The Thieves of Lake Cumo

The European woman who I reference here, with my minimal Italian catch phrases, and here, in my otherwise harmless effort at ingratiating camaraderie, blocked me for my attempt at middlebrow kindness, and yes, I have been sling-backing twitter long enough to distance myself from over-heating, but still, I meant no harm and was trying to be a kindred spirit.

@Svetulja15 Ciao! Jozanny <___mio mal

😎

— Joanne M Marinelli (@Jozannyme) February 26, 2018

 My archeological dip shits on this account have nothing to do with her, or forming an attempted rapport with those still residing in my generational homeland, and I wish her well, but we cannot always remain immune from such slams. I am not really into Vincent D’Onofrio’s fireside chats with his followers, to utilize him as an example. He seemed a little too into it somehow, with his tweets, and got burned. As a consequence of being made a fool, he turned his social media account over to a manager, and I rather silently went poof: I can conceivably see a day where I can write an essay about Goren and the law’s relationship to disability and crime, but editors were created to give their writers press passes, if I ever get myself out from under this dip shit, piling as it does. D’Onofrio didn’t seem able to manufacture the requisite coolness, whereas I’m in the middle. I can simply be analytical, but still let my hair down now and then, however the “numbers game” of social media twists our heads. I am not the only writer of such unfortunate circumstances. Alessandro Manzoni wound up suffering from a nervous condition after The Betrothed gave us the modern historical novel. Bulgakov is known for one work, and he burned The Master and Margarita, then rewrote it from memory, (I can do no such thing with my works, which Riverside has repeatedly placed at risk.) We cannot all plot a book a year, as Oates does, though I think she has taken “publish or perish” so literally as to have diluted her power, and I simply hate Stephen King, to let the cripple in me be true to herself. King is not the worst fantasist, by far, but most of his output is dreck, and even at his best, his motifs are infantile. The Stand, for a nearly hysterical work about the collapse of civilization in the US, turns out just to be a retelling of the Resurrection through King’s sympathies for white trash working class. I prefer puking to treating him with respect, as I’ve had my fill of white trash mentality of late. Rather than pivot it in on the screw, giving you a two page post, my broken spirit worms its way to bed. We’ll pick up.

Back Up Parentis with Titus

Do you ever have anything positive to say?-- my better weekend aide

The only thing Bosch brings to the table as a procedural, in my estimation, is hard luck forming its central character as a stickler with his own honor code, (something with which I identify) but the second season opened with something which threads through the history of civilization: using human frailty as a form of masking. The first thing this wizened detective does after a six month suspension for flipping a pissant captain, fraudulent as that felt, is expose a suspect as not his father with emphysema in a wheelchair on oxygen. Chair gets violently thrown, (not that this doesn't happen to actual users) suspect flees, and our star of course lassos him in. Hugo makes the same distinctions in The Hunchback of Notre Dame, when the unfortunate poet Pierre Gringoire gets corralled by beggars of a 15^th(?) century Paris in upheaval. They only pretend to be lame and crippled. The gruesome operatives of Slumdog Millionaire, if you recall, take no chances with such fakery, and blind destitute street kids to beg for what must be an unstable currency. Although I can feel Jason Dorwart’s raised eyebrows behind me, nothing has truly changed in the world. Why do I assert this? Because Erik von Schmetterling, for all his transsexual ADAPT zealotry of yesteryear, is senile, his troops dying in Riverside Presbyterian’s lobby, while I’m literally quaking myself to death in an incompetent mechanic’s contraption because I can no longer pivot to take a damn dump in the toilet and the medical professionals around me are going berserk bilking Medicare without doing a damn thing to restore my function, and a west African minority has me running around doing her job because she’s too tired. So I have to criss cross center city buying supplies I cannot afford. I can, conceivably, explore suing Mr Wheelchair for product liability, but by the time that needle moves a stroke will have probably hit me, my body actually fighting the disposable adult wear for hours until discharge necessarily takes place, in pain regardless of her masks and gloves and her physically brutal ignorance. I allowed Dana to see too much of this, my racial hostility. It preys a little because she is morally decent, but her provider, TLC, is “cheap immigrant labor,” once removed. Karina is little better, white as she may be. I wasn’t planning on a yodel about entitlement metastasis this morning, however, but since I’m here, from what I am able to observe, millennials and the adolescents coming up behind them may well end up living in much more poorer standards than those I’ve had; I just have to find the right entryway to broach the topic without causing undo friction to my family in their hardships, but it does alarm me. Karina is 38 and she has an adrift life. At that age, I was earning between 250 and 400 on commissioned articles, working, in other words. Nevertheless, let me uplift my percussion with an upbeat rhythm, as transitory as social media can be, I was heartened by Svetlana's discovery of my account, dare I consider her a spiritual sister in arms!