The Avoidance of Wedding Ceremonies

You are such a nasty, evil bitch that no one wants to be around you.-- family feud online

I am going to Magee Rehab for a proper wheelchair evaluation, which I'm not sure will achieve much, at this point, as I think of the toe polish of Elizabeth Nass and Mayr, mummified in Ellicott City. We probably cannot classify their deaths as a live burial. I will pick up after the hobbled pony ass next to me clocks out, like Gilbert Osmond shutting out Isabel Archer's lights, one by one.

7:14 pm: The reason I contemplate these derailment deaths is that I was relatively new to social media's real time immediacy in 2010. I did not participate through commenting as news of the accident spread through Baltimore Sun's coverage, but I felt the same sense of dissonance most of us feel in such situations, the dissonance Eugene Robinson felt about Cosby as the great comedian's stature was diminished. They were crushed not minutes after those images of their feet made the rounds, and no, this fragmenting attention spans of ours  cannot lay blame solely on software coding, as our attentions are assailed, inundated daily, not simply with people like me saying what happened, but people like me framing the issues about what happened. Locomotive engines are the industrial technologies of the Gilded Age, barely streamlined out of their 19th century mechanical application. We no longer have foremen with shotguns lording over Irish immigrant workers they less rarely massacred in secret, in Pennsylvania (sorry NAACP), but we do have derailments, passenger and freight. The robber barons of yesteryear are the conservative laughingstocks of today.  The guy who ran Amtrak under George W. Bush would appear on television mildly scathing with "Would you like to buy it?" In the sardonic voice of age, and a company like CSX is a nuisance to the multiplicity of classes that inhabit Logan Square, or form the graphic horror of unique films that ushered us into this century. Hopefully thet didn't have much time to suffer, Elizabeth and Louese, which writes like an improper variation of my stepmother's name, but outside of those who procreated them, they're nothing more than a statistic, like footballers.

Syndication Block Edits, The Fallow Fields of an Elijah Price Warp

Searching for the shining face of God Jean?-- Burt Lancaster, Scorpio

In the sense that poverty requires patience before gratification is achieved, it took courage for Coronji Calhoun to allow himself to be exposed as the obese kid who gets picked on by everyone, including his mother, in Monster’s Ball, but like the late 20^th century Big Night, one of my favorite Tucci films, Forster intends for Monster’s Ball to be a rather convoluted allegory of the post-civil rights era in the American South. The Amazon app announced that it was free to Prime subscribers the same evening Bounce, the black programming channel—which as often as not airs blockbuster setups with Sylvester Stallone on flimsy pretexts—made Ball available to viewers during the conventional prime time slots we all had to depend on before we were cable subscribers. Your poor dowager had a momentary tug of war. She cannot quite afford a streaming device for her flat screen, but needed her other devices free, thus opted to trust that the syndication edits did not diminish the full effect by any significant degree, as they did with Unbreakable.  As her beleaguered pessimism makes rather self-evident, the dowager has been slowing down to a terrible degree, never envisioning the crack of the powder keg crumpling me in to this extent, and thus, utilizing free broadcast to catch Elijah’s appalling rationale for his genocidal miniatures to Willis’ David Dunn, was what I tuned in for, except that this last muted monologue, the darkest of all megalomania’s expansive graphic excesses, is what Bounce chose to edit, in my precious expending of my energies, exasperating, but not nearly as much as Thornton’s conflicted correction officer, harboring a suppressed appetite for the dynamics of diversity in his sweet tooth for bowls of chocolate ice cream? Both Hank and Leticia have ambivalent relationships with their progeny, Heath Ledger is actually dead, with no real world repairs necessary for a Glock’s trajectory penetrating the furniture. What is Sean Combs here but a misguided, regressive boy hoping to evade a truant’s penalty? As Musgrove, he is the softer underbelly to the brittle ruthlessness Jackson’s Elijah exudes. Forster admirers may disagree, but I do not see reconciliation in the story’s conclusion, not in Halle’s speculative glance as she looks toward the headstones in the yard.

Both Shyamalan’s perspective on graphic novel culture and Forster’s powerful parable are turn of the century predicates, and Jackson’s portrayal of psychological malignancy is one of the greatest theatrical feats of this young century in which I perish, but there are still African stoic majorities who insist on an inflammatory deafness. Though I cannot weigh in on what penalties Weinstein may actually deserve, the culture of silence surrounding Cosby's behavior was broken by blacks themselves. Ta-Neshisi Coates, not known for emulating the once titanic comedian he covered for the Atlantic, is on record believing Cosby is guilty, and yet, this black free press still feels whites were out to punish Cosby. No, to the extent that the prosecutor acted, it was to placate feminine fury.

Diapers in the Closet Deja Vu

"I feel like a visitor to this marriage!"-- Morris Chestnut, bad bluejeans shuffle

I remember the user handle Cambaird from years ago, in a more turbulent space of grievance, which must mean I was a member of Yabberz years ago; I do not believe I was banned, as sometimes I am the one who surfed off from sites in a huff, annoyed by the disruption of trolls who couldn't see that my suffering was of the utmost importance. The differential, between then and now, isn't a cure so much as it is biological erosion mitigates intensity. Linda Dezenski is two years my senior, now chastened under a grant for railroad victims within very specific parameters (though I do not believe she has physically departed from Liberty, as they claim, when I telephone to warn them my battle is coming), and she hit these symptoms of our unraveling before me. Plaque psoriasis is a loss of adhesion, and it resided on her right elbow 15 years ago just as it is now perennial and perhaps a permanent problem on mine. She has the resources yet, on the backs of all those rib cages pierced at the point of her sword, to chase after cosmetic solutions, appeasing vanity's struggle with the clock, while I pour pitchers of water over dander, rolling around in scissor tackled knits, investigating which hot spots I'm going to attempt to huddle in, giving retail outlets money I can ill afford while attempting software downloads over trade-ins, a street roller once removed but for a sheer act of will. An eatery on Commerce Square is closer than Joe's Coffee, while determination vacillates between staying closer to residence, the latter retains more possibilities for a commercial pitch, in that space where entrails haven't evacuated my body cavity.

The mobility medical scene in Unbreakable has a sinister suspense. We stay glued to Jackson, in a suspended animation, in his give and take with Robin Wright, the wife of Bruce Willis, superhero of circumstance. In Not Easily Broken, (2009) the white physical therapist is a contrivance, left to hang like a chad on a Florida voting ballot, in an outrageously maudlin narrative, which conveys, nevertheless, certain truisms about the vindictiveness of black matriarchal dominance. No one should have to mark their closure on their prime of life via hazy recall over computer monitors built like television sets with vacuum tubes, watching a second rate actor who seems custom made to play a lizard in a disguise of the human epidermis.