The Long Pincers Umbra

"That statue is not about football," Gleason, straining to speak because of the effects of ALS, said moments before the formal unveiling on a rain-soaked Friday afternoon.-- a hero in continuing pan shots of emaciation

What I see in the above image is the less than illustrious rise of an ancestral peasant class, with its nearly denuding and uniformless dressing of the crone age female body, mass manufactured couture, making the best of it on a parochial teacher's salary, representative of the culture wars surrounding gender today, more den mother than feminine, all in slacks. They would not use the terminology of Gloria Steinem, but there is no doubt they've benefited from the feminist generation, emasculating males who simply do not have the fortune to be a Monsignor in charge of secondary education. They submit as the obedient second sex to Catholic priests, but dare I say this is primarily pro forma. The large woman in the back right is a retired principal, and doesn't live in the same building with a priest who let her go, many years ago, relieving her of her responsibilities, unlike myself, forced to delightfully reside with dying clients and one heinous transsexual who protected and covered up my toxic humiliation at the turn of the century. More on the limpid retraction of disability independent living due to the centralized triumph of Maximus later. However bad things were before under the decentralized Medicaid Waiver before, things under Maximus are like lining up humans over fifty for slaughterhouses, and this merciless safety net for indigence is traded on the NYSE. I can only snicker, starkly, not even compliant with near dying well, with brave smiles. Oh, my aunt, she only wants what's best for me. Not offering the same appearance of frailty as Justice Ginsburg and bubble wrap, she nevertheless encloses herself in a dome, with her own fears, near to 70, with allegories of rebirth in heaven. She is upset with yours truly for throwing a spear at the sacred pantheon of her mother, my grandmother, who sits at a table with a geriatric aplomb, zoological spectrum of vacancy. And exactly what, you ask, does this have to do with Robert Mueller's Russia probe rumbling along in avalanche? Aside from the need to demystify Putin, who has the same financial inability to restore the former Soviet empire as any other colonial power, Mueller's applied brute force is destroying lives, as opposed to protecting domestic election integrity. Manafort is no more or less unethical than the flash boys of Wall Street, and my eyes glaze over with the new, if recycled, Slavic paranoia. that's right, but I got sucked into a Twitter brawl with blat, and Mary. It cost me, but doesn't it always, at that? If Pelosi decides to impeach the ignoramus in chief, and starts to chip away at Senate solidarity, it doesn't change the continuing erosion of our former unifying ties as a country. Regular readers can scroll through 1600 posts, to discover my integrity in disposable linens. From this perspective, Justin Cronin manages to convince me of world's end. We're overwhelmed with pathogens, meaningless, aimlessly frail identities. His trilogy is so similar to Carey's film I thought the series was a clever spin off. Another error. Worried? Alas, don't be. I have decided to suspend medical services, soon. That will be the start of my journey as well, as if I am the first of the last. I am determined to leave Philadelphia.

Reduced to earning a dollar on assignment like a blood letting

Why do I not submit one of those wonderful tickets to Clarity Media and tell them with sweetly drooling daggers to kiss my bloody spastic ass? Why? Because I'll never be a fucking syndicated columnist even worthy of an ISIL/ISIS beheading, because I am not sure I can apply to be a part time or full time editor journalist writer without getting fired if I cannot make a deadline due to an incontinence or COPD attack, my stool invariably ruining rayon, cotton, or other synthetic knits. The low income Protestant corporate office who encompasses the building owners I have lived under is a big business, and the Philadelphia Housing Authority is an embedded syndicate. I might as well be Chen Guangcheng attempting to evade secret police beatings even as I snicker at Xi Jinping giving speeches to Brazilian politicians about historical Chinese tea workers in South America. 

China. The new old global aspirant. Yes, whether or not the new 2016 President of the US finds a way to reverse our new found anxiety about both, our domestic and foreign competency, the United States will eventually begin to dovetail, if we haven't already, but China's muscle is no panacea -- or does Google's immorality rate an equivalency marker with third world state models? Fear of forcing your own eviction might be a wonderful way to insert a huge block of granite into a life long love of writing which ultimately, the majority of us fail to transmute into gold, but getting stymied over puff pieces of trivial pursuit? Ah.

To my regular viewers: I do not know what Presby is going to do to me. They have done enough over the years: Peggy asking me to case manage tenants while I worked for Matrix, typical Greater Delaware Valley collusion. Debra Schwab barging in over my deplorable conditions in the studio, granted, at the time I urinated and smoked my way into destructive tenant classification. Frank thought of the urinal. Less accurate stream aim with a clitoris, but it mitigates the loss of control. I never thought of the urinal, so give my bastard ex pig of a fiance some credit. After all the nursing aides on the Medicaid Waiver, after blowing thousands of dollars of my own money, after even the costs of Presby's renovations, this stark, sterile studio with its cheap dry wall, cheap non glossy white paint, stained drop ceilings in the bathroom from the crippled gang banger above me who is a fucking bombastic drunk with no teeth, it is pretty much in the same condition its been in since after my first three years of residency.

The lethal conjunction of poverty and disability is about more than mere lack of money. It is about the erosion of esteem, devaluation, an inability to take pride in habitation, in interior design, your own appearance. After so many years without employment, with a collegiate debt going to crush you unless you re-institutionalize yourself, you begin to stop caring.

Krauthammer Codicil

Everything Dr. Krauthammer contends in public argument is what I have been attempting to convey to my audience on a more personal, and sometimes risky level. After all, discussing the corrosion of internal vengeance power fantasies after digesting lifelong humiliating paradigms is not something that will get me invited to Michelle Obama's Motown galas, but I am going to breakdown Charles' delineations a little further: the welfare state in America manufactures psychosis, if not spree killer psychotics, whatever prevention modalities remain in place. The entitlement system essentially traps vulnerable people, and literally drives them insane if they cannot secure gainful, and I'll add, secure employment.

Charles is entirely correct. My landlord has no legal authority to commit or institutionalize until dementia or aggressive behavior translates into property destruction, criminal behavior, or inability to function, but there is no flexibility in Medicare or state regulatory systems to adapt to individual needs as opposed to forced compliance, and I don't have the money Charles probably does to buy services more tailored for his needs as a paraplegic. There may not be any free lunch, but conservatives like the doctor are tone deaf to the fact that my birth disability nearly precludes my ability to succeed under our titular free market capitalist system. I have to succeed the same way my former counselor Cassie James does, earning her salary on the backs of those with developmental disabilities whose limitations prevent matriculation. This does not explain the Lanza family, but it is part of the larger problem, regulating ourselves to death with compliance, alienating ourselves with devices and the glamor of violence.

Little Shrill in the Land of Giants

I am hereby determined to marry an Amazon employee at senior management level; if Obama nationalized the company Hugo Chavez would ejaculate oil into the ozone, sucking up great volumes of CO2 emissions.

Did I just condense Utopia into one sentence?