Hegel in Vancouver

"Married men and married women can only be close friends in large crowds."-- Ted Danson, has been heart candy.

Aunt Marie fell earlier in the week, broke her wrist. I did not tell her ancient cunning "I told you so," but I told her over the summer to begin the process of case managing her decline. She claimed she wasn't ready. Now that she is in pain with a joint fracture which will not heal properly, she is "ready to throw everything to PCA," and mildly incensed me by saying she doesn't know how I do it with one hand. She is old and in excruciating pain, but Jesus H Fucking Christ I need a new set of colorful expletives. I considered poon in the sense Ellroy uses it, but as slang it is more rancid and degenerative than I care to be. Barriers need not be built so thick. 

I spent the early years of my childhood shuttled from row home to row home to row home, yellowed with cellophane lamp shades and plastic upholstery, Marie's included, on my knees on her kitchen linoleum as a monkey child screaming at her Rottweiler, thinking it was going to eat me, which led Uncle Richie to yell at me for frightening the damn dog, the tumors in his chest floating into place with T-1 switches, then I lived with her prior to my entry into the steaming dung of North Philadelphia, but the bigotry rolls like kidney stones from colon polyps.

Any time blacks start something between Temple University and Drexel, it becomes an international incident, but drive byes in Kensington, robberies in West Philly, these are slasher lede segments for the local broadcasts (Fox still sleeps with Coppola's opera; as a local network they believe traditional mafia is still relevant). I have been dealing with the guilt terror in that street thief's face, even if the kid has a defense to play, for 27 years now. It is the face of every black man who cannot matriculate into a professional niche within the business class. It is the face that destroyed whatever liberal creed I had twisted in my vaginal mucous when I migrated back, the face that angrily moved me rightward, the face that allows me to lose intimidation if I set out to teach Spike Lee something about humility.

Of the 600k minorities who legally reside in this large but dilapidated urban grid, two thirds of their children are texting me in face time audio urging me to "get mommy out of the toilet." My restraint has been admirable; it shall not last. In studio when I feel the need I toss the 5c in my canvas and hook it where I can access it. That alone helps me relax, but having matured from a vigorous 30 something into a bitter hag sow on Internet screens, sexting Jobs rib cage is beyond my day dreams.

Urban Vigilantes

"Just in case you skimmed over that, Eminem is saying he wants to kill a woman he particularly despises with a machine gun."--Lucy Jones, NME

Dick Costolo is sanguine about suspending the twitter accounts of lawyers if they attempt to corral class action clients through the micro-network, yet Spike, because he is a celebrity, can engage in an overt vigilante attempt, which, despite his lauded artistry, he doesn't verify, gets his facts wrong, and disrupts the lives of innocent people. Settles with them for pocket change, wants the suit dismissed, and no doubt holds the loyalty of his followers with a bond stronger than the variability of melanin. Is it fair that market value dictates access and privilege in this manner?

I am no particular fan of George Zimmerman despite my experiences in the inner city, but I do care about the rule of law, which is why I never published any direct threats to my disability center, or to my former supervisor Linda, despite years of duress as a consequence, yet this man can do as he likes and come away with a wrist slap because he has an agenda, and airs dirty laundry on the inside of his brothers and sisters, swimming the established currents of the left because he got Jackson to do a shuffle parody. The virtual highlight of Jungle Fever. Given that I have been victimized by entitlement and identity, I think the suit against Lee should hold, and that twitter should consider suspending his account until the case settles, and the issue of inciting the public is examined with serious consideration. Whatever the future holds for Zimmerman, he was acquitted in the death of Trayvon. Killing the man amounts to giving all of us an open season. Perhaps a boycott of future Lee projects is in order. The breakout work had energy, to the limited extent I'm familiar, but the chocolate chip that drives his work walls off entry into it. Spike likes to kick box his audience. I wonder how he'd feel about a spastic steam roll.

Harry Bergeron

"Tried it. We're no picnic ourselves."

Exactly. The key scene in the lounge between Vera and Anna on lesbian experimentation is subtle. Up in the Air (2009) offers sly renderings with each reviewing, and there is a swipe here about lack of discipline towards appearance and grooming. Reitman winds his cinematography as tight as an Apple OS platform (and I am still not sold on the essential necessity of the convenience, partly generational), the literate cued in now to Alexandra's duplicity over being comfortable (appearances don't matter) and deceptive about the degree to which she was utilizing Ryan like a truffle, although he treats his lifestyle in such a fashion, a decorous candy dish, leading us to Kurt Vonnegut and his back handed warnings. The actual story on which the Bergeron adaptation is based, if you do not know it, would give Obama a frontal lobe injury.

Vonnegut, like Rajaniemi, uses satirical conceits which in lesser hands is akin to mutilating your pussy and scrotum on a bed of nettles, and yet this is Vonnegut, who defies classification. I am old enough to remember his biology of the English iamb, unlike you, in my hard copy archive, and realize from where Kurt jacks that he is no more a genre adherent than Hubbard is a reincarnation of Moses.

I have had a running allergy for three weeks. Colds sparked by Presby's idea of humane heating I am used to, but not this constant itch, clear post nasal drip frothing, relieved not by a decongestant but an anti-inflammatory, hard study of euthanasia papers. I've come up with a bizarre idea, in the nomenclature of uproars, and if I want to get myself drummed out of the mainstream, or merely intent on an emulating hard on for Estelle Getty's provocative timing, depends on how cleverly ugly Blogger will allow me to be. Don't doubt that I am not simply because I fear terms of service.

The older I grow, the angrier I get, the closer I come to carnage seemingly for the sole purpose of obliterating and then I pull myself up short. Is it that bad? I'm not Spike Lee, and he utilized twitter for vigilantism on innocent people. Being a brand with a chip as hard as pink quartz up his ass, recognition is a shield under which he can get away with it. 

I will show you little vinnie pictures soon.