A Fury Almost Not to be Recognized

"New hope for the civically exhausted--" TNR's rebtanded tagline

Coping with false allegations is never a pleasant experience, but I doubt those in Twitter's scrolling immediacy paused to reflect on the hyperbolic decibel level which surrounds American physical intimacy as it rolls back its blinds on the sexual revolution with some degree of diffidence. The catfish operatives who trolled on Buttigieg's character in mid-spring were the first to wither under a crisp recoil, as per the announcement of the Burkman/Wohl press conference.

Jacob Wohl plans to hold a press conference on his Pete Buttigieg sexual assault smear on Wednesday pic.twitter.com/BS2R38PFBr

— Will Sommer (@willsommer) May 6, 2019

Not Dale Peck, but as I read these persistent entrails of innuendo, Wohl was taking a page from Me Too as a reflective lesson. If Kavanaugh was going to burn, then why not a favored son from the midwest who has the admiration of former right winger Tom Nichols? I looked at some paragraphs of Peck's screed and with some piqued irony saw myself in his words, as some of you must have read me in my delineations of Erik von Schmetterling, the failed female medical intern with its freakish androgyny, and Jimmi Shrode, its pallid partner, but Peck is wrong too, too infer that educated people such as myself, once a supporter of gay marriage, could steer my starboard in the other direction, turn my back, and yet preoccupy myself with Mayor Pete's private life. What is that to me, aging, vulnerable, in paralysis regardless of policy nuance? The National Review, for all of my restlessness with its content, offered me a better grasp of Buttigieg's executive limitations in dealing with the lethal shooting of a black resident who allegedly pulled a knife on an officer. Dale Peck simply continues onward with the destruction of a periodical which many of us have lauded as a Beltway institution. I can say quite honestly I wouldn't want, as of this post, a byline in The New Republic. That window has passed, to echo Jeffrey Tucker when he wanted to praise Beyonce but was upbraided by someone uptight when it came to a white man writing about a black woman's music. Western civilization is so sadly broken. I can revert to my excoriating denigration on the basis of race and ethnicity, (let alone orientation) but the rest of the country has left me parked at the curb, no matter how much more dehumanization there is left to sustain in a neo-liberal candyland.

Draco's Fire Lunge

'passed on from hand to hand"-- Elton John, negating projectile weapons

In the differential between being helpless and being rendered helpless, it is interesting to note that the keystone for Magee Rehabilitation Hospital was laid in 1982, while I was zipping around the borough of Ridley Park and the city of Chester, oblivious, on that mainly picturesque campus, of the sterile fate which lie ahead as part of the Jefferson Health network. Magee’s masonry is still relatively young, just shy of forty years, the front line, in Philadelphia, for spinal injuries, I only ever penetrated here to be fitted, as my closed circuit institutionalization began in 1972, not that this insolent and glowering little vixen could know this, with her spitfire blond strands, uneven stare. She could not hope to travel through my varied gateway of sexual molestation at the hands of African minorities, vaginally penetrated, as if I were nothing more than a terrorized marsupial dispensed for use on the forearm of privileged schoolboys. She deserves to be slapped across the face, this single syllable expression of umbrage and bloodthirsty xxxxx’es, and perhaps she realizes, the little cunt, that a spastic such as I calls out the cannon, already in prison, with nothing to lose in the deploy of the big guns.

She isn’t much of an adversary in her bristle.

Ellen De Generes, conversely, probably would comprehend these rivulets of scar tissue in the guise of my violent stepfather, abusing one and all in my whore of a mother’s household. I suppose I fled, like a boomerang, while Ellen dispenses with femininity altogether. This cross dressing transvestite enthusiasm actually has a long undercurrent in vaudeville going back to the Victorian era. The disability law firm from Maryland, following me in a brief subterranean exchange, may be hungry enough to take legal action against the vendor Mainline Medical, presided over by my uncle, Louis Cristinziani, but what good is that in a burning vertigo on the verge of collapse?

The Acrylic of Glee in Anarchy 99

Despite the hardship of a nearly bigamous entanglement with a direct care worker on a daily basis, despite curious crimping in her sternum, not necessarily but likely related to bowel evacuation, the dowager's confidence is slowly returning; if she wasn't tinnitus-oscillating weary, she would attempt to slide herself on to the toilet without benefit of the shambling cocoa panda man who thunders through the door between 10 and 11:30 am daily. He still inhibits me into anxiety over doing for myself, as the last thing I want is for the yo-yo man to throw his back trying to insure I do not lose my balance, so I am cranky. When you live under the mantle of a fraternal order such as this, however:

Another image of Presbyterian scoliosis. pic.twitter.com/mlj4cahdCx

— Joanne M Marinelli (@Jozannyme) November 12, 2018

Then espy the actress of Charmed like a reigning fury while an honorable man undergoes the most outrageous form of character assassination one can conceive in a Republic so beholden to Roman institutions:

Then this, the destruction of Malibu, earns a spastic in a bubble of her own,  the merit of telegraphing a visceral level of satisfaction. Californians have created this bottleneck disaster on their own, without any help from the rust belt or the northeast corridor. Yes, the horses did not deserve to suffer, and apparently they did not, but Milano earned a few cracks in the dome. That she is a sexual assault victim herself doesn't earn her the rectitude of privilege. There are thousands of us, and yet there it is, the exemptions, the exaltation of Hollywood, in a festooned appearance in the chamber of the Judiciary Committee. I, who have been head butted by a remorseless medical single payer option for the last 13 months like a termite queen host carrier of cholera, will not maintain a moment of silence, nor spare the "victims" of Woolsey so much as a dime. Mandate capitalism is one thing, the superficiality of opulence is another, and the utter barbarism of the clinical model towards non-compliance is another still, especially when medical objectification is merely a liberal form of intimidation beyond a certain point. Woods gets a pass, for reasons previously stipulated, but one understands this is his milieu, luxurious as it must be toward constipation relief. 

Dark Night

"The United States did not ratify the the treaty after the Soviet Union invaded Afghanistan in December 1979." -- a nice, staid archive consulted for strange, forced cohesions

It is interesting to note what glimpses of ruthless brutality Ronald Donaldson chooses to offer viewers in his 2007 expose, The Bank Job. We're allowed to see Jason Stratham's supporting crew member Eddie get tortured with a blow torch by a cop on the take, but we are spared seeing the henchmen of hustler pimp "Michael X" slit the throat of Gale Benson, the MI5 operative, perhaps in order to staunch racial backlash, which certainly hasn't stopped the spastic dowager from coming into creation, or emerging into her unpleasant incarnation, which is about to cost her a great deal, though she is paying greatly already.
American directors are certainly capable of ruthless, merciless films which show violence in its own linguistic context. When I still had cable, I saw an independent, the name I cannot remember, about a black cutter who got off on stabbing his victims to death. He too wiped out a family, with the plastic bags over the head, sealed with duct tape technique, and at brutal cost, the white cop, who had a biracial boy, took these ruthless psychopaths out. Ebert, still able to speak, liked it. I did not, and obviously its unsparing malevolence still ignites my dread. Unless some brave soul comes to my rescue, one day I'll battle search and find Ebert's review. Despite my recoil, both the directors and the actors were courageous to make the film, because it exposes harsh realities which our British progenitors do not fear to reveal. I'm not indicating The Bank Job corresponds to the earlier American film, even though they both involve violent crime, and Donaldson made me think of the other. I'm only acknowledging exceptions to the rule. Britons, Europeans at large, tend to be more unsparing than the colonists they left behind to form the last major powers, though truth be told, Canada seems just to be lucky, and I know sum total of zilch about its defense capacity, nor if its benevolent neighbor down South has given it access to warheads. It is not listed as one of the nuclear eight, but with such a vast land mass, second only to Russia, I can certainly entertain a Boys from Brazil intrigue, especially in the event that Syria and Israel decide to end civilization as we know it. I don't mean that the CIA is conspiring to clone German fascists with Canadian Intelligence, but that there are fail safes of the sort that would leave James Gardner exasperated, in his tough detective jacket. If it is true that people died needlessly because Princess Margaret couldn't be embarrassed, what right do I have to say I'm not expendable to a black urban majority which destroyed my health and social conscience? In the years Joan Tarshis claimed Bill Cosby raped her, I was being denigrated in a whirlpool bath by a minority orderly who actually believed her abuse of a nine year old girl abandoned by a shamed father was "God's work". The woman probably many years since passed away, given her weight, her age then, mine now. I couldn't prosecute, and I am not certain that scapegoating Cosby does anything, for Miss Tarshis or anyone else. The comedian is too old to functionally survive prison, but whether he was married or not, I would have never put myself in the position of a naive progressive willing to be alone with a stage personality, though I was naive enough to go into the hood and emerge like this, willing to sacrifice shelter to staunch such emotional scars as I've sustained. I am nearly in the space Joan herself seems to inhabit, uncertain veracity against injustices beyond the ability of the law to rectify, sorely in need of difference.

Pretentious Liberal Motherfuckers

"You sure?"-- Lawrence Gilliard, coming back from the dead to cross us over

The Hortons did not do anything overtly illegal in their solicitation. This was not a case of the state police tracking my brother down like an animal, a script straight of a seventies exploitation film, which is what my indelible memory of his face in that detention facility compares it to, an episode of The Fugitive. All the Hortons did was find my twitter account;  perhaps in the belief that a raging bull with tits would help their traffic ratio; I said to myself what the fuck is this?  And made successive errors in judgment,  for which I am now shamelessly trolling the couple and their community regulars.

Just like Mark Johnson, I can strike below the belt, and I was going to tell Karen Lee Bartlett her husband was an annoying voluble ass, just to be cruel. She was probably checking me out, because her motor moving epileptic spouse gave me what I thought I needed: chatter. If she was worried, she needn't have been. I would have abused BridgeToursJade with far more ease than try to steal him. The level of damage we can cope with in our partners is in the eye of the beholder-- but this is why I knew I had to get the fuck out of there and erase myself, because I was going to hurt an innocent party, due to the fact that other site users hurt, or were provoking me beyond what I can stand these days.


Yet my loneliness is still overweening. An online "regular" is better than the sheen of oils on my brother's psychotic adolescent bewilderment, cutting him off from normal human discourse forever. It would never be the same after that.  He was a hardcore drug user. If this is what my attitude is like starving for nicotine, then my brother off PCP should have been shot dead, then and there, as a fugitive on the run, spaced out, in the shame he brought to our family name, his face riddled with tweaker acne. He did not simply rape an anonymous party, but one of my father's tenants: If I rebelled against doing penny articles for Clarity Media, I was not going to give them to the nanny state mentality of Mike and Melissa for nothing, and was cruelly harsh with her, telling her Mike was a bozo fuck. That's mean, but I shall never, ever make the Yabberz News mistake again.

Sobering Pressures

Whatever one feels about John Ridley and his second season, I do not remember high school being as serious for teenagers as we all once were. In my era, drugs were a disruptive issue, but we never had lock downs and aggravated sexual assaults on the grapevine, and this was at the beginning of the Carter Administration, 78-79. In my district, somewhat affluent, like Leyland, bearing in mind this is Pennsylvania we're talking about, as opposed to Indianapolis, diversity was moot. Spastic was the diversity, not African Americans. I did not slam into class conflict and the cultural wars over black and white until the uproar at Widener over Huckleberry Finn and how to teach it. I pitied my academic advisor, Michael Clark, whose memory is one of the few instances of hallowed ground for me, I pitied Mark Twain, his legacy, and his towering achievement being obliterated over a pejorative which in the 19th century was part and parcel of linguistic currency, good and bad. It's a word, and when I use it I don't use it to "take away its power," as some angry black comics do, ones we no longer hear from-- I'll look it up later-- regardless of my context. When John and I had a heated debate at the tables of Cafe Walnut last summer and I said it in anger that was an accident, but I was hurting because a Market Street rent a cop denigrated me for going into my ATM, and I'm lucky I did not end up drawing the police on a holiday; perhaps it is a symptom of degeneration (I looked it up because that was one diagnosis that slipped by in the field) and the actor journalist was right. Taylor's mother had a serious illness, and we would have never seen anything like Pollari's assault on network in my youth. It was brave of ABC, maybe too brave, how easy it is to die like that. I took it, because that was what life was like for my deceased brother and his clique, but I'm amazed ABC allowed us all this brave linguistic honesty, the truth of our volatile dysfunction.

Now I need digestion time.

Blood Children's Insulin

Justice denies that the loss of freedom for some is made right by a greater good shared by others.-- John Rawls, 1971

Brandon Phillips served time for his aggravated assault. Two years. Did his time, his grandmother's bones long in the ground, and the damages from the inner city and Diamond  Park, well, fifteen minutes away from a lifetime of inviolate branding, compiled by the incompetence of pluralism and cruelty of the peevish elderly, is merely fifteen minutes away. The beneficiaries in all this? The property owners, who escaped liability because I was passive, and thought the managerial minority staff were looking out for my interests.

The difference between Camille Cosby and Hillary Clinton is a matter of degree. Former Flotus stood by husband because she derived her power from a philandering husband who became the president. The Bill from Arkansas loved women, besides, though things sometimes go awry, his naked penis hanging in front of Jones an embarrassment, but legally not systemic harassment (I have done a lot of research on this). Herein lies the reason I will not vote for Mrs. Clinton. She enabled Bill's behavior in a trade off to climb the political rungs, in contrast to Napolitano, who, beyond the occasional sympathy profile, glitters with no such star dust.

The Bill from Philadelphia apparently doesn't feel our pain, and is allegedly just another black predator. Whatever side of the fence we choose, lives have been forever altered. Darren Wilson killed a future NFL scandal in Michael Brown, flabbier, if larger, than the Brandon who forever altered me. Brandon was wiry, strong, compact. Darker than Brown, and sorry but this is what he looked like, thick lips inflamed like a vagina with herpes, eyes red with hard driving inflammation, I no longer fantasize about blowing his fucking skull off; his attack was impersonal, stupid. Didn't even steal the five dollars from my consultancy fees lying on the table. If Brandon's time served is nothing against my fear of more suffering to come, contemplate what Wilson faces beyond more potential litigation: revenge threats, loss of his career. Cosby's legacy is tarnished, perhaps irretrievable, but he will be dead soon.

It is the reverberations left behind. These will reach up and ensnare the future.

All in the Family

"We could just keep quiet about it."--the Attenborough version

I do not know if Google would remove my account if I was exceedingly blunt, or honestly cut to the chase, as quadriplegia does not excuse illegal incitement, but I am worn out with swallowing what I have allowed myself to swallow, taking it year after year, from one form of institutional horror to another, to Medicare dictating the terms of my quality of life when I was younger and stronger, my acumen and intelligence deserving better. It is a rare investigative journalist indeed who examines Medicare and Medicaid in terms of allocation and delivery of service; our old world cultural bastion deserves credit for its in depth look at dialysis, but I can't remember the last time Paul Krugman turned his radical liberalism to the heart breaking reality of the limitations imposed by socialized medicine, not within the scope of his intellectual pretensions; he may be the smartest New York Times economist on campus, but that would change considerably if a stroke paralyzed him and he was traumatized by minority paraprofessionals, perhaps even humiliated by his peers, academics in whom he trusted.

I am not the first person to wish ill on a former superior, and I won't be the last, but my anger primarily stems from the knowledge that disability centers are segregated obscenities, and Linda Dezenski, involved in one law suit after another, remains there as a titular second in command. In a real corporate climate she would have been forced out of power, and there lies my anger. She created a hostile environment for me which compromised the supports I needed. Statue of limitations long gone. Sorry. Mixed race aide wants to make love to me, another swindles me and their supervisors say don't press charges, we'll repair it, and I just wind up being another profit margin, while the minorities who manage my building for the company want to put me away, shift the burden. There has to be a smart attorney out there who can see my adult life has been a living land mine and can adjudicate justice for it. Linda would tell you her side, that she did not mean it, that I displayed considerable anxiety; I was emotional. She acted without thinking and attempted to reflect my concerns, but she broke the law, needs to be removed, and my suffering needs to be acknowledged, served as an illustration that compliance paradigms can do more harm than good. When people lose faith in the system, crime statistics rise. She may have removed her digital footprint, but I'll refrain from speculation.

I am virtually helpless, but if I have to die with all this swept aside because I am inconsequential, then our civilization doesn't really amount to anything.

Linda Ronstadt's Parkinson's was the luck of the draw, ended the normative comeback cycles for recording artists on the downward curve of the apex. I treated her as an afterthought, not realizing she is still out there, stoic and less of a point man than Michael, not as flamboyant; I am considering purchasing her memoir out of commiseration, because she is of my time and I understand the period in which she gained recognition, but I do not actually care about her duet with Smokey Robinson.

The nihilist sniggers, wondering if I should teach you how to steal without getting yourself sued for plagiarism  I am considering it myself, taking an idea from an author never read, and writing a horrific tale of graphic precision, daring to get it published, as I am doing with my inner city attacker. Producing from the heart of a searing and authentic vision is difficult, the difference that divides canonical authors from the mediocre and the offering of platitudes.