Not Too Many of These

 "A must see oddity--" Rotten Tomatoes

I subscribed to Topic in May solely to see The Returned, and as to the series, I cannot add anything that spry and paid reviewers haven't written about it. I saw a similar variation on the theme on HBO called The Departed, which was a majestic reconciliation in the way the US handles evangelical oscillations, but The Returned is unabashedly a Catholic French liberal horror story which has no apologies to make. Writing about it escaped me  in the immediacy of viewing due to daily nigger care, and my foray into Substack, which has been slow, but all I am here to do this morning, even if I am back logging into my archive, is to endorse Topic itself. 40% of the series are innovative concept, worth the six dollars a month.. I may not be able to afford it daily for too much longer, but if I don't simply give up and die of Pennsylvania's nursing home death march, I will certainly return to this channel in an economy marginally easier. Since I am on this do as I say kick, don't ever move to this state. I know Texas has its own sagebrush poverty and Texas Ranger powder residues, and Miami has areas of Liberty City that make Philadelphia seem like Kenya, but don't come here, to this state of my birth. It functions like static electricity.

Neurologist's Spike Protein

 

Do you have a cigarette?

This intrepid, if also embittered, disability journalist confesses she used to be a regular viewer of LA Law, as lightweight, cornball, old fashioned serial television. Although it slipped my mind until I searched the recall, it was here on this series that Jimmy Smits entered into his fleeting generational reign as the American Adonis, and here too that Corbin Bernsen and Blair Underwood made their initial impressions; my nostalgia, however, is particularly kind to Alan Rachins as Douglas Brackman, who formed part of the comic relief contingent. Towards the end of the series run, it was also Rachins, digesting the wrongful termination of a transgendered woman, through the show runners, who made an ingenious argument about women and body enhancement, one that seemingly collapsed gender reassignment as little more than enhanced cosmetic surgery. It is a difficult argument to refute weighed against the generational juxtaposition Brackman’s character represents, in the era just before Suits and The Good Wife.

But what recalled Noah’s Bark to me was the synchronized nature of the fictional client’s Tourette’s Syndrome as almost necessarily lending itself before the audience to the correction of social justice Brackman attempts, and then fails to wage. Concealing a condition like Tourette’s is difficult, and Brackman is called on it. The client reveals the truth, Brackman is threatened with discipline, and Steven Bochco’s conscience can sleep well at night for matriculated classes. The disabled of Riverside Senior apartments aren’t the matriculated class, and Morton’s Tourette’s is more the threatening disruption of the automaton, like the liminal figure of Jerry in Master’s of Science Fiction. This Saturday I had the distinct privilege of seeing Morton, his bouncing gait like that of a bumblebee, pacing the sidewalk adjacent to the building, with excrement on his naked toes. It was a rare moment of intervention for me, noting in bitterness that Trudy Richardson, she herself the equally afflicted lupus administrator, tortured me, with Caucasian acquiescence, for significantly less, in terms of infractions.  In letterhead after letterhead, Riverside trumpets how concerned Trudy is for the Negro Urban League women who masquerade their propriety as virtue. Nothing could be further from the truth when public health experts do not have even basic solutions for forcibly herding people with chronic conditions together in to evolving super toxins in our vapor heated indoor air.

I follow a former Planned Parenthood director named Abby Johnson on social media. She and I perhaps share a similar process of having turned rightward after having engaged our careers in the progressive limelight of Steven Bochco’s desire for universal alleviation, but she is as wrong about the fringe and its feral aspects as Bochco is in his: Morton is an aggressive imbecile, no more, no less, incapable of survival through utility. Difficult as it might be to envision how he would have fared in a pre-industrial era, the 21^st century can no longer afford his inability to intersect, just as it can’t afford the sum total of my horrific failure in abridgement with the ambulatory world.

Angel Hearts

 Almost at odds with morning,-- Lady Macbeth, Act 3, scene 4

With the exception of the human papillomavirus, which memory doesn’t recollect as an issue during pediatric examinations into puberty, I had the standard round of vaccinations as a child, and in principle I do not oppose the efficacy of inoculations. I had learned, from being a riveted follower of Hugh Laurie as the embittered gimp, in his rebranded American series, that diphtheria is a nasty business with its false membranes and significant threat of fatality. Most of us have never experienced diseases like this, which were common in the time of radical abolitionists like John Brown, and more common before his time. Penicillin made such monstrosities an afterthought, barring anomalies, like Natalie Wood playing the part of a polio victim in the late seventies against Robert Wagner. This character may have been esoteric for a television treatment, but citizens of Roosevelt’s generation were quite familiar with the specter of polio and what it represented. In conjunction with such great crippling, there was tuberculosis and syphilis, always a favorite for the interesting progression of infected brain tissue.

Most of us are educated enough to cede certain things to biology which have proven consistent in accordance with natural law, and that includes skeptics like the late Phil Valentine and the latest digital muckraker from New York, Alex Berenson. I had never heard of Berenson prior to a public texting company declaring itself the sole proprietor of scientific accuracy. More power to him if he’s able to succeed as an outlier. We’ve all been there, only my efforts led to black women putting my life in jeopardy. Valentine was duly mocked by progressives, and had it been I, my backstep might have proceeded in a different fashion, or not offered at all. Valentine seems familiar, and I did some research, being sympathetic to his initial position. For the time being, as an obituary driven impetus, it got away from me, fiscally drowning in a Medicaid driven crisis, but I still hope something reasoned, and anti-mandate, might come together. Suffice to say, I don’t think adjuvants and RNA sequences mute the hillbillies in their stand against dominion. I should add that I got the vaccine because I would have never heard the end of it. And it’s Philly’s section 202 housing system, after all, but if the Delta variant catches my scarred lungs, and wins, well, the forces of evil have my fucking hit list.

A Jade Dagger

The 2008 film The Forbidden Kingdom is a lavish coming of age film, and although one doesn't forget that Jackie Chan takes up the composite drunken kung fu master where the B movies from Hong Kong left off, to my mind this is an attempted blockbuster homage to Jet Li, because his time as the warrior moralist heir to Bruce Lee was drawing to a close, and why am I thinking of this boys will be boys flick? Because its violence is ornate, fantastical, even if it allows for the tributaries of outcry for daughters who are determined to seek retribution, and I am somewhat infuriated with a handful of progressive Libertarians on Twitter, namely a husband and father of a five year old who mastered the smart phone camera to take a plethora of doggie photos. Laughable moment. I am pissed off at Curt for flashing a gif of starving Africans, the motif of the public service pleas of television broadcast for as long as any of us can remember, given that humans of the radio age are dying out. Curt says sorry you have to see this, but both Biden and Trump are to blame,

No, neither Biden nor Trump, especially Trump, are to blame for the suffering in the underdeveloped world in the sense that Curt means it, and I am not sure where the conservative right exists in the American scene anymore. I lost my temper with Curt for pandering, barely restrained myself from launching into a micro Tweet tirade for which I might have been suspended. I have wanted to write something about the condition of libertarian minorities for a long time, and we'll pick it up as soon as I can. I am dearly trying to salvage the remnants of my strength, and it's very difficult, not the least of which because of the nigger skulking about my studio with his frustrations. Terminating the working relationship with him wouldn't be easy on me right now.

Victuals

I have been relatively quiet of late. Relatively quiet here on Blogger because it has always been a losing proposition, relatively quiet on Twitter because in truth, I have ceased to care, and it isn't anyone's fault that I lack mastery of the medium. Real despair, true despair, doesn't have the animus of racial hatred, which I have been known to embody, and will always embody, to some degree, it is too late to change the punishment inflicted on the organism, and I will not survive another round with Blogger either, the axe on the pain of experience. As a writer, in this moment in time, I have nowhere left to go, in the raw ganglia of gaping wounds that can only strike back like Ballard did in Crash, but Ballard's genius and ingenuity was an internalized agenda of turning agony into beauty through automotive technology. I certainly cannot master his parody of sexual and pornographic beauty of the infliction of suffering as its own kind of pristine agenda, and if Vaughan was an insurrectionist, Ballard's expose is undoubtedly convoluted, subtle, and more esoteric than I can ever hope to be. Elizabeth Taylor became as old and enfeebled as anyone without her megatron celebrity, but the image of her as a violet beauty who could obsessed has something of a temporal immortality our past ancestors handed over to demigods. What is Ballard offering up as a lesson here, in other words? The novel glorifies violent death, without regard for our digital era scolding over the sociological outcry about the rise of suicide as a form of despair. These days we simply get suspended over guidelines, and it is true, I have recently done myself no favors on Medium, the collective blogging site as generic as oatmeal. I told a lesbian black contributor she was disgusting and subsequently threw a couple of milder tantrums given that my section 202 housing community is now like a war zone in the Congo. Silencing the agony people don't like is simply more evidence of the same. I am expendable, and Medium took me out and shook me like a dog, not even giving me a chance to say victims, too, have breaking points. I cannot cope with the life I am being forced to live, and briefly dallied with the idea of antifreeze, but that is a great deal of agony on top of agony already inflicted. There are other platforms, but I'll run the same trouble there as anywhere. This lack of coping has little to do with what Corona has just done to the world. One of my followers told me privately that he thought I was a remarkable woman. Hardly, if I was that remarkable, I would have been able to get out of Philadelphia, would have been able to kick at progressives and remained standing. I know the little dyke girl who supported Bernie Sanders did not harm me, and was simply expressing political discontent, but I've been through a great deal on the underside of homosexual advocacy and race and I screamed. I screamed, and Jessica Valenti thinks I am a monster, probably, since I am in the class of those who "aren't going to make it," why am I not on their side? Because the poor also exploit and harm each other. They often lack the capacity of rational agents, and I have absolutely no way out, and I speak my truth of it, but not for much longer, and that is the true nature of despair. Nothing I do, nothing I say, will restore my quality of life. No sympathizer, no Parler, no Trump, no Democrat, nothing, certainly not the defeat of COVID-19, and I have no further decent pathway to forestall what old age is going to continue to do to me.  

Drought in Cape Town

"Accidents happen quickly. Investigations take a great deal of time."--Jim Southworth, besieged custodian of our national triage crew.

That I feel put upon in my now estranged interaction with fantasy novelist Shayna Grissom is on my plate: she requested a critical volunteer on Twitter, and as a long time follower, I offered, despite my physiological stresses. Not to put too fine a point on it, but the effort involved a shot toward tolerance across the bow, going beyond my own Copernican heliocentrism into normalized primate social interaction, and it backfired. Shayna isn't thinking of my disability, doesn't realize this senior living apartment which I've hated for 25 years is tantamount to a county jail cell because I have no control of my own environment due to blithe fat and jolly nigger cleaning crews and a pair of white trash drug addicts who tended to my dying stepmother, that my cervical and anal regions are depleted of estrogen, are otherwise burning and sore because my godfather's staff fitted me badly to modern power chair technology under the curious vendor brand name of Quantum, and that I've never been to a writer's conference in the Pacific Northwest because I don't drive a Buick with her downturned pursed lips and limp blond hair, she simply wanted that reassurance writers need so I offered, and even though I offered, her urgency was an infringement on a critical care invalid. "I need this done now, immediately. It's been a tough week."
So I did it now immediately after an arm wrestling match with the President of City Council Darrell L Clarke, a man taken aback by an angry Italian spastic who cared absolutely nothing for the fact that the Councilman was the biggest dick at the microphone. It takes a great deal of braggadocio to be a reactionary when African adhesion to urban liberalism is a roiling tsunami drowning you in its cubic undertow, and yes, let it roll off and down your back (meaning mine), casually as Dennis Hopper's gunshot death sprawling his body on our wondrous ribbons of asphalt that forged a nation. Only, I did not believe at the time that Shayna was lesbianistic. Thought she had given a shout out to a husband right before her conference sojourn, but yes, I will concede the now nicely bracketed block of activists (wtf does non-binary mean?) would find it difficult to accept my quadriplegic stark unhappiness near the end of its life as it is. I have, after all, lent silent and tacit support to Andy Ngo later this month. No nuanced quibble here. Antifa is a terrorist organization. It is just a sense of dismay that online contact rarely takes root and offers supportive friendships, especially in generational distances.

The Slenderest Thread is Silver

"Help me," --Anne Bancroft in her genteel tragic fate before her invidious seduction of Dustin Hoffman

He gave me his cold. Sounds petulant, does it? Cerebral Palsy is a condition, as opposed to a disease, a very common indicator of biological trauma within the radicalization of obstetric mortality ratios. We are not true quadriplegics, like Jason Dorwart ventilating about Breaking Bad star Bryan Cranston, which in itself is a refutation of Jason’s resentment, the residual effects of critical acclaim. Breaking Bad was eulogized for giving the city of Albuquerque a rather juicy visual exposition, and it means, quite simply, that its starring actor had every right to play pretend with spinal paralysis. Jason has the community integration acolyte’s adherence down to the T-bone, without being able to actualize the distinction that managing care doesn’t make that care a business, and he’s also wrong about the industry’s predatory opportunism. Hollywood doesn’t need wheelchair users, as opposed to character actors with exotic conditions, like Alopecia. Wheelchair users would also tell me I should have told the care giver not to come in, or to leave, or use a mask, prior to battle with volcanic mud slinky. For 48 hours, I feared the very real possibility of walking pneumonia, sweating with chills, flushed cheeks, my bronchitis in ascendancy. Jamboree man needs his home owner's insurance paid so badly killing the fattened goose is not, ironically, an issue. There are growing tensions between us, and I kept it to myself that I threatened Jevs Health & Human Services division within an inch of their lives, although I haven't yet weaseled a lawyer into seeing the liability of lucre.

Jevs HHS isn't Jevs HC. 

Do you begin to see what a game this is, why I am attracted to quiet pockets like The Slender Thread? For Pollack's directorial debut, Thread is a taut, well executed game of cat and mouse in which LBJ might not have even existed. Inga's distress is handled according to the values which were instilled in Eisenhower's generation, despite the fact that it's a new age liberalism trying to reign in this woman's deceit. Pollack ends this film in such a way that he wants us to feel the impact of failure: Poitier, the rigid son of itinerant tomato farmers, fails to get the virtue of Inga's white privilege to see itself as paramount. The tack on rescue is merely a fairy tale ending to get past the willful censor of populism. You're free to disagree with an imperiled woman, but the script wasn't a sleeper success. Savalas and his medical humanism hits too close to home.

Polynomial Spectrums

Alessandro Manzoni's mother was the beautiful and brilliant daughter of Cesare Beccaria, a distinguished writer on penal reform who enjoyed considerable fame not only in his native Lombardy, but also in liberal literary circles in pro-revolutionary Paris.-- Bruce Penman, an introduction.

I do not particularly enjoy considering myself a stalker, not beyond a certain point, and if I was as callous as I purport myself to be, I would have simply removed Tassoni's account from my Facebook feed, in tacit correction of a mentally hamstrung minority who thought he was doing something good for me, but instead, as grist for the mill, with a mastication near to that of Jamesian attenuation, I weigh the matter as heavily as Queen Elizabeth does in beheading a Catholic subversive. Heartburn versus he isn't the bad guy, and why did he accept the request if we quarreled in 02 in our relatively hale middle age? He achieved his goals, and I've done remarkably well, considering, annoyed at myself. My feelings are still involved, as if my consciousness teleported itself into Marquez's Love in The Time of Cholera.

The care worker, however, provided me with an understated life jacket. John is an authentic link to my more aspirational past, when I did believe my writing was a calling. He has 417 Facebook connections. I have 23, and torched more than a few of those, removed my mother's family from view because Mary wants me to go to a home because her brother, my dear godfather, couldn't get his apathetic technician to do the fitting right for my needs. So I am dying, simple as that. This is a serious rift between me and my aunt, also a partial cyborg. From what I have read of Cronin's trilogy, the Fox Network has its work cut out for it, and I'm rather in agreement with critics like Wheldon that it doesn't interweave properly between the novelist's past and future shifts. It does, as a show, tap into our anxieties in this post Ebola age better than Stephen King does with The Stand. That novel, while driven by well formed characters, was never worth the effort. It simply transforms calamity into Armageddon, a 70's era neurosis in tow. Cronin taps into a more complex undercurrent of civilization overwhelmed by a brute atavism humans never truly conquered.

I have witnessed the same ghastly minority devaluations in North Philadelphia, with the same white clean up operation, that has left district attorney Matthew Weintraub so visibly shaken. We all see the paternalism involved here, the privilege aghast at the color coded gasps of despair. Gosselaar and Sidney's studio manufactured bond, for our disappointed escapism, is no palliative, neither is the progressive fairy tale that egalitarianism is the better part of valor. My sister in law disrespects me because I don't coo at her son's child in the mall, not stopping to think how long it's actually been since I voluntarily went to a mall, or even have any funds to spend there. Instead, my finely educated mind has to spar with a black man who goes off on me because I do not salivate at his movie recommendations. There isn't any statutory requirement in Medicaid Waiver services that I have to be grateful to be diminished by his rote series of tasks, after living a life of mostly sterile disparity, and yet for all the violence in my failing lungs, nearly aspirating to death on a flu shot I did not want, but complying with an Asian resident's request to receive, I still refuse to go down. Should the FBI tag me, you think?

Fraudulent Undercurrents Toward Anarchy

"It is always a good idea to keep an eye on the enemy!"-- Linda C. Dezenski, much regretted colleague

I only wish I had the time to explore laxity in the citizenship application process. I do not, but Johnson's expose on the legitimacy of Omar's marital status illustrates the underlying problems with it. I do not know if Omar's tenuous claims about her partnerships are enough to have her legal residency in the United States investigated, but they should be enough to remove her as a duly elected representative of "Little Mogadishu".  This is clearly a case of election fraud, whether or not the insinuations about lax moral standards in underdeveloped regions echo the history of the Pharaohs in Egypt, who married brother to sister in an obvious misapprehension over concerns about preserving royal bloodlines. These Oedipal forms of intercourse, while rare, are not unheard of. These Oriental cultural norms, while exotic, are antithetical to the Enlightenment evolution of human rights on which the United States is founded and beholden to. 

Many people, when confronted with my livid anger at how ableism disenfranchises the impaired, and this includes Gabby Giffords, keep telling me to get help, and indeed, my very family wants me to surrender and restore myself to institutionalization, but what none of you can see is how honorable I've been. I do not engage in Trump's dubious and conflated deal making with his name as a form of logo visibility. This has nothing to do with mass production, or technical ingenuity, but I have also never intentionally committed welfare fraud. Without question, I use cerebral palsy to get away with, and evade behavioral control. That is about self-preservation, but I do not betray my own ethics, like many homosexuals in my life have, so perhaps my principles have as much to do with my downfall as my choices, but give the left a refugee patsy, like Omar, and they fall all over themselves to advance enfeebled infantilism courtesy of the Dark Continent. Pluralism and Muslim stricture cannot, will not, co-exist, without one destroying the other. The Islamic empires which emerged after Rome did not follow the same path of multi-cultural tolerance. They dissolved into the troubled Muslim countries of the post-war era much faster, overwhelming European existential angst when those of European descent allowed it much as Bowles and Joseph Conrad before him foretell it. Why in god's name can't we stand up for what we are? My country has intimated throughout my life that I am better off dead, despite the small modicum of individual identity I've wrested from it by sheer force of will, and I am willing to fight for it despite my encroaching expendibility. Why aren't you?

The Velociraptor of Yucca Flats

"I'm concerned about the risk of the risk."-- Donna Brazile, pretense of a force to be reckoned with

The only episode of The Good Wife which came to the dowager's attention when it had currency on the free CBS network was "A New Day," and even that was only a partial view 10 minutes into the story, which I can only say, now that I realize what was going on in the stratosphere Rahm Emanuel's dismal leadership, is one of the more improbable plots out of the third season, a gay Palestinian killing a one time Jewish hook up who didn't want him, with all of forty stereotypical stab wounds illustrating gay hysteria for the sole purpose of placing Chris Noth and Julianna Marguiles in diametrical opposition to each other as Alicia begins to assert her litigious independence. Rather than striving to regain a modicum of my independence, or burning my bridges with my godfather and his troubled designated vendor, Mainline Medical, such as they've never been burned before, I've retreated inward, lost in this neo-realist series developed by the King's in an effort to pave the way for Hillary's coronation never to be? I'm waiting on tinderhooks for Will's death, which reverberated the reviewer's pens and carried over to me, reading the reverberating reviews which I in turn should be doing, getting access to those contingent previews prior to air date. At this rate, conditions of digital media brands being what they are, that's a rueful notion, that I can still stand toe to toe in entertainment media, re-assemble my building blocks, still fortunate that I do not have the shriveled post-menopausal neckline Mary Collins of Virginia.

Think the answer is yes

— Mary Collins (@MCollinsVAGirl) January 22, 2019

This is what she wrote in my lack of response to a rebuttal aimed at me in relation to Mueller's grand political theater, which has oscillated outward on the flimsiest of specters. I lost my temper to these apparently habitual terse retorts of hers, not that she could have been aware that I am not always capable of responding when I am now forced to fight a staph infection, an infection which will kill me necessarily unless I find another power chair through which I can restore some function. I don't want a piece of the story in relation to the ramifications of Mueller's over reach and abuses, unless I pick up a side lede on Flynn, who mystifies me. Mary pissed me off, believing that I cannot possibly comprehend the criminality involved in a mere logo leasing deal in Moscow, but it isn't only that. We're losing that altruism we used to have before smartphones transposed our interactions into hyper-partisan scorecards. Ms. Collins apparently doesn't realize, herself, with those tart snippets, what quadriplegic means, and how I am a thousand times stronger than she for what I've survived, even with the vortex sucking me in these last 17 months, and that vortex is a permanent condition of Ray's, the tweeter who reached out to Woods in his threats to publicly advertise his desire for self-harm. Sunday evening I kicked Ray in the balls. He claims, this Sunday evening, that his suicide attempt failed, and I retorted I am sitting in diaper shit, broke, and he needs to get over himself. His Christian sympathizers stroke his anguish, but not I, in this insulating pain of his to illicit pity. If he truly wanted to be dead that would have occurred after the actor's efforts got Ray placed on 50/51. The nurturing TwitterVerse offers about his "value" is only encouraging him to continue illuminating his pain, and that devotion to Jesus he wears on his sleeve is no doubt representative of a martyrdom complex. Whatever his mental illness is, if he desires its mitigation, it is contingent upon him to relocate a healthier egotistical comportment, and swallow the therapeutic paradigm available. A nursing home, by contrast, will not do the same for me, and if I take drastic action, I have to be able to mobilize quickly.

Rosewood Massacre, circa 1923

serious question. do you have any African American friends, because you really seem like a racist. I always thought you were a great actor, but wow! you come off on here as a very bitter person.

— Ddot R (@Derrick82397251) December 10, 2018

For what it's worth, the dowager reads this tweet from Ddot as an authentic attempt at a dialogue with Woods, and James made the choice not to meet the sally. Is James Woods a racist? Depends on the prism through one wishes to view it. In terms of inner city paternalism, the actor's views certainly skewer toward a highly charged prejudicial attitude, and yet this is a man who admires Kanye, and Kanye West is at the very least diffident about black identity politics. Ddot may have missed, as well, the actor's offer to pay for a sweet nappy-headed child to go to Disneyland. And while spastic could care diddly about West or his music, she does, with sincerity, admire his gracious act of charity and generosity to the family of Jemel Robertson. What happened to this man in Rahm Emanuel's city (the former saving grace operative of Obama's soaring expectations) is the worst of American sins, more horrific than the 1923 events in the Florida panhandle that gave Michael Rooker his asinine role as a law and order man willfully allowing minority property owners to be lynched in the name of a loose woman who was treated like swamp sewage and might have given Harper Lee her chilling revelation of shameful sexually held secrets which lead to the defendant's death in Lee's self-same novel and in Gregory Peck's canonical approach to deconstructing falsehoods on our silver screens. I cannot and do not dispute that the actions of Florida's citizens in this early modern century was a Reconstruction era hangover worthy of a purge by Mussolini's authority. This is where my great grandfather was at the time, in Roma, a caste level artisan oblivious to Europe's refuse somehow unfathomably creating the world's last superpower on fear and loathing burrowed under by Protestant magnanimity. What I dispute is the industry's reconstruction of what happened, and it amounts to as much paint by numbers chicanery as any hard line intolerance of America's ruling class. Ving Rhames was only cast because he is a linebacker and Apollo Creed rolled into one. No doubt the death toll is open to dispute, but trenches filled with corpses of 140 colored? This is one quadriplegic who sees the agrarian tendency to exaggerate the numbers as being a colorful fixation of liberation theology. 

I've honestly forgotten what type of article it was I hoped to do with Woods' sympathetic and charitable cooperation. It has been 13 months since my near elimination from society, and I was not taking notes, only struggling toward a thesis-topic here on Entertainment Arts, but if Woods has reasons to be bitter, it may be due an indubitable realization that Hollywood executives huff ether in their creative parallel universe. I esteem and admire the European intellect and picked up another variation on this theme in a bio-engineering Icelander, who, if she bothers to absorb the implications of this link, will be appalled. The reason it truly no longer penetrates is because I in turn realize it doesn't matter. I have been murdered, as it is, by a broken-hearted graduate lunging into a progressive holy grail, all of 23 years old, never able to successfully rectify her mistake, a little late now, oozing in symptoms and disposable wear, as expendable as an innocent blacksmith.

Pascal's Wager

"If it were up to me I'd burn this place to the ground!"-- Titus Welliver

Insofar as this haplessly imperiled woman is able to puzzle out the threads, Zone Blanche is a more diffuse provincial version of Bosch with unexplained phenomena. The central plot involves two murdered women, and then we have the backstory surrounding the lead detective’s earlier victimization in the same forest, the suppression of that event, a series of additional crimes with men on the edge of sanity, a suicide attempt, and a wolf spiritual guide, a land scandal scheme, with the external malevolence emanating from or causing the corruption of Villefranche. There are no overt allusions to the Islamic State attacks, and this series falls under the rubric of the “mysterious village,” but the layered fantastical elements is a method to broach difficult issues without causing riots in Riyadh, or asking viewers to reflect on Sunni women drivers. Many of the automotive scenes in Zone Blanche are spooky, suggestive of vulnerability, and the opening shot of the pilot, skillfully done, (how easy it to experience crippling paralysis, in the blink of an eye), might have been a homage to George Romero, and the ever enduring living dead, while grinding the buttock to ground beef, yet another therapist, aged and brusque, stopping by to treat the Muslim pampering my disposable underwear with far more direct marginalization than the dowager engages in, jabbing a finger in the air, you follow me down to the car. Saran is, quite truthfully, too infantile for antagonism of the sort I am used to, but like most paraprofessionals, she is unwittingly brutal, physically aggressive, pragmatic, and severely limited in terms of intelligence. I have about a week and a half to go before I transition if she doesn’t land me back in the hospital. If she transfers me badly, as happened Friday, she’ll step back and watch me flail on Mr. Wheelchair’s golf cart. It took all my willpower not to fire her while I struggled gasping to keep my balance. Unless I can outwit the system, or throw money at it, it will only get worse, so close to giving up, I have to be cautious with the despondency. It took a good Sunday with Dana to realize my biological memory skills haven’t entirely vanished, latching on to Bosch precisely because this is familiar territory. I’d say his life was worse than mine, yet hesitate, supposing it is difficult for you to conceptualize the first 16 years of my life were virtually in a home very close to that of Bosch’s orphanage. I have little idea where the writers will ultimately take Zone Blanche, but the moral guilt is nicely woven in with the inexplicably ominous, like a Medieval Catholic allegory.. 

Beleaguered Castle Asteroid Shield

The murder of Andrew Petrie, ex-United States senator, changes the lives of his wife, Yvonne, and two brothers, artist Hugh and the mystic Stephen. Here's a brilliant analysis of relationships that miss, of introspection and misunderstanding, and of repercussions.-- a sympathetic reviewer

 It was disconcerting to realize only in mid-sentence that I was disagreeing with Joyce Carol Oates about the alleged non-action of the Parkland security officer when I scrolled search under the literature section. 

I have not researched the facts on the ground, but if he stay out of range, that was wrong.

— Joanne M Marinelli (@Jozannyme) February 24, 2018

The sheer volume of her output is rather daunting, rivaling that of King, even if she is too cerebral and literary to have King’s popular appeal. I know when I’m out-gunned, and wouldn’t have responded to her point at all had I caught myself, but I am not really an aficionado of her novels. A section of The Assassins scored beneath my undergraduate breast. Oates was up there, one of her central characters silenced by a respirator, undermining my expectations, and I am always down here, in the mucus mudpies, getting nigger fucked over every time I try to restore my work and submission routine, waiting on another visitation by a woman who until recently tended my hospice downgrading stepmother. More than Victoria herself, I want to sink to my knees and beg her fiancé, who claims he can convert anything, to restore my files. Even if the alchemy of how we react to the famous is somewhat integral to our own psyches, a star like Woods doesn’t faze me in the digital distance, but Oates does, even if longevity has dimmed her shine. Her celebratory profile of Mike Tyson was too convenient and self-serving, Blonde was a mixed bag, and tapping her for a White Oleander jacket blurb was in questionable taste. First time women novelists coming out of MFA culture have considerable lag time, and nothing White Oleander’s author did felt authentic to me. The main character was like a watered down Lolita with a flat tire. It came, went, movie deal, hackneyed as anything else.

Oates’s impassioned liberalism doesn’t leave much room for air, but I still feel she’s wrong. Cruz was on a rampage and had significant fire power, but security officers are hired to face such risks, and this officer might have done something short of martyrdom to save lives. That is the role for which they get paid. The actual instructors themselves should not have to function as police too. There are enough accreditation hurdles teachers face just to teach; having them armed in class has predictably bad outcomes. It may not be an impending world’s end, but Trumpian brinkmanship has increased my anxiety even as my range eclipses in this unstable meteorological shift of season. I need to stop punishing myself with procrastinating despair and get back to work while I wait to fix and upgrade technology, but I’m near breaking point, not sure how to scale down to adjust. Marie’s family is contemplating an exodus from the city due to taxes. This is radical for this branch of my family. It may be too late for me, the cruelty and paces Presbyterian Homes, constriction and loss of independence, my tonnage caving in my birdlike shoulders, catching up with Oates’s wrinkled visage.

The Abandon

Can you explain your views? Do you think ADAPT and others shouldn't protest in House/Senate office buildings?

— Kim Nead (@kim_nead) September 25, 2017

I promised Kim Nead, a woman whom I assume to be a Krugman sympathizer, that I would offer her an explanation of my views on predominantly left wing disability protesters. Shall we do a numbered list?
1. Most of them suffer far too much cognitive impairment to understand the crippling ideology of their dependence.
2. Those that used to, like Erik, or Cassie, people whom I've linked to-- you can research them on your own, ultimately derive their own power by unifying the mentally retarded.
3. All humans may do this, but in independent living, dissenters who get ostracized suffer more severe consequences than most. There are startlingly few Title IX violations which lead to murder in the work place. I viewed one such incident at 3M, but in disability culture, once you are driven out, it might as well be an economic execution. This is why I have gone rightward, although the toll I have taken by not holding my hand out for the Commonwealth's astringent mercy has been exacting. I do not deny exhaustion permeates every aspect of my life, at this point, although the state GOP gave me enough advance notice about the young Republican awards in Allentown that I could commit to going and then fail. I know Pittsburgh slightly, Harrisburg a little better, but Pennsylvania is a bizarre colony of origin, and Allentown, other than a recording refrain, my have been a drive through in my younger years.

Flaming Krugman, as I have learned, is no fun. His nasty reputation precedes him, and though I can give as good as he does, it would be a wrestling match with wounds afflicted on both sides, so I mute the extent of my rancor with his obnoxious knowledge acquisition. This is not to say I grasp economic theory. I'm interested, but the mathematical skill needed would strain my failing acuity. His smugness, however, triggers nausea, hostility from other economists who have taught me things, like Dr. Ferguson. I'd personally like to put Niall and Paul in the ring, and back my Scottish bay, if you get the analogy. Here is another: the left justifies itself exterminating an innocent fish, one bred for our pleasure. Nazi gas chamber, if you ask me.

April Fools

"No, with a prince."-- Catherine Devenuve, full bloom

I have been awake since about seven thirty Thursday evening, simply waiting for physiology to realign, and I am going to have to drive the Jazzy under the shower head fairly soon. It is risky, given that I have been lumbering in poor generic power chair technology with a short in its electric system for nearly three years, trying to upgrade, but it is less risky than a park near hot steam while I risk the old bathing chair, even though I should do things properly. My latest bad judgment was leaving Hahnemann for the ambulatory practice, in 14. I still have no new chair, and if I had the money, I'd skip the red tape and buy my own, but I'd be difficult about the fit, to get it right. But what are municipal progressives worried about? Not its marginalized underclass, but linking the commemoration of the Rizzo family to Charlottesville, because the city of brotherly love is a proverbial backwater, always has been, and I am wasting my data to burst out into tears. Frank and Joseph Rizzo have nothing to do with Bannon and Breitbart, and Trump's roiling rise, and Jim Kenney is old enough to know better. The Rizzos have a direct link to my family, and I don't have enough bullets through the heart. Now this. All evening, not to work, just to fight extraordinary dislocation pain, fight mild vertigo, indigestion, and take another bullet to the heart:

I cannot go on with 50 tweets but you are a local patrician; help me; not right to do to family!

— Joanne M Marinelli (@Jozannyme) September 8, 2017

The outcry here to our prominent local anchor is very real. I know Joe Rizzo's daughter. I stood on Broad Street for Frank's funeral procession, and my father received a commendation for rescuing the late mayor in an emergency fire, and I am going to find and buy that article. I am not going to let this legacy be cheaply besmirched without a fight, so help me God. And Jim Gardner knows this too. He knows what utter folly this is, the preening local celebrity insider who occasionally flaunts his access to the local political scene. He is a show horse, whether or not also a phony, but his living memory parallels mine, and a well placed word from him about this utter nonsense would carry weight, not that he would do it for the sake of my distress. The extreme right may not want the burden I represent, but if the left isn't careful, I may become the most unique aberration yet. I disliked Michael Nutter, but at least he was a defined scold. Kenney is the most ineffectual executive this city has had since Wilson Goode.

A declaration of war.

Ghosts of George Kennan

Vaya con Dios-- a pachi making up his mind

To the extent that the Korean War was a precursor to the somewhat over-simplified policy of "the domino effect," it still seems preferable that Truman would have allowed MacArthur his aggression during the dubious ignition of the original conflict; it would have had a less devastating global impact. The US military can wage any battle it puts its mind to, until the political reality of occupying foreign territory sinks in. With the possible exception of our charming war with Mexico in 1850, we don't know what to do when we win, except when it comes to Europe. The republican heir of imperialism threw its wealth back at its parent, and NATO is an anomaly in a majority populace of doves, understandably so. In this account, I am mostly either outraged that I pissed my life away in the city of my birth because of an attachment I would have never been able to maintain anyway, (discounting all the abuses my illustrious state has offered up), illegal, specious, or full of longing I cannot fulfill, but I am not attempting to be facetious this morning, and realize that throughout the course of its civilized formation, the majority of Asians suffered horribly, under their own fanaticism, or our own mercantile avarice, and North Korea has long had the stench of an outhouse attached to it. The secret footage smuggled out of Pyongyang illustrates some of the bleakest conditions of human existence outside of concentration camps, and I've seen a good diet of bleak footage. Yemen is positively lively next to the average starving North Korean female, and thus, no citizen in the North deserves a return to the desolation after the cease fire was signed in 53.

This said, it seems Kim is pushing an envelope, one in which the question isn't defeating him, but rather turns into, can Xi Jinping be cowed into submission, or do we risk a third world war with a New York real estate celebrity entrepreneur at the helm? Major economies would be disrupted, and the very thought of NATO occupying the border of the world's most populous nuclear power? 


The despotic personality cult of the upper peninsula has plagued three previous administrations. The longer this drags on, the more lethal the impending consequences. The only reasonable solution the dowager can contrive: induce the Chinese military to defang the puppet state over which it has suzerainty, however tumultuous that muscle is, at present. I've written this before. I'll write it again: I voted for Donald Trump, reluctantly. If there was ever an election to sit out, in decent libertarian felicity, it was 2016, and though I could route my diction otherwise, as I am posting this with some gravity, a mild alarm-- on election day, I made a choice, without being blind. I am fully aware conservatives have problems: but I can never return to the progressive sensibility of a triumphant egalitarian field, and so, my minority vote said "fuck you," despite the small fortune I have cost the welfare state, I am a pauper, broken by activists as much as any residual austerity, and Trump's impropriety has amused me, but we do not need to reignite the ghosts of opposition to Vietnam, which was a travesty on the heels of Truman's escapades.

Austerity of Mortar

On rare occasions, I marvel at the fact that Robert Thomas and I have been friends for slightly over two decades. It is lost to obscurity, who initiated our mutual familiarity, why we exchanged email addresses, why I confided much to him as an email junkie, at first. I treated him like a girlfriend, not a man, which signifies something about San Francisco liberalism and pasteurized testicles, and when I more recently told him I was having trouble with a draft of a poem titled "Black China," which is still troubled, a bit too lethal with sexual trauma, he made a suggestion which I appreciated, which illustrates I hold my ferocity it check for intelligence of a kind, similar to Jeffrey Tucker, a would-have been editor, and the Foundation for Economic Education's Communication Director. Why can't I just write FEE? Why drag it out, as if choking to death on marbles, fascinating spheres which must be manufactured in a method similar to ball bearings.

The case of Otto F. Warmbier is horrifying. This terror state is a disgrace to the human race.

— Jeffrey A Tucker (@jeffreyatucker) June 20, 2017

All Robert remarked upon when we discussed "Black China," was "it has a lot going on." What else could he convey, or even know for himself, about women, brain damage, and the like? Robert and I have remained friends because I haven't been vicious, overly demanding, and we have an entire country between us, even as I grow more increasingly autocratic, vehement, toggling how far I will take militant defiance of authority as a salve for failure and age. Sheldon Novick, also, tweeted "thank you my friend," for his birthday wishes. I was not going to drag the Jamesian legal scholar into this post, but what he meant was I wasn't being an imposition, and he appreciated my following of convention to single him out. Though I cannot speak for Jeffrey, whose mind operates closest to my own pattern when I am not being utterly heinous, Robert Thomas, Sheldon Novick, and Joanne Marinelli are going to soon expire, not to mention my mentor, and none of us have absolute control over these last decades. Indeed, even hale and energetic generations under us, to whom we're supposed to bequeath our intrinsic wisdom, often face the end unexpected. The elderly, being cautious, sometimes survive the folly of youthful credence in itself, and when Jeffrey raised his voice about Wambier's excruciating sufferance under the nearly extinct fanaticism of Pyongyang, the last vestige of Maoism's exterminating tendencies, I did not wish to allow Jeffrey's resonating outcry to reach me. I knew of the story beforehand, but there are only so many causes any of us can attend to at one time, and even if Wambier was part of a tour group, why take the risk? There are places in the world westerners, Americans, shouldn't go, even for journalistic exposes, unless it is necessary for their jobs, as part of the foreign service. Nonetheless, despite the errors of our free, liberal, will, he did not deserve his fate. He went, and the conservative reaction doesn't change such a horrendous outcome. Jeffrey reached me, although here, too, I put the bit in my teeth, and never wrote him the letter I thought I might. He cannot save me simply because his intellect is equally shrewd, and keen. Bad choices, eggs in the basket starting to turn. When boiled eggs go bad, the odor, even for invalids challenged by the arts of hygiene, is pungent, domineering, and compels disposal.

There is no hyperbole sufficient for the volatility of the DMZ. It quells Trump's idiocy with the same force of regularity applied to spastic belligerence. Though one cannot speak for Xi's protean Marxism, American patriotic sentiment, when examining the bewilderment that is Asia, has to be mindful of disaster's gravity, even if orchestrated by the most extreme cultist dictatorship left in the world. Chuch'e (CIA) generates its own zealots, even under young Kim's fractious grip, and detainees have been used as bargaining chips with the regularity of a dripping faucet. Jimmy Carter extracted Ajahon Gomes from his predicament. There may be an abatement of Kim's rogue antipodes for the time being, but it will continue, and it will continue because this is the consequence of the left, of state model socialism. It is a wonder indeed, the tolerance allotted to a militant, increasingly right wing woman in her blasted circumstance. A Jewish secular liberal, a California poet with just so slightly better branding, a Southern libertarian whose humanism eschews the lessons of social fear. Perhaps not as diversified as it appears.

On one occasion, near the "Hand-over," when I was not present, the expedition was more successful. It struck a party of nearly 50 Indians, killed several warriors, and captured others. Memoirs of W.T. Sherman, p. 19

Second Edition: Vermont Broken Vessels

"Others imagine that he served in Flanders, where he was raised to the rank of ensign in the company commanded by Don Diego de Urbina; grounding the belief on the supposition, that the history of the Captive, related in the first part of Don Quixote, is a literal detail of his own adventures."-- Smollett excavating Cervantes

Though there is nothing to dispute with Welch's argument on its face, one thing he overlooks is that Sanders proselytizes in order to indoctrinate supporters and instill in them a fervent sense of righteousness, and it is just as deadly to do that today as it was in the 30's, when Bernard was making love to Wobblies.. The dowager reacted so rudely to Sanders, under her real name, because she has a lifetime of experience with that. To tone down her volatility, with more even-handed balance, spastic did do two things under her Yahoo address: she signed onto Obama For America and gave the president's Pac a contribution before the ACA left her in the lurch. She also explored Gabby Giffords'  Americans for Responsible Solutions, but did not like its pastoral quality, and never participated, later unsubscribed. Sanders people got the email from one of those two, and it should not have been done, thus the septuagenarian's twitter stream paid the price of her umbrage. Even under Jerry's tutelage, as a young woman, the inclination against radicalism was always there. Suspicious as one may be of Thiel's Orwellian tendencies towards sophisticated metadata and its instruments, which seems to contravene liberty as a key tenet of libertarian ideology, he is nonetheless behaving the way magnates behave by investing  in business concepts. Bernie Sanders, in contrast, is a lunatic worthy of defeat, if we pop him in Don Quixote.


Socialized medicine has long been in trouble in Britain. Quality of care under Chinese and Russian state models are probably more difficult to ascertain, but such attention as it receives on public television leaves informed audiences dubious, and in the States, the Medicare trust fund and the premiums beneficiaries pay may seem to work wonders in aggregate terms. Diabetic supplies, catheters, and diapers and office visits get covered. Whoopee, but the rationing of medical equipment is not quite so utopian when wheelchair users need to wait forever for equipment. There is an "independent living" client here we'll call by the name of Cherry. She set my mother off years ago. Why? My deceased mentally ill parent saw, in Cherry, how it would eventually be for yours truly, despite my greater functionality and Pennsylvania's concerted efforts on my behalf. Cherry does next to nothing, and is cared for by Susan, a nice enough piece of Scottish trash who gives birth at regular intervals to Jesse Jackson's rainbow coalition. She assisted me briefly out of my own pocket, but the minute the husband stepped into my unit he received a bio-hazard alert as a sexual opportunist. The end of Susan in my personal circumstance doesn't mean Cherry has grace. Cherry is compliant without really having much cognition about defying the system. She gets everything welfare services has to offer, everything, and she has her own private coral reef engulfing her shins. She is too heavy and too old to bathe on her own. You'd think a physician would at least treat her legs? Are Cherry and I equals? Oh, yes, she has a use. She keeps food in the stomach of Susan's children, and is otherwise discarded. How is she, in any way, one of Bernie's sisters? The dowager has yet to see any of them engage the human animals who inhabit the regimented paradigm of section 202 housing. Dowager's libertarian associates, at least, learn to accommodate her limitations through the sheer dent of her persistence, when she is able to engage them. This is not to blame Cherry for what she is, but not even her attendant cares enough to see that the woman gets a better standard of care. The spastic dowager was trained to do that, but she has broken with the homosexuals who sing the songs of hellish limitations for Inglis House residents, and more than a few of the other residents with cerebral palsy hate her guts. Why? They don't desire to be more proactive, to stay engaged, to get better matriculation. This is the fucking free lunch warbling around in the skull of the Bern, and if I have anything left to contribute in my time, I'll see his legacy incinerated before I'm through.

The Untouchables, with grave detail

He felt so guilty about this that he became exhausted and started having nightmares. Then one night he dreamed that someone came to him and said, "Don't worry, Ashura has its own master. It will look after itself.--p xii, The Nuclear Sphinx of Tehran

My viewers probably do not realize my interest in Holocaust deniers stems more from personal experience over and above proclivities in examining extreme rhetorical utterance: Picture a sexually vibrant invalid on the phone arguing with her former deep chocolate building manager who invited himself over for a drink. "I have a girlfriend," and this slammed the door on a spastic who lost her cool, honest enough to tell you I have my regrets, but it was probably for the best. However pleasurable a hard intercourse session with an oversexed son of a reverend named Michael Washington might have been, my latent racist tendencies, lusting in the university media center, would have felt soiled, as I do anyway, had that drink occurred and we had taken a roll that makes cinematic pair bonding look like a kid's birthday party, layering icing on the cake promising satiable gratification. It never delivers, does it? Our generic desserts for these ritualized, stale, celebrations.

While I was doing my balancing act with my doomed liberalism with pretty almond eyes on one end of the wire, a student possibly named Sherri was to my left, condemning homeless predatory behaviors on pity. "I would say to them 'I won't give you money but I'll buy you a sandwich if you clean up the litter."

I was rather indignant to discover she mistrusted the genealogy surrounding the Third Reich and fascism at the height of its ascendancy,  and in this nondescript student office, desks, black phone, my memory annoyed by off yellow lighting, Sherri and I battled over the history of the 1930's, and this was 1986, at the latest. She backed down, but remains part of a curious sub-contingent, sometimes political, like the former lightening rod of the post revolutionary Iranian presidency, Mahmoud Ahmadinejad-- but such positions, perhaps embodied in Jean Marie Le Pen, speak of the desire to obliterate moral guilt. Their voices are a small minority. I am not sure designating their speech as a hate crime stifles the dissent it represents. 


It is not that video archive footage of emaciated bodies and Berlin in ruins has registered as sacrosanct verification of the worst genocide on record-- not that I believe these images were manipulated, but I cannot disavow my family history, which was a product of WW2, and this is the dowager taking a break from her work. I imagine you think it would be pleasant if I could still go horseback riding in New Jersey on a long made dog meat stallion named Big Red. I loved that damned aggressive and powerful beast. It nearly broke my mother's foot.

Twitter Fell On The Floor

I can't laugh, and I can't sing-- at least one thing the mercurial faggot got right.

Actually, the non-paying think tank provided me with a green light to go ahead, and this is where you start to swivel the joystick in a blind panic: National security is not my field of expertise, and there are more than a few thousand bloggers who dissect Washington daily, who have far greater ease of access to deputy directors and the plethora of advisors who've circulated in and out of the West Wing over the last twenty years. Now I have to track a couple and compel them to talk to me. Only I have no idea how to pose my questions with a straight face, but this is what I wanted, despite my imminent lodging crisis, so you may feel free to see me screaming in a Six Feet Under sketch, while I curse Twitter's staff profusely for recycling the has been relevance of Barry Manilow's sexual identity, because Manilow was the virtual definition of a  fop long before gay marriage became a rallying cry for their side. He is the king of Dork, and now, I can't get his duck paddling vocals out of my head. Yes, I had an album. My parents no doubt preferred this variation of gruel flung from a spoon to stick to the wall, as opposed to Peter Townsend's seductive and daring artistry, but why I had the album, why I sat reading postcards for the Manilow fan club on the school bus, this is anyone's guess.

Calm down. If I marshaled my forces to get a query past the gate, then I can marshal an article on a policy hypothetical and its repercussions. I do not have to re-litigate an entire series of events which have already been reported ad nauseam. I am a real journalist. Was, not a pretense of a recording artist whose fifteen minutes of fame barely merits disturbing the grave of Andy Warhol, tragic pop culture guru, dispensed dung beetle refuse. In many ways, my willingness to breach decorum, in a montage of biting disillusionment, is too toxic for social media, and too nasty for Niume, with its few lions and flocks, yet the sheep keep coming. A follow, a subscription, these are effortless. Human intervention, well, that is another matter, with sometimes detrimental results. The question becomes, if my disdain is so all pervasive, the love for the scold itself, that too, lends itself to the strident mockery embedded in the blank verse of Moliere. But if Jack thinks he is going to save his company with marshmallow whip, perhaps United Airlines can have him appointed as Viceroy to Saint-Helena, as this is one quad who wouldn't mind seeing Silicon Valley in a game of Castaway. Google finds me dangerous. Various web communities followed suit, but no one has lifted a bloody finger to help me against my disadvantage and nearly intolerable circumstance. Remember, I live with activists who were under investigation, whose institutional solidarity humiliated me. I should not have to be reminded of this on a daily basis, in a senior living facility which finally acknowledged what I've condemned for years. The disabled can no longer live in section 202 housing, unless they meet the age requirement. The American welfare state is going to implode and destroy itself sooner rather than later.