The Antecedents of Nolle Prosequi in Semi-Darkness

"nothing to see here"-- Randy Barnett, former sardonic prosecutor

One of the dowager’s waylaid theses, due to the continuing calamity of age and equipment breakage, was an examination of Jodie Foster, primarily due to her chameleon on screen swivels; her mature performances represent a chink in the armor of homosexual lifestyles as a statement of defiance. A critic need not necessarily have all of Miss Foster’s biographical details present and accounted for to actualize her thematic interest in women who provoke strong reactions, female characters violently thrust out of the mainstream, or willing to utilize violence to restore her place as a productive member of society. On occasion, these characters are guided or misguided through the process of discovery and revelation. In The Accused (1988), the mission statement film of its time, the resistance to Foster as Tobias, and the subsequent conversion to her cause, pivots on Kelly McGillis as the initially pragmatic DA Kathryn Murphy, whose methodology can be compared to the controversial State Attorney for Cook County, Kim Foxx. We might also interject here a contra-indicator to Nick Gillespie’s assertion that libertarians “suspends judgment” because in this particular Reason headline Robby Soave is being a scold in relation to the conduct of the SA. It brings to mind the rapid fall from grace of a real Attorney General, Kathleen Kane, whose white privilege was so conspicuous in the gradations of American liberalism that she is now a pariah in a Montgomery County prison, a betrayer of the public trust.

Foster revisits some of the motifs from her other films in The Brave One (2006), a mid-life dramatic failure for the darling of Martin Scorsese, but this overwrought revenge fantasy introduced Terrence Howard as a possible figure of reconciliation in his guise as Mercer, which I’ve mentioned before, in my burrowed archives of buckling strength. He subsequently garnered attention, as a short lived prosecutor for the now satirized Law & Order expansions on the basis of geography, the producer in Crash, a meridian character at best, the bifurcated mogul in Amazon’s despairing Electric Dreams. If my viewers believe my next move is to convey that Howard gives me license to enter into the Empire saga, now leeched into Chicago’s gritty underside, they would be wrong. I have been silent on the Smollett scandal, despite recent research, because nearly all players involved come out of this with the faint odor of garbage attached to them, not that hoaxes can't expose a greater hypocrisy, but all Jussie seems to have done here is snap his own spine, and then gave Foxx leeway to sabotage whatever her aspirations amounted to, in the face of such blatant favoritism. These aren't as grave as the charge and convictions thereof leveled at Kane, but there is still a degree of paternalism involved. Progressives tend to be apologists for black women, even if they fail ethical standards long accepted for the patrician class. If there is any light at the end of the tunnel here, conservatives on Twitter deserve credit for smelling a red herring early on in January's polar temperatures.

Engorged Twilights of Dirty Old Men

Lillian Rogers was an old black woman long before I allowed Terri Way to blindside me into coming to Riverside Presbyterian. She was one of the last of the original tenants to have lived here, had no family to speak of, and insisted that people cared about me, which is something of a misnomer. If people truly cared, by the standards of the country I live in, I would have had justice, instead of majority discrimination, and then, relentless persecution, but I cannot fault a simple minded Bible thumper for this, one who role played an artificial family for herself. Nightline produced a segment on this, a social construct story, supposedly illuminating how the oppressed fill in the gaps, while the Liberty On The Rocks chapter is all over the place, dancing in Media, drinking on Passyunk Avenue, and I am stressing about not snapping at another technician whom I do not trust, aging out of relevance, an incongruity in a suburban dance club even if I wasn’t approaching the emaciation of a sixtieth decade, knowing no more than any active reporter about Tamblyn’s veracity over and above that of Woods. I know nothing about either celebrity. I recognize one, obviously, through television syndication, and the little more I’ve learned since suggests a compatibility of rebellion. In the case of Woods, this draws in The Hollywood Reporter. For the quadriplegic, it draws the cruelty of objectification, from government civil servants, and one unfortunate police officer, which no doubt earns confusion from liberals who want to feel my pain: I virtually ignore Tamblyn’s account, despite the preponderance of the evidence in her favor, and joined instead with Woods 800,000 minions, liking five or more of his tweets. Why is this? Because my own sex augmented my trauma once too often, despite the monstrosity of my mother’s co-dependency lovers and her dysfunctional, abusive, horse shooting second husband. Even the mixed race paraprofessional who hit on me has her side of the story, probably believing she was offering succor to an invalid otherwise discarded, and you do, after all, discard, don’t you, against the anguish I balance on the wire, as daring as any circus daredevil, but for the sturdiest of account followers paying attention, or you shrug, not seeing any alternatives in the choices with which I am faced, except to still enjoy my coffee while I can, and disagreeing with Jacob Sullum about Woods confusion with legality of consent: we expect law enforcement to police sexual standards. Any SVU recycling would tell us that, while my unfortunate foster cat purrs on my hip, and our moments move with lightning speed. I booted the ever vivacious and slightly autistic Jeffrey F Tucker off my feed. He is a good columnist, but I have nothing more to gain from his tutorials to young turks. I’m the anti-tutorial, the fuck you tutorial, figuring I have to change my approach if I have any hope left towards future commissions. If Tom the equally stressed site visit technician cannot restore my files, the lacuna between the late Lillian Rogers and I is a matter of degree, as I exist in the press, lack of collected whole notwithstanding. If I can stop him, however, I may move Cook’s visit up. Starvation diet has deflated the strength of my sail.

Hypermanic Climax

"The bad news is I've just been suspended and don't give a fuck!-- libertarian authority pumping lead

Between the 83 84 semesters of my underclassmen years, I had a nursing student roommate named Lee. She was diagnosed with lymphoma and had to withdraw, and though my memory is malleable, I think her boyfriend, an engineering geek, told me she went through an unimaginable medical hell, and all I remember is the drip of her lassitude, curled up on the mattress, or dragging herself into the kitchen for tea. She and I actually got along, but even in my young adult years, trying to expand my melancholy wings, death may have not been ready for me, but was nevertheless an omnipresent force.

not dying

— Joanne M Marinelli (@Jozannyme) August 30, 2017

I am dubious as to whether she survived, but find it ironic that perhaps I've met her mortality on a grading curve, having such a difficult time with my bowel that a miniscule nosebleed hit my stomach. Rushing to look up lymphoma's symptoms, I have some of them, so it may not be COPD, after all, which finishes the job. If I am really sick, with something killable, then fighting Trudy Richardson and Debra Horne's civil liberty violating tactics are meaningless, in the context of going against medical advice, not that I have any. My nostrils are dry from vapor; it may be nothing or not, with no money to spare to find a practice in this city which I feel I can trust. Nick Gillespie may counsel against anarchy in his many frenetic uploads on Reason, but people in the early stages of dying, if they are as angry as I, might pose a threat to public safety. I am winded, afraid to consume the edibles I have, sufficient for a 48 hour period, sipping my coffee, saturated with old NSAIDS due to the damp changeability of the weather, but that doesn't mean I'm incapable of going down for my own sense of lost cause. That I diced a few metaphysical chives and sent Nick an invitation to connect on Linked wasn't, as might be construed, a need for legitimacy. I was offering respect, and told him we'd disagree. I am not, as is he, as is Austen Petersen, a social liberal, and no people, I may not live long enough to olive branch that divide. I know, intellectually, that hate crimes in the name of intolerance only shifts the spectrum back around again, but as for me, personally, poverty and municipal corruption created my internal willingness to go postal. By corruption I do not mean a Pelican Brief conspiracy, but rather, like most things urban, ineptitude. I am feeling my oats this morning, tired of exterminator visits making me over-anxious, but a good deal of my trauma resides in public housing extermination: I was attacked in my wheelchair access unit on the day he was due, and the contractors at Riverside are the raison d'etre for my duress non-eviction threat of eviction if I tell Trudy to go fuck herself again I will be evicted. 33 years of playing ravaged boob slut to the creased malice of Vincent Price in medieval fashions. I am filing with the Human Relations Commission now, but what I am attempting to convey is ideology isn't a panacea, in the shell game of a libertarian who's who. I want to give my notice, and I want to give it, badly enough that I'm getting sick, and it's fundamentally unfair. I nearly died because this landlord was indifferent to who had access in the much smaller Diamond Park. I shouldn't have to threaten whatever time I've left by divorcing myself from location I have always hated. I never wanted Riverside. Never.

Brothers and Sisters

Hanno continuato inventandosi una mia contrapposizione con Beppe Grillo che è inesistente ed è quanto di più lontano dalla verità ci possa essere .-- David Casaleggio

Yes, it would be delightful to get out of my own head once in awhile, take a cessation from electronic gadgets, the grid, satellite signals, shed my contorted muscular skeletal distress for a lithe ability to jog in spandex with a breeze toning down my furious theorizing, driven by my own sense of disembodiment with all I've lost since my great personal rupture -- difficult for me to remember the exact date, but near to Thanksgiving 1999. I cannot really call my actions a legitimate suicide attempt, rolling in to the kitchen, grabbing a flimsy supermart steak knife, breaking down in inane laughter, florid tears. I should have been tougher, thus I tell myself, and I did fight for some semblance of recovery, but as I've detailed many times, so many hands were extended, mostly in impotence, much like Yabberz and Niume, more contemporaneously. AccessLife breaking apart was my most unfortunate circumstance. I liked them, wanted to take Linda's advice, work for them full time, in the burgeoning dynamic of digital birth pangs, and I am trapped in Presby, in addition, the epicenter of so many applied scars. People have suggested I write the fucking novel about life under Presby's management, but I'd doubt it sell. Who'd want to read a life of terror and then the duress of guardian threats always surrounding me because I defy minorities in learned hatred and paranoia? I follow Beppe patiently, in attesa di vedere, but can he govern? The government in Roma can be likened to City Council, or more analogous yet to American public housing "authorities"-- most of you perhaps think I'm lucky to have so many protections against eviction despite an invalid's squalor. "I can smell," Luca Zingaretti rebukes his sidekick, during the Montalbano paint by numbers nod towards the wasted space of spastic servitude of ableism. Our odors create new victims, as Dubus wrote in one of his tactful essays about life in wheelchairs and turbulent colons. I presume, if my life in Philadelphia became a game of The Man in The Iron Mask, with my naivete  coasting me through until I realized the enormity of my lack of expanse, my shackles, that life in Tuscany would have been more banded still, life on a balcony, watching the remnants of the mafia settle their scores. This post was supposed to be a critique of Sanders and his radical left pipe dreams. He is not responsible for Hodgkinson's actions, though I will also assert Trump brazenly opened this door during the general campaign. What if a supporter had put a bead on Hillary? I voted for him anyway, and maybe even because he incited and we winked at it-- but Sanders is responsible for a militant, dangerous conviction. He is not a classical Marxist, but just take a look at Venezuela across the isthmus. Is this the chaos we're bringing to civilized society for the next ten, fifteen years?
Sadly, I am not strong enough: I am never going to quite "get better" from opening up to my former Jewish supervisor Linda, apparently handling her newer frailties with a healthier and still self confident humor. Face to face, what we did to each other in virtual space would never have happened, but I cannot reinvent myself, and getting fucked over by disability activist collusion creates the same impetus for dissidents who used to be heralded in the anti-Soviet era. We've lost so many definitions, but cripple isn't one of them, no matter we we say.

Oklahoma City

Laid down like a good girl to rest my legs at 4:30 pm Tuesday with the Comtrex engine thrumming not more than a quarter mile from my back window. Reluctantly sat up at 7:30 to browbeat the Senate Majority Leader again over his discourtesy to Merrick Garland, like a rapid cur shredding opportunism, transferred, pissed urinal aperture nearly perfectly, debated my libertarian twitter intrigues and how far I'm willing to go, scowling. For a cripple evacuating herself with a snowball's chance in hell of evading the worst, I'm taking my own sweet fucking time, triply mad because I wanted to revive McVeigh and approached Brian Doherty about it and what do I discover on PBS this evening? Someone else revived McVeigh, and in the taffy of so many ideas being out there, I thought it was inconceivable that my pitch had mainstream traction, but this is a dirty rotten business. Am I mad at Brian? No, but I am not superhuman, and to pitch 250 times a month, eat, clean up my bowel, work my own projects, and expect lightning is not exactly the God complex memory of anal penetration. What Woodruff described wasn't my idea exactly. I have to go back and look, but some motherfucker beat me on giving Oklahoma a fresh eye, and you can all drop dead for all I fucking care. I've been amazing, to survive what I have over the last 18 years on top of earlier familial tragedy and systemic medical paradigms. Liberals love to point out that what my former Liberty family, and the cunt-sucking activists did to me can cause strokes, neighing like jackasses about inequality and sickness, and the trauma was almost too much, and here I am, swinging and getting sucker punched. I'd probably up my profile if I did give federal agents reason to create the dowager dossier, but my hit list is merely comprised of Commonwealth dregs not worth the pressure. An expendable godmother doesn't come with pre-packaged Lee Harvey Oswald mystique. Let's see now if she can transfer back to sleep, last pleasure in life hot coffee with soy flavored non-dairy. Despite terms of service, I'd shred Josie in public with blatant indifference, but I wilted her before, repeatedly, and missed my calling as the lesbian cower professional, much like felines specialize in snapping hyena spines.

The Nine Tenths Aspect, Dowager Version

In light of Gawker's battle over the Terry Bollea sex video, I did some research on Thiel. Some. I did not scour every link, nor do I know the entire story of the trial Gawker Media's lawyers lost to the powerful venture capitalist's investment in painting a man like Bollea as a victim, but here is a surprise for you: I like Gawker. This comes late, admittedly, and I wish I could make corrections to their platform editor after I hit publish, but anyone who can run a headline asserting Zuckerberg is a paranoid fuck has my admiration. If I make threats against my disabled community, I come under intense pressure from Blogger and twitter, but Zuckerberg has a high bar to meet as a public figure to go after Denton. I also followed Thiel's ominously quiet twitter account and used "faggot" like a whiplash noun, so is this not suspiciously against my libertarian vibrations? 

Even Reason Magazine might hesitate to applaud Thiel's wealth as weapon against journalism. I'm a writer; it is what I damn well do for Christ's sake, and if Peter Thiel doesn't want to be outed as a stool softener, he should not be a public figure, but that ship has definitively sailed due to Ebay, Paypal, which I use, reluctantly, and had to use for Examiner's chump change, however many years it's been now. I am too ashamed of the fact that I bowed to Examiner's cut rate foreskin content aggregation to include it on my resume, but it consumed nine months of my life and added up to fifteen dollars. Whatever depression may have done to my Harvard acumen, I am still better than that.

Gawker is too, and I like it's meanness, Fleet Street bite. Thiel sets a dangerous precedent. I'm an individualist. I hate the New York Times, but if I had Thiel's money liberals would set me up for target practice if I sued Carlos Slin to decouple him from one of the most powerful newspapers in the US. I also shouldn't be paying Blogger for this domain name, assiduously applying myself, three bucks in a dead Adsense account, money which I actually need, as my budget is that bad, but I'm aging, frightened of that, and bitterly wronged.

Is media as an enterprise deplorable? Yes, and even Woodward and Bernstein should be challenged and deconstructed, but without narratives, we'd be murdering each other in crocodilian riverbeds. 

Another Hack Day

Frying my brain, I applied to be an upload writer once again at an automated upload site and failed their entry test with a 60% correct answer ratio. They want 70%. I preferred speed, simply getting it done, and this is what the digital age has reduced us to, never mind the 34 years I've spent slogging through the small presses. I really used to believe my CV amounted to something, and without logging in, discovered my mostly aggregated content at Examiner.com is still there, laughing with insane raspy squirrel vocalizations, the site applied to didn't want to know anything about me. Researching pitches. I have ceased querying everyday, wondering what the point is if I cannot afford guild/union fees. Writer's Market rarely lands me anything usable. I'll share something stark: I hit Reason Magazine with a pitch about McVeigh's legacy, tying it into Arlington Road thanks to this esoteric account with my disturbing negations, and supposed I could jump through security clearances necessary to correspond with home grown Oklahoma anarchy and actually received a no thanks! I mean we know enough to be ignored, right? How dark is that? Maybe the editor wanted to keep me on his good side, but it is still an idea I'm turning over, negotiating with myself how to toe the line without simply delving into hermeneutic prognostication.

But I can't keep hitting the same publication due to libertarian arousal. Kimmy is on my lap, pestering me to watch her eat. I need a break. Maybe I am simply a stupid obnoxious bitch. McVeigh went after indiscriminate targets. I prefer targeted assassination, but as Gary Sinise told a corrupt Nicholas Cage in another conspiracy film, there is always an adjustment in every operation.