tutto in famiglia

Shut the hell up you bitch ass nigga. You will continue to run this country further into the ground and risk lives every time you breathe. You’re not the president. Just a dumpster full of hate. FOH. Sick to my stomach that literal shit currently represents America to the world. https://t.co/qoNWllmZIm

— Jussie Smollett (@JussieSmollett) January 12, 2018

I have not had much to post about my mother's sister Mary in her ebullient mark upon her league of students in the face of her deceased sister's emotive turbulence. This is due to fear of consequence. Her husband, also obese to the point that its malevolence on his family is grotesque, is a Methodist prig, and in other circumstances her might have been to PA's Delaware County what Chris Noth's Peter Florrick is to Cook County in Illinois. If he had not married into Mary's Catholic family, he might have been a local big wig, and the paper's treated him him as such when he was "Chief of D's," to use the Dick Wolf colloquium from SVU in an overt strategism to draw the audience in. 

Unlike yours truly, Mary is a true bovine conservative, and when she gets a few simple ideas in her head she masticates them to the finish line, and if niggers like Trudy Richardson have terrorized me for nearly ten years of her managerial authority, than what better advocacy can the Worrilow family offer me but to move into Fair Acres with my grandmother's living cadaver in Lima? I'd be given a room with another patient where I could "come and go". The wonders of the empty hollow that is the Americans with Disabilities Act from a woman twice my size, twice as thick, replacing herself with titanium bones. I have broken with my aunt, permanently, which points to the anathema, the irony, that poets and writers suspended my account from the Speakeasy for detailing the issues of chronic condition which Gretchen posts about daily on Facebook, but I hate the latter, regret the former. Mary nearly died earlier in 2018, due to pulmonary embolism, and yet everyone is slavering to do me more harm. Trudy's been at it longer, and I am determined she'll pay a price for that. Lumping me in with dementia patients prone to violence is not a conducive environment, nor as safe as my sister might otherwise believe. I may not be able to assist true conservatives in excising LLhan Omar as a fatal virus on our body politic, but Presbyterian Homes is going to feel my bite. Corruption before the face of God might as well open the doors to Armageddon.

The Grimace of Machiavelli

Machiavelli's most famous work, Il Principe, brought him a reputation of an immoral cynic [sic]

The Italians. If my life in Philadelphia amounts to an abject deconstruction of perennial, thwarted aspiration, I am under little illusion about what it would amount to on the peninsula if I managed to land and assemble for transport in Tuscany. Cramped store outlets barely large enough for a 5 foot 7 inch male of perhaps 175 lbs to stand behind a small counter, equally compact flats in which to wedge persecuted Arabic foreigners, juxtaposed around the scenic beauty of Lake Como, a plethora of earthquake collapses in Naples. One thing native Italians share with my enthusiastic to fade away contingent of Turks is an overweening penchant for flowery allusions embedded in death threats which are basically meaningless, an emaciated breath of history from the tombs of the Medici. Is Beppe Grillo a little Mussolini with saccharine smiles for Rai’s studio lightning? I yowled at a copywriter who dropped me because I enjoy Matteo Salvini’s pugnacity, and it is into this subterfuge of less precise detail that lurking in on Tassoni’s prep school immaturity triggers an irascible desire to hoist myself on my own petard, but lurk I do, nonetheless. Then I emailed him once again, approximately the third time since I tracked his career accolades. I mentioned Brandon’s name, the Negro assailant who nearly took my life. “It would have been better had he killed me,” I wrote, nearly petulant with despair, still accusing.

Why weren’t you there to protect me? This was the embedded outcry to my interpersonal Rocky who rejected me when I was 19. Now who’s being prep school, the dowager asks wryly, so easy to believe you still love the one who got away? John Tassoni was, indeed, my Rocky Balboa, and my mild bout of digital hysteria elicited his solicitude, the little monkey on his back, the nascent savant who can’t get over a punk from Chester who was kind to her, bear hugged her, made her realize that masculinity needn’t be toxic. Imprinted for life, no matter whose husband I slept with, but sitting here, with the mock up board of our lives on social media, you take stock in the realization of unhappiness with a player. Had I been successful in seducing him, chaffing or not, the interpersonal would have wound up where I left the serial novel of Alicia and Peter Florrick, keeping up appearances as a matter of showboat necessity on the hollow knell of the attraction which brought them together.

This episode, the one where the flawed values of a moderate political couple defeat the NSA, would have been courageous on the part of everyone, including Ridley Scott, to leave it conclude right there after the departure of Charles. Alicia was far too ruthless with Peter. You may adjudicate that assessment for yourself.

I’m dropping The Passage, as edgy as it purports to be, and scrolled through Tucci in Fortitude as a British DCI, to my delighted surprise. Somehow, even with the edginess of an Arctic locale, British thrillers are grounded in domestic tensions which are anti-climatic. On the American scene, they are instances of grand theater. Another citizen from my homeland with its tertiary angles has joined my ranks, and like John, a doctorate. I’m mollified. For the time being.

Riverfront Alignment with The Brookings Institution

"That is all I wanted!" -- Marthe Keller, dramatic flair

Whether it is Mrs Florrick senior with her post-stroke Cuban nurse, or Marthe Keller behaving like a grand duchess playing off Aaron Eckhart and a Parisian actress of Tunisian descent, video entertainment integrates care giving as a contrivance that helps the elderly stay on their feet, but this isn't what happened to me. A power chair failed, and then I was tortured for the better part of seventeen months by what is now being termed the pink police in intellectual circles, just another nail nail in the coffin of personal liberty, part and parcel of the defeat of free speech Jamie Kirchick so eloquently expresses sotto voce in The Washington Examiner. Right after that link, he tweets a politico link about the dark side of gay innuendo, to which my private smirk is a deft act of self-depreciation. 

I am supposed to go to Magee Riverfront later on this afternoon with the paraprofessional whose first base transference and a hedge of tongue was a mistake. I cannot pity his cognitive and self-limitations too much, as I thank god sexual intercourse did not come to pass. I hate the man, not particularly sanguine about our stroll to the hospital for the courtesy van to Magee's Riverfront location. I do not really want to go. This poorly fitted Quantum via Mainline Medical isn't their fault, and even if they're willing to rectify the problem, the correction will be lengthy, arduous, and I am already barely able to maintain continence over the course of these nullifying seventeen months. With the way Galahad and I presently engage, we may not make it as is. His automobile has failed, and he is therefore under more duress, and onward. No contrivance here, no holistic pair bonding via Bryan Cranston's re-packaging of a French original. Barring a coronary, I'll be back this evening.

The Velociraptor of Yucca Flats

"I'm concerned about the risk of the risk."-- Donna Brazile, pretense of a force to be reckoned with

The only episode of The Good Wife which came to the dowager's attention when it had currency on the free CBS network was "A New Day," and even that was only a partial view 10 minutes into the story, which I can only say, now that I realize what was going on in the stratosphere Rahm Emanuel's dismal leadership, is one of the more improbable plots out of the third season, a gay Palestinian killing a one time Jewish hook up who didn't want him, with all of forty stereotypical stab wounds illustrating gay hysteria for the sole purpose of placing Chris Noth and Julianna Marguiles in diametrical opposition to each other as Alicia begins to assert her litigious independence. Rather than striving to regain a modicum of my independence, or burning my bridges with my godfather and his troubled designated vendor, Mainline Medical, such as they've never been burned before, I've retreated inward, lost in this neo-realist series developed by the King's in an effort to pave the way for Hillary's coronation never to be? I'm waiting on tinderhooks for Will's death, which reverberated the reviewer's pens and carried over to me, reading the reverberating reviews which I in turn should be doing, getting access to those contingent previews prior to air date. At this rate, conditions of digital media brands being what they are, that's a rueful notion, that I can still stand toe to toe in entertainment media, re-assemble my building blocks, still fortunate that I do not have the shriveled post-menopausal neckline Mary Collins of Virginia.

Think the answer is yes

— Mary Collins (@MCollinsVAGirl) January 22, 2019

This is what she wrote in my lack of response to a rebuttal aimed at me in relation to Mueller's grand political theater, which has oscillated outward on the flimsiest of specters. I lost my temper to these apparently habitual terse retorts of hers, not that she could have been aware that I am not always capable of responding when I am now forced to fight a staph infection, an infection which will kill me necessarily unless I find another power chair through which I can restore some function. I don't want a piece of the story in relation to the ramifications of Mueller's over reach and abuses, unless I pick up a side lede on Flynn, who mystifies me. Mary pissed me off, believing that I cannot possibly comprehend the criminality involved in a mere logo leasing deal in Moscow, but it isn't only that. We're losing that altruism we used to have before smartphones transposed our interactions into hyper-partisan scorecards. Ms. Collins apparently doesn't realize, herself, with those tart snippets, what quadriplegic means, and how I am a thousand times stronger than she for what I've survived, even with the vortex sucking me in these last 17 months, and that vortex is a permanent condition of Ray's, the tweeter who reached out to Woods in his threats to publicly advertise his desire for self-harm. Sunday evening I kicked Ray in the balls. He claims, this Sunday evening, that his suicide attempt failed, and I retorted I am sitting in diaper shit, broke, and he needs to get over himself. His Christian sympathizers stroke his anguish, but not I, in this insulating pain of his to illicit pity. If he truly wanted to be dead that would have occurred after the actor's efforts got Ray placed on 50/51. The nurturing TwitterVerse offers about his "value" is only encouraging him to continue illuminating his pain, and that devotion to Jesus he wears on his sleeve is no doubt representative of a martyrdom complex. Whatever his mental illness is, if he desires its mitigation, it is contingent upon him to relocate a healthier egotistical comportment, and swallow the therapeutic paradigm available. A nursing home, by contrast, will not do the same for me, and if I take drastic action, I have to be able to mobilize quickly.

Remonstrate on, Alex Keating

"You will also die lonely and alone instead of being surrounded by children and grandchildren who love you."-- Marc Thiessen, worthy of emulation more frequently than not.

Discombobulated. It isn’t one of those words to be touted in relation to pride over one’s range of vocabulary, but it’s syllable bumbling is sometimes best suited in description when you give up on those technological extensions that raise human to cyborg debates on popular science venues. I traded in my old Kindle Paperwhite some scant days before my 57^th birthday, and thought Amazon, in consideration of the hundreds of dollars I spent on my original models, would simply ship out the upgrade. Why do we have to keep paying, again and again, particularly if we’re part of the entitlement class, which in the States, is bundled into the capital acquisitions pyramid? After sorting out that I had to indeed buy my new model, the tracking software places it as on its way from a major sorting center in Newark. Meanwhile my left hemisphere might be under vivisection. Kindles are vital tools when mobility is compromised, transforms into a research extension for those of us who wanted career to surmount family, to transform career into family, and then wind up with poverty’s sterility on display. The smoothness we see in The Good Wife is still fictive in this regard, the mere cookie cutter adaptations of Michael J. Fox in his cashmere long coat as an emblem of his popularity, likability, yes, these things are important, even if the hygiene self-pity issues are left to his memoir writing upon receipt of his diagnosis. You put it out there in brazen fashion, but not too brazen, the tremors, the noveau riche sensibility not so far removed from how success in Hollywood translates the power of recognition. Writers take a somewhat different track, but we are all gunning for the same thing, break ranks, then get subsumed by process law, process crimes. This is the complaint these days, that the process is more important than the individual. Marie Callender is only a simulation of evocative conceits we harbor about the culinary comforts of southern hospitality.

Their branded pot pies are tolerable, nothing to wax ecstatic over in the convenient eclipse of their mass manufacture. My oeuvre, creatively, or journalistic, may not be important in comparison to those who've accelerated into the classics, but it is important to me, the preservation, even if the aging Beats assembled in Pittsburgh were anti-climatic, mostly rude, drunk, later memorialized by my most obsessed over professor, as he felt bad, it was actually the journey itself which is surprisingly a highlight of my burgeoned adulthood subconsciously more and more in alignment with Alex Keating's valiant attempt to put the bit on then the over reach of 40 something boomers. Five hours on Amtrak over verdant hillsides, Hershey, Jonestown, meeting Louis McKee. As both of us were Philly poets, he and I talked about mundane things working class born and bred discuss, bills, grants, the living dead of loneliness in my head, my cousin has a penchant for these playful images designed to milk out the last drop of a smile.

Constantly Maligned, the Fang's in Travis Kauffman's Foreaem

"They passed nations through their mouths. They sat in judgement.-- Zora Neale Hurston

The word I would use is elegiac, as opposed to Poniewozik's elegant, in a description of Matthew Weiner’s The Romanoffs, whose title itself suggests something which is a knock off of an original. I would also suggest that it is fine for viewers to be mystified by how these short movies link together to make an anthology.  The strongest of them is the episode “The Royal We,” which the NYT features in its still photo of Kerry Bishe on a cruise for modern day survivors of the original Romanov family, of whom her husband happens to be one. Kerry, as Shelly, is simply an all-American girl, bohemian enough to get stoned over pizza in her off hours, trying to sort out her husband Michael. Corey Stoll has to suffuse himself as the missing link, tying the knot between Nicholas as the disconnected Victorian Czar about to be sacrificed for the new world order of egalitarianism which we’ve all learned since is a utopian fiction, and the sobering existential angst of the Slavic dark side to brutality. To break away from Shelly’s festering befuddlement, Michael leans into jury duty, and this has its own grotesque allure. You might reflect on how “The Violet Hour” leads to a pregnancy. Aaron Eckhart, despite ostensible star power, behaves like a sheep dog in it, his pleasures as furtive as Stoll’s remorse following on its heels. I never engaged in due diligence on Eckhart following his incisive energies which makes In The Company of Men such a powerful nihilist statement, but Weiner allows the actor some autobiographical footnotes which I certainly found more convincing than his character’s overflow of sexual conquest in the guise of an American dilettante. Ines Melab does better constructing her road map with Keller than as the distressed Tunisian Hajar about to hurl into social alienation but for Eckhart’s bumbling nonchalance finding a cornerstone of appearance and propriety for the sake of what appearance and propriety entail. In its way it’s a more sophisticated upgrade on the Florrick’s marriage of convenience revealing that relationships are more complex than mere residual unhappiness of a mistake.

The dowager wearies of The Good Wife as a foretelling of a Hillary presidency ghosted into a backlash upon which Trump capitalized, and may leave off where it is, with Peter in his effervescent governorship, Alicia with her self-assertion, and Will Gardner on his rampage towards Josh Charles’ exit from the series, effectively killing it. Isn’t Will a senescent liberalism in decline as well, or Diane Lockhart? What concerns me more than Mueller’s quest for integrity, and possible failure to bring down Trump’s crust of an old boys network, is what this undercurrent of appeasement toward Putin is supposed to yield. Its five day old war with Georgia reestablished the Russian Federation as "as a military power" in the words of Sarah Pruitt. Even before Putin emerged after Yeltsin, how was this ever not the case, even with but a limited tutorial available on the Crimean War with the British Empire, before revolutionary dissents within Russian amassed under Lenin? American media figures with access claim that Michael Flynn allowed himself to be orchestrated by Russia’s imitative propaganda machine, which can mimic the western press so cleverly as to not have a valid issue to raise now and again, but even if we accept, as per Obama Administration issues with temperament, that Flynn is a cracked vessel, he spent his career in military intelligence. If were going to think along nice big and easy puzzle pieces, then the argument can be made that contemporary civilization is yoked to the US Russia and China. If their interests were aligned than the rest of Europe might be a mere pacified inconvenience. Matthew Weiner’s fourth episode, “Expectation” entangles itself in a web of mendacity ending in an emergency surgery for gallstones. Telling, in Weiner’s polite request that we apply ourselves.

Momentum of Validation on a Swell

And the one thing we know the federal government cannot do is locate illegal aliens-- Kyra Sedgwick, not in Georgia anymore

As a matter of technicality, it was meningitis which killed my brother Nicholas, and not the HIV he injected into his bloodstream, but all I know about the disease is that it is prevalent among college age adults because college age adults live in close quarters and sneeze on each other with unguarded nonchalance, and Bre Payton was close enough to this sybaritic out of control age group to make her sudden demise from its attack on her brain-stem comprehensible, if otherwise unfortunate. I had a distant relative of similar age die in an accident at a skateboarding company where he worked. Brian was probably closer to being a millennial than Bre, but the suddenness of youth taken before its time makes me wonder why old age such as mine can malinger into bitterness, and others are snatched in nearly incidental fashion, as in MRSA or virulent cancer eating alive Mexican carpenters and eight year olds while others are merely hamstrung into inhumane predicaments. My novelist friend Gretchen Laskas has had a difficult time since returning from Ireland with her husband. I am unsure what it is Karl Laskas does, but it is high octane, like a client in Alicia Florrick's law firm, higher up than anything in my family short of my father's high rolling real estate deals, and while that affluence is certainly more secure than my vulnerable, withering indigence, it did not shield his wife, Karl's, from nearly unimaginable travail, which struck Gretchen like hobo's hopping the rails in pairs. Her uncle committed suicide while she was still in West Virginia, and then her son was in sudden mortal jeopardy when meningitis through a strep infection attacked her son's brain. Although the samples of Grechen's early novels which I read at the turn of the century were on the maudlin side, somewhat over - dramatized, her Facebook posts illustrate the maturity of a nearly Tolstoyan focus on family dynamic and medical crises: Brennan's brain surgeries, the scars on his skull like Frankenstein, chicken noodle soup day at the San Diego hospital, the purported city of a band musician named David Owen, who trolled me on Twitter

and just as quickly vanished on Twitter, like something out of a mariachi band in Creole culture. I was going to write a post about his charming screenshot fit of my tagline. No particular reason except that I won the shouting match. All of you, (as in Krugman, Douthat, Kathleen Parker) feel guilty about my existence. Gretchen doesn't. She was merely considerate enough to ask how I was the day I did not do my grandmother's birthday celebration in the rain, not doing as well as I should, despairing in chest pains from lack of proper ability to defecate of ever having true personal autonomy again, keeping my chin just above water in static pain in my godfather's ill begotten Quantum, and no, the fact that Bre and Brennan and Brian and my long spiritual underworld shyster brother of a vanished gen Y milieu exude reversal by epidemic and folly, these instances of decease are too variable, as yet, to point to apocalyptic wariness, what they do illustrate, beneath the seams, like the sordid exceptions in certain NFL clubs, is modern medicine progress is being stonewalled, in the breach, by evolution's powerful insistence, and its ineptitude, as well, in being able to adapt the independence of those such as I, whom it once trained into defiant ability. Kyra Sedgwick's perspective about honest coming of age dysfunction is a truism, after a fashion, even if what seasons The Closer as your standard ham and cheese is somewhat mystifying.