"It was dehumanizing."-- Allison Stranger
A twitter notification, and I refrain from sarcasm, not particularly caustic, searching for the right way to put it. People are imbeciles, regardless of metadata, data mining, and automation which can actually be blamed on CNN and Ted Turner, historically. CNN, lampooned as it was, anticipated the nervous breakdown of the global conglomeration that is today's digital economy.
If I am so full of my own fucking ego, I certainly don't have any brand imprints but for a thimble touch, and whose particular fault is that? I have not troubled the New Yorker in an eon, not their kind of writer. The Atlantic. The New Republic, Boston Review, these were years ago, almost. This close, and The Atlantic does falter. Some of its women are weaker bitch slap contributors. In today's environment, one can shrug old media, as well, but we know the elite when we see it. Leaving myself out of it, there are perhaps four Niume bloggers who have professional experience, Gary Sharpe being one, the Parkinson's guy, and had I paused to assess, given my platform experience, I would have put him in as my referral. Sorry there, big guy. I'm hampered by aging laptops and reluctance to upgrade Windows, though Microsoft will eventually force the issue; I've already killed myself for CPM metrics, which is why I haven't pushed my posts for exhaustive originality, stringing my points on the backs of other stringers, those on the beat, access to Lexus. I could buy Lexus if I wanted to now, but I'm waiting. I need a media outlet to cushion resource expenditure of that sort, some kind of contract, cripple limitation notwithstanding.
I know I can quit Niume, significantly slow my pace, but it is mostly drivel, and that is the issue. I'm not afraid to push Niume's buttons, but their users are so placid, my meanness would be smothered by a melting pint of Ben and Jerry's. I know when I'm licked, even if I haven't barred rabid fangs, but I am going bare them here, to tell you this, whether Blogger gets alarmed or not: Philadelphia has taught me that black counter culture is destroying the United States, and in the collective sense, Black America, go fuck yourself. You want to get out, go back to Liberia. I hate you, not individually, but in the macro world, collectively, you drag yourselves down, with ignorance generative of your own cruelty. I can never repair myself from the bosom of Negro fatalism, and say this quite calmly: I am going to fight Trudy Richardson, Debra Horne, and Gerry, the old cleaning lady who is mostly out of her mind. Why am I going to do this? I have to. If they were white, given the same institutional hostility of religious corporations, I would do the same thing if the whites had violated my dignity to the same degree. Will I go to prison? Probably not. Be forcibly incarcerated? That I do not know, but I am beyond the reigns of my family in terms of not agitating. If I had a way to penetrate my former supervisor, it is her learned prevarication that triggered this, set the ball in motion. It is nuanced, as I've written in 30 odd posts, and I was at times taut, maudlin, but she played me to a criminal offense, and is the target of retribution I cannot access but by federal civil litigation I probably cannot engender. She and I are both near the end of functional biology, to the extent of the cerebral palsy we both have. I am not taking any more of it, criminal malfeasance, from minorities with skulls of two inch thickness and 100 brain cells between them. I'm taking them down, and if I suffer for it, change has to start somewhere. I'm cranky with the rain, and have to do grocery I am really not up for this morning, with my grand last gasp playing itself out. I will never befriend an African again, ever, though they need not see this, as yet. I can still mask it.
Showing posts with label post racial america. Show all posts
Showing posts with label post racial america. Show all posts
Tuesday, March 7, 2017
Saturday, January 28, 2017
Conscience
One of my former co-workers from The Matrix Institute sent me a friend request, and I am leaning toward denial, even though at a holiday dinner she made a funny. It made me laugh. One of those had to be there moments. Richard Baron, our chief executive, was pontificating about being Jewish during Christmas, and Cheryl, rushing to defend her own pleasure, said "Christmas is universal," which stopped Richard in his tracks and earned her the stony stare opprobrium. I just found it amusing, and broke out with a guffaw. So this is why I remember who she is. We did not work together directly. She is black, but better educated than Harriet. I do not feel like picking the Harriet Fowler scab much further than I may have in 10. I have a great many conflicted feelings about Matrix. I helped destroy a liberal, overly permissive research facility that let me lie my way out of a few things. I was unhappy with the job (when am I not?) but I quit, really, because the battle to get around became the job.
I understand social media's rather scoping power, even if it creates tunnel vision: I myself waste no small energy asking "who blocked me?" and I have other things I need to do, and by now, I might have had at least 2k on twitter, if I wasn't me, and Cheryl is sort of like my aunt in that automated chat with photo and video do it for her, and I could almost hear what she thought, OMG it is Joanne. She has 508 connections. I have 8, and do not care for many more. The fact that I now openly wear racism, virulently at times, has little to do with my link to her, and I'd never use Zuckerberg's platform to do what I do on this domain. I bring it up solely because I do not feel any guilt looking at her account and shrinking back. I am supposed to feel remorse, and do not. This woman did nothing to me, never aggravated me, delighted in her life, and like the late Gwen Ifill, had a light bulb smile. Perhaps my humanity was always doomed in this fashion, but it is the fault of the black nanny terror I live with, as well. She and I barely knew each other then, so that she took the trouble is more or less a numbers game of seeking out the appearance of popularity. Not sure how conducive this is, whatever I decide.
I understand social media's rather scoping power, even if it creates tunnel vision: I myself waste no small energy asking "who blocked me?" and I have other things I need to do, and by now, I might have had at least 2k on twitter, if I wasn't me, and Cheryl is sort of like my aunt in that automated chat with photo and video do it for her, and I could almost hear what she thought, OMG it is Joanne. She has 508 connections. I have 8, and do not care for many more. The fact that I now openly wear racism, virulently at times, has little to do with my link to her, and I'd never use Zuckerberg's platform to do what I do on this domain. I bring it up solely because I do not feel any guilt looking at her account and shrinking back. I am supposed to feel remorse, and do not. This woman did nothing to me, never aggravated me, delighted in her life, and like the late Gwen Ifill, had a light bulb smile. Perhaps my humanity was always doomed in this fashion, but it is the fault of the black nanny terror I live with, as well. She and I barely knew each other then, so that she took the trouble is more or less a numbers game of seeking out the appearance of popularity. Not sure how conducive this is, whatever I decide.
Wednesday, January 27, 2016
And then I got mad
The great harmonica of social media. Amusing in some ways, chic progressives feel the heart of me and then read a post like this, which even with my blizzard taut nerves as they are, I did not have to write. Do I really feel this way about black urban norms? After 30 years of being a minority in it, yes. I destroyed myself at my own insistence, for which I cannot forgive myself, and now it's almost too late. I am nearly on the same trajectory as any other Presbyterian resident who gets ground up to a sausage puree-- only I am a little too young, and the building manager, the cheap Oprah imitator preying on my fears, isn't fooling anyone. I've seen Presby put countless residents away, and I shouldn't have had to live under this paradigm, and then a woman like Trudy, who completes a training course in occupancy, gets to terrorize a former career professional with over $30 grand in debt for a graduate education.
Racist? Yes, honest, intimidating, and furious, feeling persecuted for my life. It turns out I knew who the old woman was, by sight, and in a terse, clipped interaction told her to take me off her card list, that I wasn't family and was an atheist, and resented the Matthew quotations, and was trying to leave the corporation. She said okay, looking like the picturesque version of the sharecropper who migrated North. She'll be dead soon. I probably will be too, and hopefully my fury will find a way to punish the city housing authority, and I mean, inflict punishment.
I'll be gone soon, in any case. I'd rather become homeless than die caught between black-Korean tensions with outlier white trash winking about it to each other in code. People shouldn't be forced to live like this, and before Lyndon Johnson they probably weren't.
Racist? Yes, honest, intimidating, and furious, feeling persecuted for my life. It turns out I knew who the old woman was, by sight, and in a terse, clipped interaction told her to take me off her card list, that I wasn't family and was an atheist, and resented the Matthew quotations, and was trying to leave the corporation. She said okay, looking like the picturesque version of the sharecropper who migrated North. She'll be dead soon. I probably will be too, and hopefully my fury will find a way to punish the city housing authority, and I mean, inflict punishment.
I'll be gone soon, in any case. I'd rather become homeless than die caught between black-Korean tensions with outlier white trash winking about it to each other in code. People shouldn't be forced to live like this, and before Lyndon Johnson they probably weren't.
Wednesday, May 14, 2014
Arson and Arsenic
Alas, bigots by definition are not inclined toward self-awareness.--Kathleen Parker, grasping the reigns with quite a strain
This home explosion is the closest thing I can find to what my aunt threw in my face via her son, but that it has a New Hampshire location means my fact finding detection system is off track, as it doesn't make any sense.
I am not sure why I continue to read Ms. Parker. I approached her in email as well, scoured by the same nasal vinegar you receive as an ubiquitous mindset on my part. Again, why? She is representative of the conservative affluent woman who wants everyone to be happy under the meaningless rhetoric of constitutional equal protections, while mildly chiding the country that we've lost the finesse of manner. In the case of Sterling, however, I side with Maher on Stiviano's underhandedness, regardless of the old man's attitude.
Stiviano utilizes babe sex to be a figure in baller culture, and that she stuck it to Sterling isn't any less deplorable due to the fact we're shoveling cubic tons of dirt on the underside of egalitarianism. I am still weighing what I want to dialogue about with Kathleen, who was in Laura Bush's press corp, before I hit the whining pity cripple pressure meter. She will not grant me access if ridicule is a temptation in the wings, but suffice it to say Wapo's gate keepers know who I am, nibbling establishment platform breadcrumbs, to the extent that Graham family prominence carries any weight. In DC it carries, of course, despite the fact her column seems a bit shrill today, its humor forced, which may beg the question of what I'm trying to distill through her constraint.
I have roughly 1800 dollars between me me and agonized defeat against adulthood destitution, so I am struggling to cut back on nicotine vapor intake, eating my usage to mitigate agitation, I use a small pointed soft wood to clean the filter cap over the lithium battery that constitutes the e-cig, a maintenance of necessary dedication.
This home explosion is the closest thing I can find to what my aunt threw in my face via her son, but that it has a New Hampshire location means my fact finding detection system is off track, as it doesn't make any sense.
I am not sure why I continue to read Ms. Parker. I approached her in email as well, scoured by the same nasal vinegar you receive as an ubiquitous mindset on my part. Again, why? She is representative of the conservative affluent woman who wants everyone to be happy under the meaningless rhetoric of constitutional equal protections, while mildly chiding the country that we've lost the finesse of manner. In the case of Sterling, however, I side with Maher on Stiviano's underhandedness, regardless of the old man's attitude.
Stiviano utilizes babe sex to be a figure in baller culture, and that she stuck it to Sterling isn't any less deplorable due to the fact we're shoveling cubic tons of dirt on the underside of egalitarianism. I am still weighing what I want to dialogue about with Kathleen, who was in Laura Bush's press corp, before I hit the whining pity cripple pressure meter. She will not grant me access if ridicule is a temptation in the wings, but suffice it to say Wapo's gate keepers know who I am, nibbling establishment platform breadcrumbs, to the extent that Graham family prominence carries any weight. In DC it carries, of course, despite the fact her column seems a bit shrill today, its humor forced, which may beg the question of what I'm trying to distill through her constraint.
I have roughly 1800 dollars between me me and agonized defeat against adulthood destitution, so I am struggling to cut back on nicotine vapor intake, eating my usage to mitigate agitation, I use a small pointed soft wood to clean the filter cap over the lithium battery that constitutes the e-cig, a maintenance of necessary dedication.
Saturday, October 26, 2013
Brass Tacks
"It sounds like a movie." --Dorothea Stillman, when Newsweek was still a viable rival.
The production values in and of themselves weren't all that flawed. The NBC derivative on the original was shot well. The dialogue was brisk. Underwood was credible, but in the dialectical tension between network past and network present, Burr's more abstract chief was more viable. Those of us who watched Underwood in this tinsel song and dance knew the con was on, but what were the contents which made the snake oil difficult to swallow? The veracity of the character was wrongly concentrated in the script; I've no doubt the FOP bats for officers disabled in the line of duty. Perhaps some get day jobs, but playing a paraplegic who becomes a mimetic of his former mobile self whose physical dignity is respected by his perpetrators pitted against him in a hissing of discharged helium going over the top, this was simply an assault on any viewer's intelligence.
I remember as little as possible about Raymond Burr, but recall enough to know his series was wisely treated as a stage play, Burr expounding accordingly, a muscular, if two dimensional pitch on how Arthur Miller would define manhood akin to the lion in winter. I kept thinking of Denzel, comparing major and minor notes, perhaps even the praxis of performance between them, especially when a girl in school clothes screamed with piercing pitch in my right ear, turning me into a court tv troll. I frightened her, in my beret, glasses, distended teeth, as I admonished her and minority wilding sisters to control themselves in public. Sales associates who know me, witnessing this, suspected something else was afoot. I only occasionally get combative with these cliques, if I see something particularly abysmal. In this instance, the girl's scream triggered a slightly painful leg seizure, so I took it on, the admonishing, not sure what I should feel that I intimidated a school girl who forgot herself.
A racial incident? Yes, no, or depends on the perspective. Kids screaming in the streets could be a harbinger of escalation. I would have flunked out, handling this behavior at the scholastic level or above. Am I a slightly more pliable version of my father? Yes, despite the fact that I can cite socio-economic rationalizations with the progressives in Reich's tableau. I came back to the city of my birth with the best of intentions. There were, or are, remnants of Philadelphia's leisure class who deplore the city's self-depreciation; it is this which is the real blight on the Greater Delaware Valley, regardless of ethnicity. It does not excuse the sense of entitlement which suborns poor social behaviors.
The production values in and of themselves weren't all that flawed. The NBC derivative on the original was shot well. The dialogue was brisk. Underwood was credible, but in the dialectical tension between network past and network present, Burr's more abstract chief was more viable. Those of us who watched Underwood in this tinsel song and dance knew the con was on, but what were the contents which made the snake oil difficult to swallow? The veracity of the character was wrongly concentrated in the script; I've no doubt the FOP bats for officers disabled in the line of duty. Perhaps some get day jobs, but playing a paraplegic who becomes a mimetic of his former mobile self whose physical dignity is respected by his perpetrators pitted against him in a hissing of discharged helium going over the top, this was simply an assault on any viewer's intelligence.
I remember as little as possible about Raymond Burr, but recall enough to know his series was wisely treated as a stage play, Burr expounding accordingly, a muscular, if two dimensional pitch on how Arthur Miller would define manhood akin to the lion in winter. I kept thinking of Denzel, comparing major and minor notes, perhaps even the praxis of performance between them, especially when a girl in school clothes screamed with piercing pitch in my right ear, turning me into a court tv troll. I frightened her, in my beret, glasses, distended teeth, as I admonished her and minority wilding sisters to control themselves in public. Sales associates who know me, witnessing this, suspected something else was afoot. I only occasionally get combative with these cliques, if I see something particularly abysmal. In this instance, the girl's scream triggered a slightly painful leg seizure, so I took it on, the admonishing, not sure what I should feel that I intimidated a school girl who forgot herself.
A racial incident? Yes, no, or depends on the perspective. Kids screaming in the streets could be a harbinger of escalation. I would have flunked out, handling this behavior at the scholastic level or above. Am I a slightly more pliable version of my father? Yes, despite the fact that I can cite socio-economic rationalizations with the progressives in Reich's tableau. I came back to the city of my birth with the best of intentions. There were, or are, remnants of Philadelphia's leisure class who deplore the city's self-depreciation; it is this which is the real blight on the Greater Delaware Valley, regardless of ethnicity. It does not excuse the sense of entitlement which suborns poor social behaviors.
Saturday, March 30, 2013
Freelancer Autonomic
"You were there," Tavis Smiley, asserting an obvious statement of fact timorously.
Breakfast? Risotto, eighty percent consumed, anxiety attack abated, last mug of espresso cooling on my scarred heels. Google doesn't seemed too concerned about outbursts or homicidal impulses, as they, Google, keep mailing me nice suggestions, and hey, Google, if you want a hissy fit, all I want is to re-monetize my account and don't know how babe, and my stingy viewers aren't going to download me to kindle so I can buy myself a new beret. Every militant cripple has to be out for herself, but I'd like the beret before my journey, fraught with peril, commences. I wonder how I can do this, with my extensive knowledge production of what homelessness entails. How can I beat those odds?
It hasn't happened, yet, but I've had my fill of this landlord, meanwhile, thinking-- have to not give up. I did earn three thousand, so I must be able to earn more, and wish I could post more details about my ideas, but that would be foolhardy, turning my tumblers for you on the dialectical tensions between the industry and the ethics of the death toll.
Night of the Living Dead still has the power to make us cross our legs in a warding off reflex. At first, the opening seems to signal to the audience that we are entering into a send up of typical bourgeoisie pretensions, loosening up Judith O'Dea, somewhat suggestively. Romero is leading us by the nose, as if to say, I can set the blonde up for a cherry pop too, duh. Then it veers off, unexpectedly, in to becoming a post-apocalyptic dare on miscegenation, which still had a certain fearful fascination for those in the innocent wonders of childhood, and then it becomes an odious indictment of caste tensions, and cleverly reverses expectations, to remind us why the Southern mindset in the twentieth century was so horrible, so worthy of guilt, necessitating tolerance for Smiley's pretensions, Tavis closing his eyes to sway to the guitar strumming of the loose-skinned folksinger, a white witness to the times, "when Martin was killed." A bit bold on the part of Tavis, to do that on a set studded with floodlights, a kind of obstinate bubble, a testament of faith that one day the progressive level playing field will be victorious.
No Tavis. You'll never see that dream realized, because difference can never be equalized without creating a new class oppression, and the very fact that I am past the half century mark, unable to separate myself from government control of my destiny, is a glaring defacement at your altar. Duane Jones did have a nice piece ass, but I was just a kid.
Breakfast? Risotto, eighty percent consumed, anxiety attack abated, last mug of espresso cooling on my scarred heels. Google doesn't seemed too concerned about outbursts or homicidal impulses, as they, Google, keep mailing me nice suggestions, and hey, Google, if you want a hissy fit, all I want is to re-monetize my account and don't know how babe, and my stingy viewers aren't going to download me to kindle so I can buy myself a new beret. Every militant cripple has to be out for herself, but I'd like the beret before my journey, fraught with peril, commences. I wonder how I can do this, with my extensive knowledge production of what homelessness entails. How can I beat those odds?
It hasn't happened, yet, but I've had my fill of this landlord, meanwhile, thinking-- have to not give up. I did earn three thousand, so I must be able to earn more, and wish I could post more details about my ideas, but that would be foolhardy, turning my tumblers for you on the dialectical tensions between the industry and the ethics of the death toll.
Night of the Living Dead still has the power to make us cross our legs in a warding off reflex. At first, the opening seems to signal to the audience that we are entering into a send up of typical bourgeoisie pretensions, loosening up Judith O'Dea, somewhat suggestively. Romero is leading us by the nose, as if to say, I can set the blonde up for a cherry pop too, duh. Then it veers off, unexpectedly, in to becoming a post-apocalyptic dare on miscegenation, which still had a certain fearful fascination for those in the innocent wonders of childhood, and then it becomes an odious indictment of caste tensions, and cleverly reverses expectations, to remind us why the Southern mindset in the twentieth century was so horrible, so worthy of guilt, necessitating tolerance for Smiley's pretensions, Tavis closing his eyes to sway to the guitar strumming of the loose-skinned folksinger, a white witness to the times, "when Martin was killed." A bit bold on the part of Tavis, to do that on a set studded with floodlights, a kind of obstinate bubble, a testament of faith that one day the progressive level playing field will be victorious.
No Tavis. You'll never see that dream realized, because difference can never be equalized without creating a new class oppression, and the very fact that I am past the half century mark, unable to separate myself from government control of my destiny, is a glaring defacement at your altar. Duane Jones did have a nice piece ass, but I was just a kid.
Tuesday, April 3, 2012
Present
Kenny is one of the nicer rent a cops downstairs in the lobby, and obesity doesn't prevent him from actually doing his job. Like Tim, he is stick thin, and reported the car jacking that I was witness to, and if our backgrounds were just slightly more in sync, I would not mind dating him. Tenants get evicted for things like that here, and because I am naive, I got myself embroiled in something similar years back, with a piece of white trash who makes Frank look like the Bronx Casanova, and many of you may recall how my assessment of my ex-fiance has played out.
Kenny is near a hundred percent illiterate about digital technology and the new world of app-gadget fetish we live in today, but I blew some chatter out of my head about my tonsillitis episode. Nineteen is somewhat late in life for swollen tonsils, and Kenny says, with that inner city transplanted agrarian wisdom that leaves me impatient, "Focus on the present now, not the past."
All writers have is the past. The disabled woman on Sunday cut off, in her battle of wills, from her baby brother, is the same disabled woman Gretchen Laskas refused to respond to when I thought my ability to empathize with her agrarian mindset meant something. Has talking about our past in Speakeasy actually hurt her in any concrete terms? Did I print her telephone number? Or hurt her earnings? What I am driving at is when abandonment is merited, or not, and how it reflects reality. I have connected to thousands of people online over the years, but what makes a connection real, or my feelings of lost affinity germane? I miss Gretchen; if anything, I may have increased them if your curiosity is piqued. The best I can say about her novels, given the excerpts my fading memory recalls, is that she has the women's interest meme down, but weakly echoes Eudora Welty, and I have to be in the right frame of mind for Welty as it is.
Right now is as good as any to throw a tantrum about southern writers, but I believe I am well enough for coffee, even with my facial structure akin to over-heated cracked porcelain. It is perhaps accurate to suggest that if I stripped naked with a man as dark as Kenny, I'd have a panic attack; I will probably never be in a position to know.
Kenny is near a hundred percent illiterate about digital technology and the new world of app-gadget fetish we live in today, but I blew some chatter out of my head about my tonsillitis episode. Nineteen is somewhat late in life for swollen tonsils, and Kenny says, with that inner city transplanted agrarian wisdom that leaves me impatient, "Focus on the present now, not the past."
All writers have is the past. The disabled woman on Sunday cut off, in her battle of wills, from her baby brother, is the same disabled woman Gretchen Laskas refused to respond to when I thought my ability to empathize with her agrarian mindset meant something. Has talking about our past in Speakeasy actually hurt her in any concrete terms? Did I print her telephone number? Or hurt her earnings? What I am driving at is when abandonment is merited, or not, and how it reflects reality. I have connected to thousands of people online over the years, but what makes a connection real, or my feelings of lost affinity germane? I miss Gretchen; if anything, I may have increased them if your curiosity is piqued. The best I can say about her novels, given the excerpts my fading memory recalls, is that she has the women's interest meme down, but weakly echoes Eudora Welty, and I have to be in the right frame of mind for Welty as it is.
Right now is as good as any to throw a tantrum about southern writers, but I believe I am well enough for coffee, even with my facial structure akin to over-heated cracked porcelain. It is perhaps accurate to suggest that if I stripped naked with a man as dark as Kenny, I'd have a panic attack; I will probably never be in a position to know.
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