Vocal Cords of Alyssa Milano

"This reverend brother has been all his life engaged in fighting among the Saracens for the recovery of the Holy Sepulchre; he is of the order of Knights Templars--" Sir Walter Scott, one of the first to utilize the innovation of life insurance.

I spent the evening desperately looking to make a digital pitch, failed in the effort, but resolved to hit Harper’s later this week with a traditional mailing despite living conditions to the tune of a dilapidated bunker. I misplaced my hardcopy file in this melee of public housing and destitution, but misplaced it on my own, despite my father’s ineffectual convergence with minority fatalism and Mainline Medical’s deplorable product fitting, I had the file, pulling out my accomplishments, still making an effort to get Negro medical management to see me as human, barking them down to fleeing from me in terror, but didn’t place said file back into place. It is a strange power to have, this spark of hatred in my eyes so ready and willing to die in the name of an insurgency I cannot even define, as every sort of organizing principle has governance behind it, whatever equitable distribution we believe in or not. Tanz Industries and Darius might have saved civilization on a thumbnail, (not the only one disgruntled with the CBS cancelation) but the Variety piece tells us nothing except ratings. No sourcing, just a straight news item, no names, no tug of war between the show’s producers and the executives at the Central Broadcasting System who made the cut. Salvation was a damn good series for what it was, utilizing real propulsion theory and applied engineering, so that even libertarians can hate corporate sometimes, and certainly do. We all hate rental agents within varying degrees, and make no mistake that section 202 owners are engaged in the business of gerontology, but it is not a market based contracture. It is a taxpayer subsidy for a broad range of spectrum disorders in the elderly 62 and above, and I rolled into it as a 31 year old career professional. Now look at me, luckily so caged, so free to leave. I can roll out on this fraternal Presbyterian dictatorship anytime I please, after years of subjugated terror. Threatening the governor of Pennsylvania means next to nothing to me in this context. I mean that literally, despite the fact that Wolf and Ridge and the ailing Rendell are status quo establishment politicians we all used to favor. Put Wolf, the executive, and Toomey, the stalwart Irishman, in the same room, and what do you have? Both are pro-business, one doesn’t like the Social Security dispensary on the backs of American workers, the other is never going to say that Medicaid is merely a transposition for the descendants of slaves. Both would condescend to me, “now now spastic, homicide is not a legitimate political outcome.” But that’s only a veneer, and all a care giver has to do is have a bad day, leave me lying on the single foam mattress, move the power chair away. It would be interesting to discover if I still had the collegiate strength to get up off the floor, to conquer bad wheelchair technology.

The Anvil and The Nail

Margaret Sanger, the founder of Planned Parenthood, was an evil genius. She said she hoped to “exterminate blacks like weeds” & so began “educating” us about “choice”. She is the author of voluntary genocide.
18 million black deaths later & liberals still defend her dream.
Sad!

— Candace Owens (@RealCandaceO) May 15, 2019

In the constant sifting through the sand dunes of mediocrity in search of aesthetic kernels, the sort of kernel which can fuel the engine for any contemplative essay, not just the pet peeves of an obstinate blogger, enthusiasm for an Australian actor like John Noble can dull rather quickly. His first ripple on the isometric weather system which hovers over this coastal metropolis was on The Fringe, a series which was an early attempt by JJ Abrams Productions at expiation for not living up to the expectations generated by Lost, and no spinoff or imitator ever quite had the same impact on popular culture as that plane crash, but The Fringe had high hopes of doing so with the offering of an invidious transhumanism which only managed to lampoon itself, which is a great deal for the dowager’s lack of interest to assert, as Noble didn’t leave her captivated as the unstable scientist. One could speculate that Noble is the tin man version of Cate Blanchett, generational descendants of penal colony exports who pay homage to the motherland but “get” America, to paraphrase Blanchett herself, her contextual framework worth some thought against her headier films. In Heaven, an extended metaphor superimposed on an already elaborate medieval structure, Blanchett and Ribisi are penitents, but is it merely coincidental that their shaven scalps evoke Holocaust survivors? Noble is meant to project that degree of enigmatic menace onto his viewers, but only does so with a rather shallow apologia, the dark side of Darius Tanz’es nimble libertarian liquidity in Salvation, and because CBS is a two bit shallow nickel and dime hustler, they hustle Noble over to The Good Wife while Salvation is still taping to get him to do another shadowy figure killed by an indignant defendant probably bedazzled by tortuous action against his harmless barking dog into the stark travesty killing which is Noble’s fate. We might as well embrace Bach.

This is something Brian Sims manages to conveniently obliterate from the latest ignition over Roe v Wade. He behaves, in that self-created video, like a patriarchal male who dares to treat women of faith like the Second Sex. This doesn’t mean that men don’t have the right to speak, but Sims engages in visceral relegation of the feminine mystique, a homosexual male helping women destroy the newborn of the species. It was a fatal miscalculation for a Democrat who has a lock on the 182 district he represents. Pennsylvania Republicans don’t have candidates to run against him or Farnese, my state senator on whom I finally, if briefly, set eyes. His lock down is also a form of cowardice. He isn’t an abortion doctor, Sims, merely a new age autocrat paving the way for humanity’s new edge transformation. We already know the adage, in our collective conscience, about being careful with wishes.

Water Pollution

How many of you remember this as one of the most notorious news segments of its time? There are two seminal events of the later 20th century which prefigure the blasted husk of human empathy and its erosions of trust in its own institutions in the 21st. Although I find it exceedingly difficult to practice the craft of journalism at this moment in time, I still consider myself one, even though admirable quacko Iranians who still have the energy to live in it have stolen the thunder of throbbing cerebral intellects gone south in anarchist glee. I am following Yashar, temporarily, to utilize his ledes when I can. The jury is still out on whether or not I despise him. Perhaps, but he is also honest, ruthless, brash, and unlike the embattled Kim Foxx, of whom my initial post was to be much longer, this not so much to excoriate the lack of impartiality in the bayous of black liberation and its cohesiveness (also hidden fissures, as Foxx seems to disdain Smollett's insecure swagger behind his body guard as much as a significant portion of conservatives do), but to illustrate how faulty Robby Soave's hastily written pieces are. Soave leads us to believe that Foxx was to recuse herself from Jussie's case due to conflict of interest. Gaynor, of Fox News, walks the recusal back, allowing the state's attorney to explain she had *contact* with Smollett's family. Where are the violins for the bedevilment of deadlines? David French considers Yashar Ali's integrity remarkable. Perhaps, but Yashar isn't truly impartial. We tried that with Jonestown, prior to the massacre. People couldn't see what Jim Jones was, but he presages more than Paddock, the Vegas shooter, just as the OJ Simpson trial is more than "the monkey is still a monkey" and got away with it, in the paraphrase of a cold attorney named Lydia Nayo. These two signature events anticipate the sense of crisis in our current populist era, a crisis that transcends Trump's narcissism, which, as a spastic woman with brain lesions of her own, I believe I intuit better than most. That a polemicist like Tom Nichols still uses the participle phrase "drink the Kool Aid" in reference to his lackluster senator from Vermont, Bernie Sanders, illustrates how much of an impact the events of Jonestown had on the American psyche, our inability to process that humanity creates its own self-destructive carnage.


So nefarious, at least until we start thinking about physics, gravitational pulls, the remarkable coincidence of Earth, and how Salvation subverts the expectations of the asteroid catastrophe genre. If I could just return to a pitch a week. A pitch a week, that would be remarkable, in my shriveling beneath the weight of modern African tribalism.

Toxins in the Feminine Figure Beneath the Appeasement of Tovah Feldshuh's Command

"They have the right to live," Axel Steier, a Mission Lifeline founder, said of the migrants.

Do they now? There is not a high profile government official on the face of the earth, not even Kim Jong Un, who denies basic human rights, with the colorful Duterte being a quickly superimposed afterthought, in terms of being a (refreshing) exception. The dowager might not be so bemused if she had to live under Rodrigo's charming apologia for brutality, but pauses to reflect that Philadelphia's regime has no discernible difference against Filipino distributive poverty median. If life turns pretty cheaply for the vast majority of the world's estimated 4.5 billion Asians, it is merely a reflection of our evolutionary bottleneck crisis still at play, the mayoralty of this city like so much shuffleboard, at least since the Rizzo family relinquished power. The key center city districts, like my ward, 187, have the concentrated opulence of high finance and gentrification via condominiums. The residential neighborhoods are territoriality marked by fried chicken franchises, regardless of the name we draw in the raffle: Wilson Goode, John Street, Ed Rendell, once the potential scourge of gun manufacturers, Michael Nutter, and even Jim Kenney, his soda tax jeopardizing retail establishments in an already poor city, doesn't change this dynamic. The evolution of money, the concentration of wealth like spokes on a wheel surrounding city hall, by implication, are far more important than dying city residents transported to dialysis treatment at 7 am. Or a woman with cerebral palsy being beaten to a pulp by systemic corruption, all the sudden, and necessarily, bending over backward for a care worker to whom she was, however briefly, more erotically inclined than she was to Tim Artis, her other long standing passive minority who was paid out of pocket. Just because the game of an interpersonal relationship is a lie without legs beyond her acquiescence to Medicaid's contract doesn't mean she cannot be hurt. She was Monday, another indefatigable blow, even if counseled not to compare her quadriplegic physique to an able-bodied woman walking her dog. Well defined buttocks win every time over the buddy girl aroused, then burnt back down to carbon, and this cycle will repeat, indefinitely, unless I bolt, for more of the same, endless misery, and I don't have the stamina to hire, fire, another 50 people I do not even want in my personal space.
My cousin thinks he cares about me enough that this is  "real". But I knew from our fight at the end of April what I forced him to tell me was the brute honesty: I am only tempting enough for him to struggle not to sleep with me, and I do not have the ability to transcend what the malformations of this city have scarred on me not to relegate him, despite, despite the woman in me who keeps sounding if he really cares. Not enough not to smote me where it counts. Fine, but all of this is draining me, a mere shell of my former self, hardly in the grip of Locklear's crisis, as much fading relevance as her loss of control due to substance abuse?

I am less diffident about Salvation now that it is back on air, relieved to have a show to follow with a degree of eagerness. The series was put into production too early to forecast Trumpian politics. Indeed, Tovah's evergreen character actor carry over, from Danielle Melnick the crusader, to Danielle Melnick holding the strands at the end of the world, may have anticipated a Clinton administration in error, with Sasha Ruiz merely the usurper who has to be defeated, a Trumpian villain whose path to the presidency can be blamed on Hugh Hefner, Charles Krauthammer, and Bill Clinton, depending on which columnist's byline is in stroke recovery, but Salvation, nevertheless, feels like the industry is throwing a bone to the cops: be a good electorate now, we put a woman in charge handling the asteroid, the Russians, and cyberterrorists! And we gave her a Libertarian (Tanz) to elevate to the Vice Presidency! My right to life, meanwhile, lurches on mission creep. 

ADHD Wasted Space

That's the problem with being the man, you never know what you left behind.-- Ice T

I barely know Adam. I did not give him a donation for his self-styled polemic on Freedom, and under my various forms of classification, sticking the cornbread veteran in a room with Debra Horne keeps the estuaries of the Mississippi slithering along. The half witted caramel brick bat and the ex-soldier may not be from the same swamp where Okies use catfish as sexual enhancement accessories, but they both speak the same language, and in trying to flee the holocaust of my life under oh so lovely creatures as these minorities, so illustrious in the fine examples they are on the evils of inbreeding, I am appealing to yet another variation of Southern rube, whose libertarian beliefs are more ecumenical than is decent for anyone's taste. In desperation, I asked the man who waltzed off with an Alford plea if he had any space in that compound of his, and do not expect a response, but I asked, and he and I spoke all of what? 30 seconds? I made no money on my column about his speaking engagement I posted on Medium, but it may be one of the last vestiges of professional writing I have to display, and, to be honest, I have softened my attitude, share some kindred spirit with his raw defiance, and here we are. Black women have the power to threaten me with a straight jacket for bellowing in fury after what I've had to eat and absorb under their employer's management for 33 years, and I am bucking on the Internet, which will blithely ignore me, regardless of how the ball bounces: Tuesday I may have no power; Wednesday, I may be locked out, and the receptionist, Lahnisha-- something like that-- black women have this peculiar suffix fixation-- has been retaliating against me since 2015, jeopardizing my safety, long before I let anyone have it, but consider: she is terrified of me and yet Friday, I inadvertently opened the door to spot shop, and she handed me the burning bridge rebuttal notices. If I'm lucky, maybe polyps will block up my hole with speed sufficient enough to make moral scruples irrelevant. Yes, even sympathizers who would like to help cannot, or else you're a potential kidnapper waiting to prey on my nativity, and be thankful I am not just another overkill murder in Oakland California.

Jesus fucking Christ. I got lucky, that, in the season finale, Salvation's tech company giant, of Tanz Industries, the ever wiry Cabrera, disclosed he had Huntington's. So my instincts were on the money to play with the series components, even as the plot grows multi-layered, and I was scooped by Danielle's survival. It is interesting to note, as well, that Iwan Rheon, Inhumans's Maximus, is disabled because he deteriorated into being a mere human being, one who had only his mind to manipulate the coup that he did. This is a kid's show, playing dress up for prime time, but it is light enough, with themes that matter on the level of a liberetto, to enjoy without having to study too hard. Television is growing up, nonetheless, Kira Sedgwick's valley tangles, mature as they are, fail to persuade me, since I am a driveby shooting, once removed.

The Melnick Revolt Trigger

"There are dark forces at work here." Ian Anthony Dale

To deal a straight material hand this morning, lets revert back to anti-depressants, and assume, amid all the marvelous psychiatric diagnostic classifications available, that a turn of the century adjustment disorder graduated into traumatic stress, triggered deliberately by minorities trained to cordon off geriatric dementia, again, not the best environment to throw in formerly matriculated spastics burdened with quadriplegia. If I go on with this language, a medical textbook recruiter might take another look at my Linked profile, however ambivalent a disability journalist might be in that regard. Anti-depressants are used for more than serotonin regulation, and my skepticism about them doesn't apply to all treatment regimes, but when my mother's sister could talk over my head and exclaim, "that's better," when I was on that turn of the century script, for whom did the better refer? Not being able bodied, the drugs impaired physical ability to function, and cured nothing, however much my dead ex pig of almost husband observed, before he died, that I was getting worse. Frank did not move in here with his commanding army officer, whom he hated (yes, hated, I know, but he is dead and I won't get into it), but I am asked, by society, to grin and bear it every time a facetious transsexual, with whom I go way back, sits outside, its cognitive awareness diminished, smoking a cigarette, knowing what I know, the law letting him off, but not letting me off, why exactly? Because I am angry at how often corruption has destroyed my intellectual potential, and just like other Americans, I need a change of environment, and cannot effect it. Regardless of my condition, regardless of dimming economic prospects, regardless of Google's loving playfulness juxtaposed by its power, which I have nothing against, but have derived little trickle down benefit as a result (what possible use is Ad Words to me if all I am doing is paying into the company's services, again, this was me lacking the confidence not to purchase the campaign), I should be able to relocate, as a citizen of this ferrous republic, and cannot do it without facing what most consider irrational risk. I don't eschew Google's corporate muscle; its progressive proselytizing, that is another matter.

Enter in Danielle Melnick, making use of her ability to be Jack McCoy's intellectual equal, not always adversarial, in Dick Wolf's transformation of American crime dramas, or as the leader of the community Grimes managed to wreak havoc upon, perhaps inadvertently. That was as far as my local affiliate took me into The Walking Dead, but it was enough, as no one can withstand that much hell, that often. In Salvation, she is a stand in for what was expected to be the epitome of sexual equality. As Wiki indicates that the limited summer series was under development in 13, I doubt those who took it off the drawing board anticipated Trump, so in this slow burning coup in a complex asteroid disaster tale, one can infer that Melnick's very brief cameo, dying in a planned televised speech, was the industry's platitudes for girls, as "President McKenzie" was poisoned to death. Boys will be boys, in the grand scheme of things.


Fish oil, as my naturally occurring mood stabilizer of choice, seems to work as long as the continence issues can be managed. The dowager can feel, and function, on 2400 milliliters daily, taken with an actual fish diet. Again, this is expensive, but on limited evidence, seems to be more than a placebo effect. I only feel better, as of this writing, because I'm stocked, saturated myself with salmon, and hoping, fingers crossed, that I can make it to the Libertarian block party later today. If I do not take a bus, maybe I can spring the taxi. But I wish some of you could see the sum total. It is bad enough, being what I am. What Philadelphia has perpetrated on me, because I wanted independence, has been just short of too excruciating. Everyone needs a support system. A 56 year old shouldn't have to grope in the dark, treading in place solely due to inertia of the paradigms long set into place for relegation.

Mouse Cadaver Double Bound

The human body is very dirty. -- Arthur Hill

I allowed myself to get wrapped up in the plot of Salvation without applying any critical rigor to the performances, and now that well know speculative futurist actors are involved in the coming denouement, the intensity of the dystopian aspect wanes: at first, I thought the screen writers guild were going to spin an ironic manipulation of the deep state conspiracies made so prevalent in the digital age-- and to clear something up, taking the JFK, RFK, and MLK assassinations in sequence, it is difficult not to see these killings as a low grade coup. It is the reasoning behind it which is elusive, but fortunately, I do not have the energy to delve into bootlegger class graft and a America's preeminent, partially fraudulent, minority saint. Salvation comes off as a pre-processed microwaveable dinner. Finnigan, at least initially, was taxed with the most complex delivery, but this has since radiated outward among the ensemble. Do I appreciate Cabrera, Rowe and Dale?

I haven't penetrated that deeply, while the pacing ensures mainly irrelevant plaudits, like a gay Secretary of State on the run. I missed the Russian Federation on "alert" episode, but caught enough in play back to piece together the subsequent stand down. What interests me is the antecedents, the analogue era posited doom of The Satan Bug, where Dana Andrews, the wooden war era bean counter, was perfectly cast, and The Andromeda Strain, which is one of my favorite science fiction films of all time, precisely due to its rigorous realism. The Andromeda Strain doesn't condescend to its audience, uses real science, and if it didn't predict AIDS paranoia in the black community, it certainly anticipated the fact that MRSA will one day make the achievements of western medicine insignificant, because it will wipe us out, centralized hospital model or the strategic mobility of doctors without borders notwithstanding. Uber-wealth will of course hang on, as it always does, but we are too many not to hit an alarming new mortality rate. I am not faulting any system or ideology, just acknowledging reality. Collectivism and self interest, in our species, never quite balances without calamity.

The only tranquil moments I had under Presby's management-- which, for those of you who do not know, has been my life long rental agent, was when I was still matriculated as a student. In those days, I did not believe that I was going to undergo a lifetime of conflict, persecution, but now, having gone through mortal combat, biology is picking up where the paradigm left off, and I am beginning to feel grim. Poetry, non-fiction, and half-glazed deadlines aren't enough for me, and I know the institutional hell I will face, unlike you. Work, stop complaining. I know, but I cannot be amicable burning my cell phone battery begging for legal representation feeling like this, my bad hip like embossed root canal. I printed up the forms I need to file with the Human Relations Commission, but I am not so sanguine, whether Earle's title with them is now more honorary than active. Kimmy hunted around the trash bag, looking for her prize. It is not pleasant, using broken reachers to carefully dispose of these little templates. Remarkable, from mice came the very carnivores who dispense of them like gumballs. Crichton's death did have a quality of suddenness. Unfortunate, because his rebuttals had the force to make progressives back down.

Patterson's Poor Execution

What is missed in penile insertion into the vaginal orifice, the depth of which is rivaled only by the anus, though both are out done by the esophagus, which I believe metastasized into a lump and killed Cousin Albert, a form of terminal demise to which I am privy, and rate second only to locked in syndrome as an expiration most desirous to avoid, is the heat of this highly sexualized piece of cartilage. The heat of a penis is a positive sensation, like the pilot light in an oven, and I never truly experienced it as a form of desire for me, as a liberating escape from ravages of conscious identity. It was only a curiosity, the few times I was at it, outside of tongue. Albert brought the Jewish blood in, as with most Italian families. I never see these favored cousins.
At this stage in my lifespan it is probably too late, any future potential sex little more than a violation and discomfort, rather than consensual adventure, or an act of love. We see how romantic congruence translates on the set on a daily basis, know what chemistry is. Frank tried his best to run through his paces, in fact, but as far as the dowager was concerned he might have been one of her groping clients, men and women, black and white, from whom evasive maneuvers were necessary: now the air we breathe is compromised. I did not realize, until recently, that Zoo was in its third season, with Billy Burke ever the intrepid survivalist. I have never read any of James Patterson's  stories, do not intend to, as much because of his inane commercial advertising as any of his other marketing strategies, but will give him this: Zoo is a nice revenge fantasy poorly executed, even if my rather late glimpse into what is going on felt like an episode of The 100, with every actor hiding behind skype and simulated computer graphics, signifying that complexity and catastrophe go hand in hand in our current populist age. I may have recycled this sentiment as well, but merge it with the pragmatic sensibility of the Amazon customer pointing out the opening season's rushed, choppy feel. Trump upbraided Lisa Durden for her vitriol, and I've reached a kind of plateau where no one truly cares about mine. I recycle too much of it, to the tune of tone deafness, and my white hot anger has not translated, quite, into consequence, as my COPD occasional flare ups slipped my mind. If I am actively in my early dying stage, I've markedly eluded emergency medical care. Perhaps it's too easy to blame barometric pressure, but how many good resets I have, this Thursday morning after Salvation's disruption, seem suddenly precious.
I cannot tell you, despite the grooves of my trauma, that I have been latently butch all along. Were that the case, the lesbian passes I've had to absorb, forced, would have gotten me off. This never happened. Not feeling well, I fathom getting back to bed without incident, shins swollen, wondering if its worth pushing matters, manufacturing a hate crime, on a strong day, rolling dice with God in a failing machine.

Residuals

If I did not stop doing this I was going to die.--Cheryl Strayed

On the whole, I was predisposed towards prejudicial distain of Salvation, simply by virtue of dealing with fifty years of the asteroid meme in the industry, and I could have made myself sleep, as CBS re-aired the pilot Friday evening. It had a few libertarian brush strokes, but the fact that Dell flat screen computer monitors and Apple phones have become supporting players in television science fiction doesn't translate well, as far as I am concerned, which is why I might have paid more attention to The Mindy Project; its twitter account followed me a long time ago. I haven't written about it because I am ambivalent about the humor in The Office, but at least these situation comedy offshoots from British models still focus on character. In an alternate world where I had mobility on my feet, as you do, I might have been Mindy as heroine, playfully acerbic as opposed to caustic, in the varying degrees of hostility humans have, mocking their own behavior.

I need to be cautious in reconciling with the maternal voice of my sex. Children need to be reared, but in the developed world, we've lost perspective on the matter. Reconciling with Gretchen, and getting too familiar with Robert's liberalism, reminds me why I've gotten banned from the collective social voice, and I cannot wade back in like a holistic penitent. It isn't that I want to hurt them, or be disparaging. I know Robert hopes I find my way to peace, acceptance, some sort of happy extraction, and Gretchen probably forgave me because she knew she wasn't the target of my antagonism, but sometimes, the second sex, with its pasteurized, urbane husbands, is insufferable, and my Speakeasy past, not wholly absent in social media, recollects my unease with clacking hens. I've kept Cheryl Strayed on twitter, but the memory of her authorial voice about her journey into horse and needle tracks had a vaporous quality to it, a sort of conspiratorial nod that her lack of control with narcotics wasn't serious. I forget why she and I connected nearly twenty years ago, and as I've written before, that she ignored my greeting on twitter doesn't rankle that badly. It might be simply that she doesn't remember we used to post to each other. We would not have become, or remained friends, however. There is another whom I haven't mentioned. Diane Kirsten Martin, Robert's workshop colleague. She and I sparred over my bias toward Africans on Facebook. I did not get banned for being civilly frank, thought I might, frankly didn't care, and we've ignored each other since, but this still reflects the lassitude of Robert's nature. Diane is catty, I'm the brass bitch, and Cheryl, his wife, smiles mischievously. None of this is my world, this San Francisco Episcopalian middle brow curvature, and it never shall be. But if I reject it, then what exactly was I aspiring to, defeated as I am by urban progressive corruption?