The Bear is Growling

Okay, now that we are in a social media panic, I applied for a third writing position through LinkedIn. I had an advisor lady from the sometimes fiddle to faddle resource site following me on twitter, but even in my neural net which takes things personally, what happened to her is anyone's guess. I am never going to be the eccentric old woman who inadvertently grabs the scruff of the meek out of sewer pipes, and, since I promised myself no etudes to the fiascoes to my north, I will not provoke the pressure cooker this evening, other than to ask if I dare order take out as I am, hoping not to be judged too harshly on delivery. Demonic streaks being what they may, there is still a side to me which is full of life, it is simply obscured by stifling quicksand--

One question, seriously, for the embroiled African American agitators-- are any of you donating to Nepal from the businesses you're vandalizing? The death toll for the wee little country is over 6,300, of late, and I can tell you, I hate section 202 housing with enough vengeance to risk mortal injury at the hands of Philly's finest, simply by virtue of my age and condition, but I've never deliberately damaged this building, ever, whatever my escalating friction with management. I've been on the other side people, I have, ready to declare war on SEPTA, screaming at CCT drivers in a cardiac rage. Paratransit services remains exactly what it was in the eighties, with more efficiency only by virtue of the fact that power chair use was drastically curtailed in 2002. It is how the activism is applied, but emoting, all that earns is a jacket.

All of my five emails to Pennsylvania's political establishment

I clicked on Sheila Huff's account from my now well used Apple iPhone without thinking, and was prepared for the doctored breasts which meet your eye if you click her tweet. PhillyTechGuy may get another visit from me if Huff's site gave me a virus, but I cannot role play it that way. It is gratuitous. I'm not offended, I do not protest smut, and Miss Huff may use her riders as she pleases, but a woman of 53 is not 35, driven by those needs for an embryo hormones. Menstrual cycle stoppage triggers subtle changes.

I read Craig Whitlock's summary feature carefully, and do not have an issue with his inability to offer his readers a salient exposure (after all, I cannot get case managers to admit highly discriminatory behavior toward me, not on the record). We used to be able to say men are men and women are women, and apparently the Pentagon got its zipper caught between Paula Broadwell's antagonism toward a social climber when Paula herself was the one doing the serving  Jill Kelley's voluminous email exchanges with a Marine like Allen make my turn of the century chattiness seem tame. The small short story I mailed to Brian Sims may be considered private mail, but emails don't work that way. We all know it and forget it, unless we use a firewall encrypted by Captcha, which is what I used yesterday to solicit Sims again, daring my terse attitude to refer to his orientation with a sensibility of watered down aspersion. Perhaps Sims and Toomey know what I am trying to say in more uncouth terms, but these are very busy men, and Sims might ask me, in critique, if Republican austerity measures helped me out.

No. Losing Paratransit only accentuates my isolation, but that the service is now heavily restricted is partly the fault of militant activist victories, as per Cassie James Holdsworth, and Erik. The right wing is basically correct. Septa's buses are functionally accessible, unless too crowded to displace seated riders for wheelchair users, but my mobility isn't any easier. I wanted to own my own home, with a lawn, but apparently all realtors have some sort of federal contract with HUD. Part of a disabled mindset involves a trusting nativity. I'd ask someone like Joan Tarshis if she'd like a roommate if my intellect did not already know we don't do things like that-- although I did quite openly feel a surge of gusto with this guy, and had to struggle not to ask Mr. Stiles to come get me the fuck out of here, please. That would be putting a lot on libertarian self-reliance.  

How to handle a riot

Everyone is covering Ferguson, even the beautiful state that is really Canadian territory, and I too actually want a piece of this story, as the journalist poet clogged with too many ideas, but my courage will be tested if I plow ahead. I have my own idea and want my own source, though of course most of my content will be based on attribution, attribution to whom I do not yet know, but Reuters is in the running-- and perhaps once in awhile I need to forget about trending topics.

It might be a test of courage, however. I regret that the young man may have died as the result of an alleged bad shooting. I have no reason not to feel regret, but looting and the destruction of retail businesses is not a lesson on civics and policing, and the minorities in St. Louis diminish sympathy by engaging in such regressive antics. I never did any of this as part of the activist community in Philadelphia. Years ago I blew up at a Paratransit driver, but fighting CCT Connect brandishes the soul with Josef K's default condemnation.

Miscellaneous Protocol

"They do not have to be doing this,"  Cassie James Holdsworth, linear whiner at regulatory restriction

No, I am not feeling particularly better, though I am less phlegmatic in color. Food is an anathema. It would be a pleasure to cease digestion and consider the possible vaginal absorption of Ensure. The Golden Years Rush.

Common Sense LOA edition back on shelf, due to other priorities, but Paine's anti-authoritarian rationale derived from agrarian Semitic polemicists mistrustful of city states would fit right in with the bravado insurgency. Would you enjoy a small token of honesty? Okay. I took a dig at the Miriam Carey event yesterday, a dig on the basis of deconstructing irrational behavior, upending it with the tenet that Obama speaks to everyone on nearly a weekly basis.

But in my annoying interdisciplinary approach, the Carey family has my commiseration. Miriam was sick, much sicker than the system ever attempted to make me accept about myself. I have been in Senate offices in DC, and I do not fuck with the capitol police, and I'd vanish at the approach of the Secret Service, who would kill me because I am mad at the President, which in translation means the trappings of the Oval Office would not subdue the Spastic Tongue Lashing, and then I'd go boom, like Miriam, poor woman. I do not believe she had to die like that, but what to do? I'm not that radical about non-compliance. She did fuck with the capitol police, the secret service, the landscaping contractor.

Nonetheless, the odds of her gaining access to the President were 10 to the sixth power to one, and it is unseemly, playing wild west with a citizen in pain in Washington's metro area with her baby in the vehicle.

On the less slim chance that my energy realigns sufficiently and I can land future assignments that I will complete to an editor's satisfaction, I am in search of a photographer with a decent portfolio who can negotiate their own contracts. I'll reiterate this every so often. I cannot deal with pics, even if Apple had spastic smart phones. I do have a portfolio. It may not be Vanity Fair, but it is sturdy, with one byline to a Pulitzer Prize winner. I am not in the mood for breakfast. Sulky morning, wondering how a dental hygienist could afford an Infiniti in the first place.

We need a moment of conscience.