[The Jesuit]. who would not have blinked an eyelid at hearing the confession, say, of an incestuous intrigue, found himself flustered by this innocent, but vast expanse of naked flesh.-- Di Lampedusa, Il Gattopardo, p 59
In some ways, I disdain Niume's platform in corresponding proportion to my admiration for Beppe's patience, and growing power. To give you full disclosure, I did not discover the Italian comedian independently of American media. Television gave me the leonine shock white of his hair, and a Wapo contributor gave me the blog url. My personality would soften into a small, tantalizing, glow if Beppe would sneak across the pond with il Alpini, invade the district, send Trump packing for a much needed endoscopy, and then, like an old woman regaining her youth, I'd be a complaisant mistress. Mussolini revisited. You may think I'm joking, but guess again. Am I being fair to Niume? No. They understood the context on my Kokesh piece and allowed it to stand, but if Yabberz made me miserable, even if I allowed myself too much involvement-- looking for companions-- to the point I had to burn my account, then Niume leaves me disinterested; can and will stay out of the way most of the time. My sampling says they will not allow hard asses to take chances, well, they haven't met me, though I think I nettled the administrators a wee little in my frank assessment that penny RPM rates are not worth slaving. They wrote a post on their blog clarifying the matter.
Why rock the apple cart? Testing the waters. Ready and waiting in the wings to assassinate my enemies like any demagogue too clever for Terms of Service, as if I know anything about maintaining websites, the coding involved. My heart goes out to General Flynn. Much as the dowager learned, a lifetime of loyalty ends up as a hernia with a sword through your spine. Majority rule is merciless to outliers.
Showing posts with label yabberz. Show all posts
Showing posts with label yabberz. Show all posts
Thursday, February 16, 2017
Tuesday, October 18, 2016
American Elections Are Rigged
From the time I attempted to merge my online activity with Yabberz and failed (not griping here, I hate the portal, troll or no troll) I have been looking for a reason to sing along with the Trumpets, not due to my enthusiasm for the mogul, but due to my anathema for the Clintons, this despite being on Bill's Social Security Committee and not getting groped, but nevertheless gaining insight into what power does to sex drives, even enhancing performance, perhaps.
When it comes to exercising my right to vote, I am a nearly rigid libertarian, by default, by wariness, but my time clock is telling me my mind may be gone by 21. I am collapsing, biologically, and giving my notice and rolling back to Springfield to butt heads with my stepmother for a day isn't going to make the Blessed Mother part the sky so that I ascend in a direct line to sit on her knee, hence I'm adrift. Trump isn't wrong about what he says, but he is brusque to the point that it ignites antagonism, much as I do; he is neurotic, paranoid, defensive, and a misogynist. And yet I'm rewriting his syntax so as to provoke my viewers, belaboring the question as to why the GOP didn't contest the primary vote, take Jennifer Rubin's point, and put Pence forward as the frontrunner. Be that as it may, American elections have always been dirty. The establishment goes on PBS to talk about Trump's dangerous undermining, when all we have to do is read our own history books, which we conveniently ignore Teddy Roosevelt became president by accident. Party bosses wanted him out out the way, never expecting McKinley would be assassinated. No one voted for Teddy, but no one can say he wasn't a bull moose to be reckoned with. Special classes of people like me and disenfranchised Africans had nothing to do with the figure of Franklin's larger than life uncle. It was Franklin who set the federal welfare state in motion which is now a bloody global phenomenon.
What Trump is exhorting in shorthand is this: the two party American primary system spits out consensus nominees whose rhetoric bears little resemblance to actually running the country. In that sense, voting is rigged, and the party of Lincoln has troubled times ahead: I'm a fucking 54 year old cripple whose tragedy is the welfare state: Had my father been a proper Roman patrician, in the time of the empire, I would have been asphyxiated at birth, but people like me, in our survival, anticipate massive bureaucracy and global conglomerates. If republicanism falls, it is because it doesn't have the guts to be honest about marginalized expendability, but when it comes to who is or isn't out to get Donald, he turns off mortally outraged individuals like me, looking for hope in the ability to control my own fate.
When it comes to exercising my right to vote, I am a nearly rigid libertarian, by default, by wariness, but my time clock is telling me my mind may be gone by 21. I am collapsing, biologically, and giving my notice and rolling back to Springfield to butt heads with my stepmother for a day isn't going to make the Blessed Mother part the sky so that I ascend in a direct line to sit on her knee, hence I'm adrift. Trump isn't wrong about what he says, but he is brusque to the point that it ignites antagonism, much as I do; he is neurotic, paranoid, defensive, and a misogynist. And yet I'm rewriting his syntax so as to provoke my viewers, belaboring the question as to why the GOP didn't contest the primary vote, take Jennifer Rubin's point, and put Pence forward as the frontrunner. Be that as it may, American elections have always been dirty. The establishment goes on PBS to talk about Trump's dangerous undermining, when all we have to do is read our own history books, which we conveniently ignore Teddy Roosevelt became president by accident. Party bosses wanted him out out the way, never expecting McKinley would be assassinated. No one voted for Teddy, but no one can say he wasn't a bull moose to be reckoned with. Special classes of people like me and disenfranchised Africans had nothing to do with the figure of Franklin's larger than life uncle. It was Franklin who set the federal welfare state in motion which is now a bloody global phenomenon.
What Trump is exhorting in shorthand is this: the two party American primary system spits out consensus nominees whose rhetoric bears little resemblance to actually running the country. In that sense, voting is rigged, and the party of Lincoln has troubled times ahead: I'm a fucking 54 year old cripple whose tragedy is the welfare state: Had my father been a proper Roman patrician, in the time of the empire, I would have been asphyxiated at birth, but people like me, in our survival, anticipate massive bureaucracy and global conglomerates. If republicanism falls, it is because it doesn't have the guts to be honest about marginalized expendability, but when it comes to who is or isn't out to get Donald, he turns off mortally outraged individuals like me, looking for hope in the ability to control my own fate.
Monday, June 27, 2016
Even the doo is telling
Perhaps because it aired so late in the series, "Make Me a Perfect Murder," with an actress who had no relevant staying power, (Van Devere), brings us a bit closer to the dawn of post-modern sensibilities making jagged edges. This is still Columbo, but Falk minimizes his Jewish working class doggedness, and our dimmed feminist anxieties, glass ceilings, are more important than disposing of the patriarchy, as represented by shooting the male with the script. For 50 minutes of airtime, I like Devere here. She's sharp, but on the curve. Her Firestone isn't yet the "Dynasty" bitch, but her voice modulation is still her weapon, maybe even me in a good body.
It's something to regret, because what we love about Columbo is unraveling in 1978. We all know it, but let Falk reprise the character well into the first decade of y2k, until senility encroaches. Everything else unraveled too. My hatred of Yabberz, and my urgency to wipe it out, is nonsensical, but there was too much pattern recognition; too much California dreamin' crashing smack into one of David Foster Wallace's automobile suicides, and I cannot get involved in interactive portals of that category anymore, and it is not about my aggression.
It is about my clock. The only way to beat my scar tissue is work, not that dancing aggregate crap.
I hate it; I cannot engage like that, not ever again. I do not mean in policy details. Anyone can trip me up on detail. I cannot explain it yet, but I'd rather be thrown under wild horses than to utter the name Horton ever again. Donny Brasco, cf.
It's something to regret, because what we love about Columbo is unraveling in 1978. We all know it, but let Falk reprise the character well into the first decade of y2k, until senility encroaches. Everything else unraveled too. My hatred of Yabberz, and my urgency to wipe it out, is nonsensical, but there was too much pattern recognition; too much California dreamin' crashing smack into one of David Foster Wallace's automobile suicides, and I cannot get involved in interactive portals of that category anymore, and it is not about my aggression.
It is about my clock. The only way to beat my scar tissue is work, not that dancing aggregate crap.
I hate it; I cannot engage like that, not ever again. I do not mean in policy details. Anyone can trip me up on detail. I cannot explain it yet, but I'd rather be thrown under wild horses than to utter the name Horton ever again. Donny Brasco, cf.
Thursday, June 23, 2016
Nicotine Hytonia
"Do you know what happens to cops who get ten million dollars? They eat their service revolvers."-- a still robust Samuel L. Jackson
I am trying not to panic about the Toshiba. The monitoring system is warning me I need a new battery once again and I simply do not have it. They run about 130 USD not including shipping costs, and that is basically it. I do not eat, and kimmy will be lucky to get fresh litter. I'll have to transfer myself back to my more expensive, older, HP, which will run on the adapter even when the battery fails, but it will still result in an episodic migraine. I almost certainly indicated to my audience, and most definitively indicated to Yabberz before I deactivated myself, blocked Melissa Nguyen Horton from following my feed on twitter, that my poverty is the most effective weapon against me, pushing back against her, politely mind you, as she did nothing wrong in the matter of my ambivalent user activity-- I also cannot stand BridgeToursJade, the card player she is elevating this evening to her pundit class (I have been online almost over twenty years and Jade has the dubious distinction of being able to obsessively out-post me into the nether regions of Sheol.)
My regret, if you like, is my exasperation for wasting my time when I already know better; in the context of a libertarian battle cry of "Remember the Alamo!" I also remember earlier virtual investments. and some of you may recall my pained mostly capital response, yesterday:
I do not suppose any of you care to know, outside of my taut, stricken nerves, why I was so impolitic to a probable student intern who is entirely ignorant about how far back I go with this organization, how strong my fealty was to Poets & Writers as a way of life: The climax of Under Suspicion, is, as NYT accurately observes, a clash of dramaturgic titans making an attempt at claustrophobic French imitation. Don't ask if Hackman was attempting homage, but he bravely pushes his dick where even I would fain to stray; it is a conflagration most of us deny in even the process of accepting the utterly plausible flashbacks of craven desire clinging to the lust, sheer lust, for existence.
I am trying not to panic about the Toshiba. The monitoring system is warning me I need a new battery once again and I simply do not have it. They run about 130 USD not including shipping costs, and that is basically it. I do not eat, and kimmy will be lucky to get fresh litter. I'll have to transfer myself back to my more expensive, older, HP, which will run on the adapter even when the battery fails, but it will still result in an episodic migraine. I almost certainly indicated to my audience, and most definitively indicated to Yabberz before I deactivated myself, blocked Melissa Nguyen Horton from following my feed on twitter, that my poverty is the most effective weapon against me, pushing back against her, politely mind you, as she did nothing wrong in the matter of my ambivalent user activity-- I also cannot stand BridgeToursJade, the card player she is elevating this evening to her pundit class (I have been online almost over twenty years and Jade has the dubious distinction of being able to obsessively out-post me into the nether regions of Sheol.)
My regret, if you like, is my exasperation for wasting my time when I already know better; in the context of a libertarian battle cry of "Remember the Alamo!" I also remember earlier virtual investments. and some of you may recall my pained mostly capital response, yesterday:
@poetswritersinc all those years of my tireless support and U STIGMATIZE The Disabled! Hypocrites!— Joanne M Marinelli (@Jozannyme) June 22, 2016
I do not suppose any of you care to know, outside of my taut, stricken nerves, why I was so impolitic to a probable student intern who is entirely ignorant about how far back I go with this organization, how strong my fealty was to Poets & Writers as a way of life: The climax of Under Suspicion, is, as NYT accurately observes, a clash of dramaturgic titans making an attempt at claustrophobic French imitation. Don't ask if Hackman was attempting homage, but he bravely pushes his dick where even I would fain to stray; it is a conflagration most of us deny in even the process of accepting the utterly plausible flashbacks of craven desire clinging to the lust, sheer lust, for existence.
Wednesday, June 22, 2016
Deficit Apotheosis
"What do you think this place is?"-- Noah Emmerich as Dr. Jenner of the CDC
Since fear of Alzheimer's is basically wasted energy, and Camillieri was spared the worst of slowing brain processes as he hit his eighties, I know there isn't much I can do about it, given my own family history, my bellicose maternal grandfather breaking down from the ravages of senility, my late mother's lapses prior to her sudden collapse, but the close of fifty four years of unhappy regimentation sends me a warning flag about coping with anxiety: Rule number one: If I need to sit on a draft without a mandatory deadline, then sit on it. Remind me of this now and again, in your silence. I cannot discuss the specifics of what I was working on at the end of July through August of 2016, and like any freelancer, after a brief pucker over a bruise, jumping back in, repeating all is not lost, I have a source and did a ton of research.
I have a draft, in the cloud, transitioned my Word 7 clumsiness to Google's effortless Chrome, but I drew a blank Friday morning om my concluding paragraph; I forced the issue due to severe extremes to which most women with cerebral palsy wouldn't push themselves, and I knew it. The publisher wouldn't have cared if I waited, stalled, procrastinated another 72 hours, even another week. All I would have gotten was a policy byline in a publication I curiously enjoy, and that is all I've lost, knowing better than to query Marie Varenas about whether or not she thought I was demented. Asking a terminally ill woman on Prozac, riding a snicker of exasperation. I linked back to Yabberz Friday afternoon by accident, intending to go to my Yahoo account, and a quick glance assured me I wasn't missing anything. Part of the problem with the Yabberz model is structural: 40 followers often share the same links, and for me it triggered an adverse onslaught, one from which I am glad to be gone. Twitter is what it is, all of us vying and promoting and being pithy in 160 characters, but we can ignore it when we wish to, turn off notifications. The Hortons adapted their software to this approach, but for me, it did not work, led to unpleasant agitation, much like the Grimes family at their wits end to escape annihilation in episode six.
The destruction of the CDC in "The Walking Dead" was a spectacle condensed, in the ever wobbly line between big screen and flat screen, but it was also a 21st century reminder that technical optimism is also a faith misplaced in the face of catastrophe. If I have now become sympathetic to the ideas the Confederacy thought it had to defend, well, even I'm astonished-- but it was a message. Faith in government is a complacency that can prove to be quite costly.
Since fear of Alzheimer's is basically wasted energy, and Camillieri was spared the worst of slowing brain processes as he hit his eighties, I know there isn't much I can do about it, given my own family history, my bellicose maternal grandfather breaking down from the ravages of senility, my late mother's lapses prior to her sudden collapse, but the close of fifty four years of unhappy regimentation sends me a warning flag about coping with anxiety: Rule number one: If I need to sit on a draft without a mandatory deadline, then sit on it. Remind me of this now and again, in your silence. I cannot discuss the specifics of what I was working on at the end of July through August of 2016, and like any freelancer, after a brief pucker over a bruise, jumping back in, repeating all is not lost, I have a source and did a ton of research.
I have a draft, in the cloud, transitioned my Word 7 clumsiness to Google's effortless Chrome, but I drew a blank Friday morning om my concluding paragraph; I forced the issue due to severe extremes to which most women with cerebral palsy wouldn't push themselves, and I knew it. The publisher wouldn't have cared if I waited, stalled, procrastinated another 72 hours, even another week. All I would have gotten was a policy byline in a publication I curiously enjoy, and that is all I've lost, knowing better than to query Marie Varenas about whether or not she thought I was demented. Asking a terminally ill woman on Prozac, riding a snicker of exasperation. I linked back to Yabberz Friday afternoon by accident, intending to go to my Yahoo account, and a quick glance assured me I wasn't missing anything. Part of the problem with the Yabberz model is structural: 40 followers often share the same links, and for me it triggered an adverse onslaught, one from which I am glad to be gone. Twitter is what it is, all of us vying and promoting and being pithy in 160 characters, but we can ignore it when we wish to, turn off notifications. The Hortons adapted their software to this approach, but for me, it did not work, led to unpleasant agitation, much like the Grimes family at their wits end to escape annihilation in episode six.
The destruction of the CDC in "The Walking Dead" was a spectacle condensed, in the ever wobbly line between big screen and flat screen, but it was also a 21st century reminder that technical optimism is also a faith misplaced in the face of catastrophe. If I have now become sympathetic to the ideas the Confederacy thought it had to defend, well, even I'm astonished-- but it was a message. Faith in government is a complacency that can prove to be quite costly.
On the record
I think I am going to abandon Yabberz News. It depresses me. Gawker does not depress me. I know I'm boring you, but not trying to, as I wish to find interactive sites I enjoy, and I let myself fall into the Horton sandpit, my belief persisting that I was there years ago and wisely left. I am really not sure what drives me away. I am mean, and without nicotine, threatening violence is the natural proclivity of intense pain. The word fuck is simply a monotone of saltiness. Yabberz is mean, but I only rarely see my bad day virulence on it and really dislike it. A European emigre, American born black, decided to follow me on the site, and in shaded euphemism I tried to tell her I was racist, but it would have hurt her unnecessarily. I'll sleep on it, but dislike the fact of its tendency toward binary opposition-- but this expatriate, Mickey, who seems to have her own triggers, disliking Mark Johnson as intensely as I do, happily, said Yabberz is
- Low traffic, which seems obvious
- crude
- mean, like twitter
Saturday, June 18, 2016
An Old Fashioned
I tend to forget, even with my skewered data plan, skewered and entirely my fault, not ATT's, that we're always carrying each other's accounts around, technically always in each other's company, even when we're literally in each other's company, yet it isn't the same as dialing up a friend to chew the cud, which I can barely do with my familiaris these days. To my sister I'm a non entity, and my mother's sister, a generation older than I, steers clear of twitter for the most part (I mainly don't care, they ban me then they ban me, not that this should be an issue with this post) and I can't telephone my father to say happy father's day without it becoming a greenback guilt trip of mutual anxiety over parental and sibling mortality: but daddy may outlive me, and then there are hold outs like Yabberz, the last of the wild west.
I cannot put it to you succinctly why I dislike Yabberz so much. The same sense of egotistical outcast has followed me there, as it got me booted from other online communities, and my usage has taken a precipitous drop; nor am I sure I'm supporting the portal as a sustaining member next cycle, but I can give you one example: a valley girl type who calls herself Jacklyn followed me early in my account creation, and she quotes the Hobbit on her profile page. I grimaced, followed her back, stopped following her within 24 hours, and the bovine skull bitch then blocked me roughly a week ago, as if this was going to make me feel bad, because I cited Charles Krauthammer in response to which laws Obama broke. I never wanted a moronic bubble gum chewer linked to me in the first place, yet she blocked me for answering her fucking question, as opposed to me telling her she was a stupid bitch: it isn't her block which bothers me as much as her own hypocrisy. She claimed she wanted to follow me for "the give and take," and despite my aggravation with her responses to me I tolerated her, and thought that was the point. She could have simply stopped following me, but blocked me for citing a conservative paraplegic. The behavior of simpletons can infuriate.
Liberals are simply out of control on the Horton portal. "So stop using it," and yes, this is what it is coming down to, but having a discussion forum for what I like, once in awhile, shouldn't be such a marathon with tortuous interference.
[I had to rush check a paying MFA generated journal, and don't know where they get the money, but I'll pick that thread up another day.]
I cannot put it to you succinctly why I dislike Yabberz so much. The same sense of egotistical outcast has followed me there, as it got me booted from other online communities, and my usage has taken a precipitous drop; nor am I sure I'm supporting the portal as a sustaining member next cycle, but I can give you one example: a valley girl type who calls herself Jacklyn followed me early in my account creation, and she quotes the Hobbit on her profile page. I grimaced, followed her back, stopped following her within 24 hours, and the bovine skull bitch then blocked me roughly a week ago, as if this was going to make me feel bad, because I cited Charles Krauthammer in response to which laws Obama broke. I never wanted a moronic bubble gum chewer linked to me in the first place, yet she blocked me for answering her fucking question, as opposed to me telling her she was a stupid bitch: it isn't her block which bothers me as much as her own hypocrisy. She claimed she wanted to follow me for "the give and take," and despite my aggravation with her responses to me I tolerated her, and thought that was the point. She could have simply stopped following me, but blocked me for citing a conservative paraplegic. The behavior of simpletons can infuriate.
Liberals are simply out of control on the Horton portal. "So stop using it," and yes, this is what it is coming down to, but having a discussion forum for what I like, once in awhile, shouldn't be such a marathon with tortuous interference.
[I had to rush check a paying MFA generated journal, and don't know where they get the money, but I'll pick that thread up another day.]
Sunday, June 5, 2016
Sycophancy in Japanese Homoeroticism
"First comes dealing with the pain and loss,"-- the Josie Byzek I barely knew
If Blogger itself hasn't succeeded in subduing me, (not entirely), the fact that my twitter following slowly and ever so persistently grows might, despite the fact that every once in awhile I need to go off, mindful of the fact I have new eyes watching but I just spent well over two hours formatting and revising, with the alliance in charge perhaps having little to absolutely no idea how badly I need money in my proclivity toward cavies, falling on my knees in my subconscious saying please like me pay me.
It doesn't work like that, and those of us in the business know it. I'm only partially baffled that I broke ranks by getting into The Philadelphia Inquirer metro section in 05 on my second try and cannot, or could not, break ranks into the City Paper daily. It was not personal. I know that. I'd telephone and say how bout this? It was always "no, I don't think so," Patrick Rapa, primarily. I am sad they have been bowed over due to online advertising, but how much of an alternate voice they were remains unclear. A really old turn of the century piece about those suffering gender identity issues, cutting off their testicles in a bathtub, was Gawker type material, but how much did it serve the city's need to know? I had no idea the daily went down nearly nine months back.
Now I'll never get in it, which may be why I do not want to get on Melissa Nguyen Horton's bad side, with this being one of her thumbnail photos. In one of my puzzled moment episodes, she followed me on her little darling of a news community. What was I supposed to do, block the site owner where an unhappy quadriplegic complains? I followed her back, pondering Mario Puzo's sexual fascination with Asian lesbianism, or the snapshot I use of the saintly whore going off in an unholy triage of power cock with executives and madame, and our mainly one sided discussions in email. Melissa doesn't need to assert her Asian (new age?) identity, but she'll collect damaged strays like me, keep an eye on us. Maybe she just followed me on her portal to say "I'm human too, as fallible as you are, Joanne," but the truth is, I do not really have to time to break a sweat and produce professional quality reads on Yabberz, aside from hating Mark Johnson. I urgently need dental surgery, and it might kill me if I don't work on a solution. Medicaid isn't going to pick up a tab which could run in the thousands, and I am not sure where to go. The Temple dental clinic tortured me in my late 20's, private practices cannot help me, and I cannot get into the operating theater. All an abscess has to do is travel to my brain, and then I will not have to wrestle the moral issues any longer.
If Blogger itself hasn't succeeded in subduing me, (not entirely), the fact that my twitter following slowly and ever so persistently grows might, despite the fact that every once in awhile I need to go off, mindful of the fact I have new eyes watching but I just spent well over two hours formatting and revising, with the alliance in charge perhaps having little to absolutely no idea how badly I need money in my proclivity toward cavies, falling on my knees in my subconscious saying please like me pay me.
It doesn't work like that, and those of us in the business know it. I'm only partially baffled that I broke ranks by getting into The Philadelphia Inquirer metro section in 05 on my second try and cannot, or could not, break ranks into the City Paper daily. It was not personal. I know that. I'd telephone and say how bout this? It was always "no, I don't think so," Patrick Rapa, primarily. I am sad they have been bowed over due to online advertising, but how much of an alternate voice they were remains unclear. A really old turn of the century piece about those suffering gender identity issues, cutting off their testicles in a bathtub, was Gawker type material, but how much did it serve the city's need to know? I had no idea the daily went down nearly nine months back.
Now I'll never get in it, which may be why I do not want to get on Melissa Nguyen Horton's bad side, with this being one of her thumbnail photos. In one of my puzzled moment episodes, she followed me on her little darling of a news community. What was I supposed to do, block the site owner where an unhappy quadriplegic complains? I followed her back, pondering Mario Puzo's sexual fascination with Asian lesbianism, or the snapshot I use of the saintly whore going off in an unholy triage of power cock with executives and madame, and our mainly one sided discussions in email. Melissa doesn't need to assert her Asian (new age?) identity, but she'll collect damaged strays like me, keep an eye on us. Maybe she just followed me on her portal to say "I'm human too, as fallible as you are, Joanne," but the truth is, I do not really have to time to break a sweat and produce professional quality reads on Yabberz, aside from hating Mark Johnson. I urgently need dental surgery, and it might kill me if I don't work on a solution. Medicaid isn't going to pick up a tab which could run in the thousands, and I am not sure where to go. The Temple dental clinic tortured me in my late 20's, private practices cannot help me, and I cannot get into the operating theater. All an abscess has to do is travel to my brain, and then I will not have to wrestle the moral issues any longer.
Wednesday, June 1, 2016
Terminus, foie gras
"I saw a bunch of scared actors afraid of losing their jobs."-- John Corbett, who manages to make me curl, pleasantly
It was gratifying to see the late Patty Duke Astin in the instantly forgettable 05 Bigger Than The Sky, its two hour run time consuming my salmon pate preparation, a steady diet of which usually revives my energy, but not today, not even with a thousand milligram caplet swallowed beneath it. The amount of caffeine I have absorbed, the real shift in humidity as the summer season shifts into full gear, this accentuates my plaque build up, my arthritis, and the strange irritation in my rectum which has been and remains not part of my normal biological narrative since I allowed the late Frank access to it. A former aide named Kisha assured me that Frank's enthusiastic anal experimentation would not have done anything harmful to me. She is probably correct, as my intimacy with him ended within the first year and six months of our relationship, and any infection from his hazardous body would have done more to me by now; it is, nonetheless, a basic truism, before 2006 my colon in and of itself wasn't raising the potential of malignancy. The tendency towards polyps runs in the family, as well
In mid 2016, I understand the situational irony of actually being dead alive, almost as well as Duke comprehends, in either her maudlin or satirical modes, her emotional pendulum swings-- my mind and its acuity still relatively intact, but knowing the end is in sight, giving into it despite my libertarian exhilaration. Just getting through the day, making myself a meal, grinding what remains of my occlusion to get through my ligaments, breathing shallow, let alone driving this battered vehicle about my limited range, or throwing a load of colors in the wash, is doing me in, much like the labor of the Comtrex freight, protesting its heavy metal elements on the rails.
I was rather stupid to allow myself to get drawn in to the Yabberz community, and I'm extracting myself from it, reluctantly, true, like a puss-faced toddler. There are some sharp witted users who habituate the virtual dynamic of Golden State liberal hypocrisy, but the best of them visit infrequently; not all of them may have mental health issues, but one of the return users, harleyboy66, is an exact replica of the clientele I used to case manage, possibly dangerous under the right provocation. I can tell because of his lack of coherence. He was the wrong person to be having an online discussion with about quadriplegia and ideation. I am not quite certain what I'm going to *do* with Mike and Melissa's volatile maven. I agree with a Romanian critic that Yabberz has an unpleasant political miasma to it, but on the other hand, as a blogging platform, it does have its uses, and as I'm not under commission, I can still keep my account active enough to experiment with ideas, if I can keep a lid on threatening the faux liberals, as well as the true left, with total annihilation. If anything, Yabberz has contributed to my own polarization, and I am still not particularly fond of peripheral views to which a Cyclops is limited. And since I have forgotten my fatigue, obviously I need to be true to myself, and work, in the time I have, work.
I also want to scream at Tony Stiles to steal a hydraulic van and come rescue me from an African American punk majority, if only as a charitable contribution. Perhaps I should contact the Koch brothers.
It was gratifying to see the late Patty Duke Astin in the instantly forgettable 05 Bigger Than The Sky, its two hour run time consuming my salmon pate preparation, a steady diet of which usually revives my energy, but not today, not even with a thousand milligram caplet swallowed beneath it. The amount of caffeine I have absorbed, the real shift in humidity as the summer season shifts into full gear, this accentuates my plaque build up, my arthritis, and the strange irritation in my rectum which has been and remains not part of my normal biological narrative since I allowed the late Frank access to it. A former aide named Kisha assured me that Frank's enthusiastic anal experimentation would not have done anything harmful to me. She is probably correct, as my intimacy with him ended within the first year and six months of our relationship, and any infection from his hazardous body would have done more to me by now; it is, nonetheless, a basic truism, before 2006 my colon in and of itself wasn't raising the potential of malignancy. The tendency towards polyps runs in the family, as well
In mid 2016, I understand the situational irony of actually being dead alive, almost as well as Duke comprehends, in either her maudlin or satirical modes, her emotional pendulum swings-- my mind and its acuity still relatively intact, but knowing the end is in sight, giving into it despite my libertarian exhilaration. Just getting through the day, making myself a meal, grinding what remains of my occlusion to get through my ligaments, breathing shallow, let alone driving this battered vehicle about my limited range, or throwing a load of colors in the wash, is doing me in, much like the labor of the Comtrex freight, protesting its heavy metal elements on the rails.
I was rather stupid to allow myself to get drawn in to the Yabberz community, and I'm extracting myself from it, reluctantly, true, like a puss-faced toddler. There are some sharp witted users who habituate the virtual dynamic of Golden State liberal hypocrisy, but the best of them visit infrequently; not all of them may have mental health issues, but one of the return users, harleyboy66, is an exact replica of the clientele I used to case manage, possibly dangerous under the right provocation. I can tell because of his lack of coherence. He was the wrong person to be having an online discussion with about quadriplegia and ideation. I am not quite certain what I'm going to *do* with Mike and Melissa's volatile maven. I agree with a Romanian critic that Yabberz has an unpleasant political miasma to it, but on the other hand, as a blogging platform, it does have its uses, and as I'm not under commission, I can still keep my account active enough to experiment with ideas, if I can keep a lid on threatening the faux liberals, as well as the true left, with total annihilation. If anything, Yabberz has contributed to my own polarization, and I am still not particularly fond of peripheral views to which a Cyclops is limited. And since I have forgotten my fatigue, obviously I need to be true to myself, and work, in the time I have, work.
I also want to scream at Tony Stiles to steal a hydraulic van and come rescue me from an African American punk majority, if only as a charitable contribution. Perhaps I should contact the Koch brothers.
Saturday, May 7, 2016
Inability to Come to Terms
I wasted a lot of time this afternoon discovering what I already knew, that community portals like Yabberz are counterproductive, that regardless of what I do, individuals such as I get sucked into contests, and I abandoned Mike Horton's nursery of festivities three times in the course of my online life, and should no doubt give up blogging, given the emotional erosion that comes with age. Perhaps I am a little too frenetic to push the envelope a little more right now, and should go clean my coffee pot, which I meant to do all day and instead wanted to log on to research Trump's plausibility with his audit of the Federal Reserve, and instead, went to that fucking nuisance of a non-partisan venue. Jesus Fucking Christ. Why, when I know better?
I was flagged by some bitch for going into detail about the black racism I've lived, and she no doubt had a victory orgasm, and that ends my membership in such fractious folly, proving there are things we cannot change about ourselves. Pain only tends to breed more unkindness, and no one likes self-pity, or uncouth veracity. I have insinuated things about Philadelphia Adapt and my former colleagues, of course; I'm not their only victim, nor Presby's, even though I've stated in no uncertain terms what I'd like to do to Riverside, so maybe Blogger is afraid someone will take ideas into their head. I don't know, but in that case, let me be arrested and charged. More than the people, I want independent living centers overhauled. For what they are, they hurt too many. No one cares, and sometimes that is why people act. I'm never going to clear my debt, even if I find a happier environ and some small part time activity, and contrary to what liberals may feel, I want to honor the obligations of my loan, but it is not going to happen, as my marginalization is now the product which funded my own past salaries, and I put my heart and my soul on a sleeve, and Blogger has to inject itself in very careful doublespeak.
Don't get me wrong, Google is mighty and I'm an ant outracing the killing fields, but I want my voice to remain as a testament to the fact that intelligence, matriculation, spare us nothing when the blows keep coming, like Trudy Richardson's repeated humiliations. I would truly rather eviction, even though some of you cannot see that logic.
I was flagged by some bitch for going into detail about the black racism I've lived, and she no doubt had a victory orgasm, and that ends my membership in such fractious folly, proving there are things we cannot change about ourselves. Pain only tends to breed more unkindness, and no one likes self-pity, or uncouth veracity. I have insinuated things about Philadelphia Adapt and my former colleagues, of course; I'm not their only victim, nor Presby's, even though I've stated in no uncertain terms what I'd like to do to Riverside, so maybe Blogger is afraid someone will take ideas into their head. I don't know, but in that case, let me be arrested and charged. More than the people, I want independent living centers overhauled. For what they are, they hurt too many. No one cares, and sometimes that is why people act. I'm never going to clear my debt, even if I find a happier environ and some small part time activity, and contrary to what liberals may feel, I want to honor the obligations of my loan, but it is not going to happen, as my marginalization is now the product which funded my own past salaries, and I put my heart and my soul on a sleeve, and Blogger has to inject itself in very careful doublespeak.
Don't get me wrong, Google is mighty and I'm an ant outracing the killing fields, but I want my voice to remain as a testament to the fact that intelligence, matriculation, spare us nothing when the blows keep coming, like Trudy Richardson's repeated humiliations. I would truly rather eviction, even though some of you cannot see that logic.
Wednesday, May 4, 2016
Fear in the Digital Age
I wanted to discuss Google's power, without overreacting, because I remain uncertain why they are moving my domain from WHOIS. I am intelligent, but don't quite grasp why Blogger's upgrade means I'm being exported; it is either procedural, or some sort of majority flagging is going on. I don't understand the email and never succeeded in getting anything made clear in their forums, and have a week to try to get a live representative to explain things to me. Perhaps it just isn't worth the head winds. Maybe getting familiar on Yabberz had something to do with it, but I cannot know that, even if I ask. It wouldn't achieve anything, but the time and energy I've spent putting my soul into this account is all I have, whether it appalls viewers or ignites pity, or occasional appreciation, this is it, and forcing me to make it a personal account no one sees except by request is pointless, regardless of who has been embarrassed.
(Apparently nothing untoward happened, but I still don't get it, as my twitter account is still secured on a WHOIS platform.) It also isn't fair that Google may be earning money on my posts but cannot make re-mometization simpler for me as a disadvantaged woman over 50, even if you might say I have other platform choices.)
I am going to die soon. My body can't take the stress, regardless of corporate unease, and leaving this human stain is necessary, even if I understand the monopolistic gravitation toward moderation which my mettle won't obey, since mortality overtaking us creates urgency. I've become blunter, without going so far as to try to draw Trump's supporters to my advantage. If I cannot get justice for the cruelty of my life, I intend to go down fighting. One year, Marie said, "you belong in the street!" Because I don't let up. 23 year old university students shouldn't be trapped in section 202 housing for life simply due to the fact that they are power chair users who never guite solved the commute issue. I hate Presbyterian Homes, and by extension, the whole 202 system. When Denny O'Brien advocates the virtue of yoga classes, how the holy fuck am I supposed to enter into that? To make a grievance threadbare, Liberty Resources and Linda Dezenski were my segregated family, as was the dying gargoyle on the eighth floor.
My mother, ten years ago, maybe more, asked why I couldn't just live my life. There is nothing left of it to live.
(Apparently nothing untoward happened, but I still don't get it, as my twitter account is still secured on a WHOIS platform.) It also isn't fair that Google may be earning money on my posts but cannot make re-mometization simpler for me as a disadvantaged woman over 50, even if you might say I have other platform choices.)
I am going to die soon. My body can't take the stress, regardless of corporate unease, and leaving this human stain is necessary, even if I understand the monopolistic gravitation toward moderation which my mettle won't obey, since mortality overtaking us creates urgency. I've become blunter, without going so far as to try to draw Trump's supporters to my advantage. If I cannot get justice for the cruelty of my life, I intend to go down fighting. One year, Marie said, "you belong in the street!" Because I don't let up. 23 year old university students shouldn't be trapped in section 202 housing for life simply due to the fact that they are power chair users who never guite solved the commute issue. I hate Presbyterian Homes, and by extension, the whole 202 system. When Denny O'Brien advocates the virtue of yoga classes, how the holy fuck am I supposed to enter into that? To make a grievance threadbare, Liberty Resources and Linda Dezenski were my segregated family, as was the dying gargoyle on the eighth floor.
My mother, ten years ago, maybe more, asked why I couldn't just live my life. There is nothing left of it to live.
Thursday, April 21, 2016
Imminent Belgium
"Would you mind shining your light on someone else today?" Mark Johnson, a liberal writer I managed to infuriate with no one else's help
I went to bed early this morning and couldn't sleep for the agony in my jaw, not so simple now to find a dental hospital that could treat me; it is not simply a question of draining Pennsylvania's Medicaid allocation. I know what it is like sitting in that dental chair for hours on end being tortured with root canal. I now have gum disease, and I'm suffering from indoor allergens and other small secrets relative to quadriplegia, and believe I'm functionally dying, like my Aunt Marie, dragging herself along with less adaptive ability, as time goes by.
Morally, I don't know what to do. Kill myself now, wait for the bloody stroke, or tell the nigger bitches in the office that they've won, and consign my fate to Inglis House after a life with so little joy to it. Sex was never much, not like it was for Linda and her telescopic exuberance. And I did not want to fuck her, despite my stupidly unwise outburst from which it took me so long to recover. What made me angry was my dialectical rivalry with the spastic bitch. She could have great sex between her two husbands, while my clitoris hangs out like stewing meat for an Italian casserole, with absolutely no memories of that good fuck, except for anal games with my discarded and no less turbulently deceased spic ex of a pig. I do not enjoy anal penetration, don't want to suck tit, and there it lies. My only memories are rift with friction of never fitting with the right man, a good man, or lesbians in a variety pack coming at me not because I was signaling them, but because they thought my emotional vulnerability made me a good butch. And they were lucky that I was too impaired to kill them. That is what would have happened had it gone beyond hitting on me in the wrong situation, or in environments out of my element, and now it's too late. Stresses beyond my control are killing me, enfeebling me beyond being a good advocate for righteousness, or to climb onboard Toomey's train, or even writing one decent scholarly work. Where am I going to get the energy?
I'm barely eating two meals a day, struggling not to be haunted by Frank's infantile gluttony. I don't want to be haunted by it, my remorse, contempt, and the fact I hated him but took pleasure in being a couple, but what else is there, except the olive tinge to his face? I knew my mother was dying, and so did my sister, but I suspect neither of us ever resolved losing our mother. It has been 11 years, and we can mark the same parallel with Frank. I knew he didn't have long, and wonder if he died to spite me. I can't know, especially as I interjected to stay in his life, as opposed to reconciling anything
When the time came, I thought, in the throes of death, I'd scream for Jerry, somewhat parenthetically, or go back further, to Raymond, whose emotional armor I was able to pierce, sibilant, manipulative teenager that I was, but no. There is a place where Joanne and all her longing is simply unraveling, coming apart, without bonds to hold her to the ground, constant tension from my jaw, my temple, strange declensions in my left shin, sturdy enough to linger on in torpor, to lose my time and place. Then I get mad, but it may not be enough, and my Roman father who despised my survival in the world, he may outlive me. The one twist in the endless stream of police procedurals from the European left: in "A Death in Flanders" the actor playing the retired inspector keels over dead on the train, staring at the woman passenger across from him as intently as the French predator he collared, an effective send up. But we're not all that lucky, with our broken, battered hearts. Those of us without looks, figures, or enough shallow ruthlessness.
I went to bed early this morning and couldn't sleep for the agony in my jaw, not so simple now to find a dental hospital that could treat me; it is not simply a question of draining Pennsylvania's Medicaid allocation. I know what it is like sitting in that dental chair for hours on end being tortured with root canal. I now have gum disease, and I'm suffering from indoor allergens and other small secrets relative to quadriplegia, and believe I'm functionally dying, like my Aunt Marie, dragging herself along with less adaptive ability, as time goes by.
Morally, I don't know what to do. Kill myself now, wait for the bloody stroke, or tell the nigger bitches in the office that they've won, and consign my fate to Inglis House after a life with so little joy to it. Sex was never much, not like it was for Linda and her telescopic exuberance. And I did not want to fuck her, despite my stupidly unwise outburst from which it took me so long to recover. What made me angry was my dialectical rivalry with the spastic bitch. She could have great sex between her two husbands, while my clitoris hangs out like stewing meat for an Italian casserole, with absolutely no memories of that good fuck, except for anal games with my discarded and no less turbulently deceased spic ex of a pig. I do not enjoy anal penetration, don't want to suck tit, and there it lies. My only memories are rift with friction of never fitting with the right man, a good man, or lesbians in a variety pack coming at me not because I was signaling them, but because they thought my emotional vulnerability made me a good butch. And they were lucky that I was too impaired to kill them. That is what would have happened had it gone beyond hitting on me in the wrong situation, or in environments out of my element, and now it's too late. Stresses beyond my control are killing me, enfeebling me beyond being a good advocate for righteousness, or to climb onboard Toomey's train, or even writing one decent scholarly work. Where am I going to get the energy?
I'm barely eating two meals a day, struggling not to be haunted by Frank's infantile gluttony. I don't want to be haunted by it, my remorse, contempt, and the fact I hated him but took pleasure in being a couple, but what else is there, except the olive tinge to his face? I knew my mother was dying, and so did my sister, but I suspect neither of us ever resolved losing our mother. It has been 11 years, and we can mark the same parallel with Frank. I knew he didn't have long, and wonder if he died to spite me. I can't know, especially as I interjected to stay in his life, as opposed to reconciling anything
When the time came, I thought, in the throes of death, I'd scream for Jerry, somewhat parenthetically, or go back further, to Raymond, whose emotional armor I was able to pierce, sibilant, manipulative teenager that I was, but no. There is a place where Joanne and all her longing is simply unraveling, coming apart, without bonds to hold her to the ground, constant tension from my jaw, my temple, strange declensions in my left shin, sturdy enough to linger on in torpor, to lose my time and place. Then I get mad, but it may not be enough, and my Roman father who despised my survival in the world, he may outlive me. The one twist in the endless stream of police procedurals from the European left: in "A Death in Flanders" the actor playing the retired inspector keels over dead on the train, staring at the woman passenger across from him as intently as the French predator he collared, an effective send up. But we're not all that lucky, with our broken, battered hearts. Those of us without looks, figures, or enough shallow ruthlessness.
Monday, March 21, 2016
Slopes of Mucus
It is difficult to know when a COPD flare up is a chronic bronchitis revolt, or just a cold, or allergies in my less than sterile environment. Eschatological alarms reign over my identity, and though the pneumonia grip has passed, this year of my life seems to be the year. However much the majority of happy go lucky social media users read Disability in Entertainment Arts and then flee, well, my spastic domestic terrorist in mortal combat with the obsessive disciple of a master I've all but disavowed in a 34 year tantrum because a childish invalid feels jilted, doesn't really have much quality time left at her disposal. I've diffidently grafted onto Yabberz, and though I may not be able to prove who came from twitter at the urging of my fanatical controlling tendencies, go, join.
I too want a verified account logo, as if I'm joining the next Cabinet on the Beltway in 2017.
I too want a verified account logo, as if I'm joining the next Cabinet on the Beltway in 2017.
Wednesday, March 9, 2016
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.
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.
Saturday, February 27, 2016
Lazy Vis-a-Vis a Stuffy Nose, 2, or is it 3?
As proof that I'm capable of changing my mind, at least as it pertains to California as evil empire, I offer Yabberz a qualified endorsement as a community of argument suited to my skeptical temperament. How it helps me with market share depends on how much you like the way Tim Burton put Big Fish and Albert Finney together, but for now, remembering that I cannot debate with users all day, I reply to Mike Horton with a somewhat less pro forma "your welcome," reminding myself not to assume all his users are idiots. I do not really want to post about race relations there, I've taken enough heat here, and my two media threads didn't catch, one was a bubbling pitch and the other was candy man news, but okay (developmental mind roaring faggots). Rejection of gay cultural norms is complex, and most of my life I've feared lesbian predation, which nevertheless didn't protect me from it, and the only reason I got past it: I had no choice, but know it's not for me either, even if a man never loved me. Dragging ass in kitchen for coffee. How am I still functioning?
Monday, February 22, 2016
Clarence Williams III, Dawn dolls in a playhouse
"In addition to Mod Squad, Aaron Spelling and I picked up two Walter Brennan shows, Tycoon and The Guns of Will Sonnett (a fair sized hit)." --Make Room for Danny, 262
In the stray preoccupations which wool gather at 4:20 AM eastern standard time, as if I was reverting to form to get ready for work at the defunct Institute to whose demise I contributed, catching 3/4 ths of Peggy Lipton's vulnerability, vaguely recalled, if Danny Thomas and Aaron Spelling truly knew anything about counter culture dynamics, it isn't evident in this stock formula series, with Richard Dreyfuss, fresh from his celebrity pairing with Amy Irving, or about to head into it, providing us with the most well mannered recital of a psychotic imaginable-- yes, yes, cable was in its infancy and the FCC and terms of service are staple gun muzzles wiring our jaws, but all Squad did for its audience was cater to appearances, to the point even those sorely scored could feel commiseration for Williams' afro standing at attention.
One of the best serials in the 70's might be Columbo, but that would take Levinson and Falk's morality battle out of context. Aquarius may taken great care with its time capsule authenticity, and may even be more accurate in its undercurrents, as we owe so much to the golden state, but the Manson family was its own thing, analogous to the Mormons under Joseph Smith as being not quite kosher, which it isn't. Manson's followers, being really, really out on a limb, nevertheless was a reversion to an earlier American period of denominational instability under the Protestant tent. As a reformer, Luther certainly never intended to fragment Christianity into shards, but he also didn't do it any favors when it comes to transplantation in the United States. Off the top of my head, I cannot think of a series that really encapsulates my place and time as it was without going off a cliff. All in the Family turned a veteran icon into a cult hero, but Archie was a comic book exaggeration, as was the Jeffersons. Eight is Enough merely reigned in the impossible stupidity of the Brady Bunch. I'd pick The Six Million Dollar Man if I had to, but this, again, contextualizes another set of anxieties, apt, but miscued, since our fusions to technology are playing out a bit differently. We're not augmenting ourselves into a super-race, merely ensuring our essential human extinction. Then again, maybe it's Happy Days, if we take the notion of period piece nostalgia out of it.
A better ad in: The Partridge Family. As a series, it was soft folk song and dance, but it hit the right tenor for significant changes in the nuclear family
Our films, here and there, do a better job, and The Driver, though its minimalism is rigorous and circumscribed, is one of them.
Though golden state vibes are not particularly auspicious to spastic's sentiments, she very cautiously explored Yabberz, and their no-over-the-line fury is reasonable. This doesn't mean I'm tamed, trust me. I know physically I am on thin ice, and economically I'm overwhelmed. I'm simply not a Caesar alpha with his skill set and ability to command an insurrection; to wit, Danielle Allen has an op-ed in Wapo which I'm not reading where she makes a clarion call about Trump's threat to democracy. That is an exaggeration on her part, but in truth of fact, Americans don't know what they mean by a free society. If the first amendment can't withstand what Donald is tapping into, then we aren't an attributable experiment in free exercise.
To the progressive mindset, I've freely admitted I am, within varying flavors, a homophobic bigot, without necessarily vying for a piece of Coulter's turf, since I've been too much inside of a bubble which most of you aren't, as a quadriplegic. Whether I go "too far," for Blogger or anyone else, one, it doesn't matter. Richard Spencer plays up ethnographic separation for money and I'm too old to play follow the leader for a supremacist who would no more lift a finger to get me out of here and let me enjoy my last years anymore than anyone else. I'm damned, rage or acceptance notwithstanding. For Trudy Richardson to deploy HHS to threaten me with Inglis House, after the battle for my life, is something maybe you cannot grasp. I've been 30 years under Presby and seen countless tenants forcibly placed. My intellectual acumen was supposed to withstand this. Trudy didn't scare me, trust me. All she did was make me measure death by cop against my other options.
In the stray preoccupations which wool gather at 4:20 AM eastern standard time, as if I was reverting to form to get ready for work at the defunct Institute to whose demise I contributed, catching 3/4 ths of Peggy Lipton's vulnerability, vaguely recalled, if Danny Thomas and Aaron Spelling truly knew anything about counter culture dynamics, it isn't evident in this stock formula series, with Richard Dreyfuss, fresh from his celebrity pairing with Amy Irving, or about to head into it, providing us with the most well mannered recital of a psychotic imaginable-- yes, yes, cable was in its infancy and the FCC and terms of service are staple gun muzzles wiring our jaws, but all Squad did for its audience was cater to appearances, to the point even those sorely scored could feel commiseration for Williams' afro standing at attention.
One of the best serials in the 70's might be Columbo, but that would take Levinson and Falk's morality battle out of context. Aquarius may taken great care with its time capsule authenticity, and may even be more accurate in its undercurrents, as we owe so much to the golden state, but the Manson family was its own thing, analogous to the Mormons under Joseph Smith as being not quite kosher, which it isn't. Manson's followers, being really, really out on a limb, nevertheless was a reversion to an earlier American period of denominational instability under the Protestant tent. As a reformer, Luther certainly never intended to fragment Christianity into shards, but he also didn't do it any favors when it comes to transplantation in the United States. Off the top of my head, I cannot think of a series that really encapsulates my place and time as it was without going off a cliff. All in the Family turned a veteran icon into a cult hero, but Archie was a comic book exaggeration, as was the Jeffersons. Eight is Enough merely reigned in the impossible stupidity of the Brady Bunch. I'd pick The Six Million Dollar Man if I had to, but this, again, contextualizes another set of anxieties, apt, but miscued, since our fusions to technology are playing out a bit differently. We're not augmenting ourselves into a super-race, merely ensuring our essential human extinction. Then again, maybe it's Happy Days, if we take the notion of period piece nostalgia out of it.
A better ad in: The Partridge Family. As a series, it was soft folk song and dance, but it hit the right tenor for significant changes in the nuclear family
Our films, here and there, do a better job, and The Driver, though its minimalism is rigorous and circumscribed, is one of them.
Though golden state vibes are not particularly auspicious to spastic's sentiments, she very cautiously explored Yabberz, and their no-over-the-line fury is reasonable. This doesn't mean I'm tamed, trust me. I know physically I am on thin ice, and economically I'm overwhelmed. I'm simply not a Caesar alpha with his skill set and ability to command an insurrection; to wit, Danielle Allen has an op-ed in Wapo which I'm not reading where she makes a clarion call about Trump's threat to democracy. That is an exaggeration on her part, but in truth of fact, Americans don't know what they mean by a free society. If the first amendment can't withstand what Donald is tapping into, then we aren't an attributable experiment in free exercise.
To the progressive mindset, I've freely admitted I am, within varying flavors, a homophobic bigot, without necessarily vying for a piece of Coulter's turf, since I've been too much inside of a bubble which most of you aren't, as a quadriplegic. Whether I go "too far," for Blogger or anyone else, one, it doesn't matter. Richard Spencer plays up ethnographic separation for money and I'm too old to play follow the leader for a supremacist who would no more lift a finger to get me out of here and let me enjoy my last years anymore than anyone else. I'm damned, rage or acceptance notwithstanding. For Trudy Richardson to deploy HHS to threaten me with Inglis House, after the battle for my life, is something maybe you cannot grasp. I've been 30 years under Presby and seen countless tenants forcibly placed. My intellectual acumen was supposed to withstand this. Trudy didn't scare me, trust me. All she did was make me measure death by cop against my other options.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)