perverts, steaming like hot dung, and thus, hard to watch even without an X-rating.

Is my ongoing battle a disease? Who knows? But if I do not wage it, I have only myself to blame, and my first protest missive has hit the postal service, so I cannot turn back. My father's sister raises her voice that I need to let this go, but I cannot, I am sorry. I want some justice for my old age, something, some small victory for a literary artist's autonomy, a cry for freedom, real freedom, yes, and I should have waged this war in the strength of my 30's. I may pay a price still more undeserved, I may be dismissed, and I am a little scared, but between Liberty Resources and PresbyHomes I have been forced to digest rust for 28 years, a vibrant woman of promise, I am now broken, and the system can break me more, I have no illusions about that, but I am not going down in compliant humility to Pennsylvania's social service system. I will not and I cannot. But by the same token, age marginalizes the marginalized more. I will not live much longer than Vassar. She died with a tube in her stomach. No one will do that to me.