Swinging It

Or I could have married an economist like Timothy Taylor, which is a subversive assertion without the provocation of temptation. He doesn't turn me on, but parses my plight more reasonably than the public housing residents with whom I live so unwillingly, or the disability center staffers who simply outsource institutional compliance and make the disillusioned expendable, and even more than a few believers expendable, as a price for the lie in the paradigm. I didn't have this insight when I was a physically mature 28. It escaped me, that all Liberty proffers is the same centralized institutional care, with blue collar level skill, outsourced within the community rather than the institution.

I had what Liberty now calls skills training at Home of the Merciful Savoir as a precocious child, and support coordination staff start off on their entry level 18k making this lifetime compliance model a rectal scope to shove up our asses.

Ambulatory individuals might ask what the fuck is it that I want, to be able to entertain myself in a cockroach colony? 

Not quite. What Tim's hard driving cerebral analysis grapples is the cost of a domesticated biology, and getting it right isn't always about equilibrium of expenditure so much as the right level of investment early with applied and rational levels of ruthlessness. Hence Vonnegut's assault on Billy in Slaughterhouse Five, or the disjunction between scene locale, precision acting, and the real Americana buffeted and billowed by the great recession that Up in the Air epitomizes to the point of a near gold standard. Jayne Anne Phillips, in whose work I was once enviously invested because I couldn't "fool around" with my teachers, a flippancy that Vera Farmiga throws off so coolly, decries the injustice of mandatory drug sentencing, channeling a Nicholas Kristof column, like good militant liberals.

I no longer have the ability to be outraged by individual trafficking circumstances which have quadrupled the growth of the prison industry. We've already damned ourselves with welfare state corporate models so top heavy they implode with every uptake in the climate shift.

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.