Allez vous faire toutre?

Hats off to the fine citizens of France, who've presumably gone bug eyed with the not so salacious intrigue of Sebastien, homosexual extraordinaire of Mouelle with Arabic curly hair, making a pass at an American cripple of Italian descent. If Sebastien was not a fake account, I owe no one on the Parisian rave scene an apology. I am not quite as destitute as one of Zola's tenement villagers, but with a little work the asshole in question might have inferred I'm not a penis transplant in need. I am in search of independence restructuring and the restoration of employment, and I get a hundred and one page views over the utterance of "stalker". Uh huh. Whatever was the glory of Notre Dame? Disciplined artisans who believed. I envy it greatly.

The Slenderest Thread is Silver

"Help me," --Anne Bancroft in her genteel tragic fate before her invidious seduction of Dustin Hoffman

He gave me his cold. Sounds petulant, does it? Cerebral Palsy is a condition, as opposed to a disease, a very common indicator of biological trauma within the radicalization of obstetric mortality ratios. We are not true quadriplegics, like Jason Dorwart ventilating about Breaking Bad star Bryan Cranston, which in itself is a refutation of Jason’s resentment, the residual effects of critical acclaim. Breaking Bad was eulogized for giving the city of Albuquerque a rather juicy visual exposition, and it means, quite simply, that its starring actor had every right to play pretend with spinal paralysis. Jason has the community integration acolyte’s adherence down to the T-bone, without being able to actualize the distinction that managing care doesn’t make that care a business, and he’s also wrong about the industry’s predatory opportunism. Hollywood doesn’t need wheelchair users, as opposed to character actors with exotic conditions, like Alopecia. Wheelchair users would also tell me I should have told the care giver not to come in, or to leave, or use a mask, prior to battle with volcanic mud slinky. For 48 hours, I feared the very real possibility of walking pneumonia, sweating with chills, flushed cheeks, my bronchitis in ascendancy. Jamboree man needs his home owner's insurance paid so badly killing the fattened goose is not, ironically, an issue. There are growing tensions between us, and I kept it to myself that I threatened Jevs Health & Human Services division within an inch of their lives, although I haven't yet weaseled a lawyer into seeing the liability of lucre.

Jevs HHS isn't Jevs HC. 

Do you begin to see what a game this is, why I am attracted to quiet pockets like The Slender Thread? For Pollack's directorial debut, Thread is a taut, well executed game of cat and mouse in which LBJ might not have even existed. Inga's distress is handled according to the values which were instilled in Eisenhower's generation, despite the fact that it's a new age liberalism trying to reign in this woman's deceit. Pollack ends this film in such a way that he wants us to feel the impact of failure: Poitier, the rigid son of itinerant tomato farmers, fails to get the virtue of Inga's white privilege to see itself as paramount. The tack on rescue is merely a fairy tale ending to get past the willful censor of populism. You're free to disagree with an imperiled woman, but the script wasn't a sleeper success. Savalas and his medical humanism hits too close to home.

Septic Enzymes

What dire offence from am'rous causes springs-- Alexander Pope

What I’ve spent most of the last 72 hours doing is a perverse form of digital housekeeping, accusing someone named Godwin Bowen of stalking me through multiple user accounts, although I didn’t quite phrase the indictment this way in our brief direct message conflict. For all that I know of online predators, this could go as far back as Mawson Dave and his Syrian relief efforts, these persistent private greetings trying to alleviate my duress in a majority minority city, or maybe people are making fun of me in the cesspool of social media sewage. I am not looking for more cyber sex adventures. What I need is a better quality of intervention than what welfare can offer me, as opposed to the risk of an online sociopath who washed out of the armed forces. In this context, it is remarkable I remember Mawson Dave’s user name at all. In between Mawson and Godwin, I got hit by an alleged Australian widow in Oregon and a French homosexual named Sebastien in Mouelle. Sebastien in Mouelle is 42, looking for a committed relationship with another male. My limited French, mainly utilized to parse Marine Le Pen’s rhetorical flame throwers at normative Parisian liberalism, was appalled. There must be a ground zero in there somewhere, and yet it is Facebook which took the brunt of my pathology, not Twitter. Citing Paul Joseph Watson was merely a pretext for an undulating anger. Visits to the mall of which I no longer have the luxury, second cousins I do not join for zoological strolls, or Tassoni’s video of monk seals in Hawaii. What is all this but an aesthetic list of deprivation for me? I never built those planks of my own immediate family. All that lingers there is an uncouth cop from the Bronx, and he’s dead, so I had enough. Facebook, in the estrangement with my half-brother, is scheduled for deletion, while we leave it to Bloomsberg News to offer minute items, Fatbergs are now clogging pipelines, and as happens, occasionally, I had a massive discharge, and refusing, after midnight, to sit in it, I cut the panty off and got it in the trash. The care worker will not see victory. I’m this close to canceling Medicaid and rolling off, assuming I even have stamina enough to leave the city’s jurisdiction, my death will begin with a staph infection.

John as he is today, my bleeding La Traviata. He prefers that Rocky and Adrianna be aired for Thanksgiving. He talked to my aide on Facebook most of the time. It wasn't a double indemnity I happened to enjoy.

Runs Batted In

Since I am here, finally sweltering before Mayday, a word: Neil Patrick Harris' portrayal of Jeffrey Dahmer in CI's "Want" was not one of the franchise's stronger episodes. Harris' public indifference to being outed, which he responded to with a shrug in so many monosyllables, perhaps interfered with the suspension of disbelief, a common conceit about performance which I don't think quite captures why we watch, either to admire or disdain. John Tagman was just a little too pat, his torture just this shy of too nascent, to explain why Dahmer's cannibalism suffices as an answer to gay panic, if that is what it was, his psyche being one of our species most distorted, almost immune to the subversive dark humor of Hannibal, but what stays with me about that episode is Erbe's rebuff to D'Onofrio, serving as the last line of the teleplay: What a man to go bat for, since Goren saw reason's for leniency in Tagman's need to thwart abandonment.
When earlier this evening I pushed back against Rudy Giuliani's traditional appellation of "madman"

The madman who attacked the Chabad in Poway, CA described @realDonaldTrump as traitorous and a Zionist because he has been the best President for Israel ever. The left media blaming the attack on him have reached the point of pathological hatred. They are disgraceful.

— Rudy Giuliani (@RudyGiuliani) April 30, 2019

it was not to defend Earnest, merely to remind everyone that we need to stop engaging in lazy recoils. Earnest may have exhibited sociopathic tendencies for a significant length of time before New Zealand served as his trigger, just as Michael may have been engaging in behavior indicative of a cry for help before his alleged exploits. Labeling it, as Caitlin Flanagan does, as something beyond conception, is a mistake. Omnivorous primates all have an emotional range and degree, well adjusted or not so able to cope, even if we concede the former mayor, who's been blunt before, is attempting to shield Trump from blame. The president is responsible, certainly, for his bully tenor, but placing liability on his doorstep for heinous spree kills goes a bridge too far. Nothing in his candidacy or his excise of duty as commander in chief suggests he thinks slaughter in places of worship is beneficial.

The Eight Ball Visor

Wer wird ein Kind so zeigen, wie es ist? Wer wird es in seiner Konstellation platzieren, mit einem gewissen Abstand in der Hand?-- Google's synthesis of Rilke, from English and back again

In all fairness to Mr. Dorsey, who looks appalling to anyone's sartorial sense of public presentation, be it New Yorker correspondents or TED enthusiasts, almost as if he's channeling Tommy Lee Jones as Gary Gilmore fresh out of Woodstock:
  
No one arbitrarily anointed him, Ev Williams and his now streamlined Medium, or the others faithful to coding, including Donald Hicks (who certainly looks the part of a queer Iranian's dance partner), to be defenders of the First Amendment, which no longer exists, other than as concept devoid of access. If I was as much of a fiend as I purport to be, I would have weaponized myself against Yashar Ali, gaining significant insight, of a sudden, as to why his family are dissidents from the Islamic Republic in Tehran. Instead I took a break, revisiting the stark comfort of Styron's voice in Sophie's Choice. But for accidents of geography, I might have conceivably matched Styron in aesthetic temperament, despite my sympathies for the feudal caste system Robert E Lee struggled valiantly to save. Styron is to the left of that, undoubtedly, having the grace to host another canonical voice which yet eludes me, James Baldwin, but heaven forbid teaching any of this to the indignant nigger with his high functioning mood disorder who has tended to your besieged buttocks for the past year. If it makes progressives any easier with the ever burgeoning unease of my extreme prejudice, it mortifies me more that I almost fucked a black man who might have been my client at Matrix. This is the graver ethical lapse, one I'm almost ready to cut the cord with, even with the knowledge that I am trapped, Waiver services the maelstrom sucking me under.
Styron did not appear to be happy with liberalism towards the end of his life, radiating that comforting bleakness softly from him on his last appearance on Charlie Rose, betraying that he did not want to die horribly crippled, a slip in manner both he and Rose quickly corrected. What would he have made of the fact that I hold Llhan Omar to be an enemy of state? Reconstituting Nazism for his own lack of species optimism is one thing, a naturalized Somali bigot in the halls of Congress? This may have eluded the grasp of his privilege.
LLhan may say what she likes about Israel. I have certainly explored secular liberalism with my own diffidence, but she has not earned the right to be a federal official in any capacity, has barely earned the privilege of being a citizen. Whether or not she manages to get assassinated, I certainly have the temerity to see how enervating her political success is to the health of our body politic, stripped as I am of Trump's moral cowardice. If my pet monkey from Jewish Employment  Vocational Services Home Care Wing wasn't browbeating me to death for forty hours a week, I'd fly to Minneapolis and launch a ruthless investigation into Omar's electoral success, willing to place myself in mortal jeopardy to do so. I cannot change anything about my Medicaid service in this Commonwealth, even with my delightful Twitter stalker on my heels, a speculative stalker, offering to place himself at my service. It was never what I required, and any additional support will come far too late in my disaffection.

Water Pollution

How many of you remember this as one of the most notorious news segments of its time? There are two seminal events of the later 20th century which prefigure the blasted husk of human empathy and its erosions of trust in its own institutions in the 21st. Although I find it exceedingly difficult to practice the craft of journalism at this moment in time, I still consider myself one, even though admirable quacko Iranians who still have the energy to live in it have stolen the thunder of throbbing cerebral intellects gone south in anarchist glee. I am following Yashar, temporarily, to utilize his ledes when I can. The jury is still out on whether or not I despise him. Perhaps, but he is also honest, ruthless, brash, and unlike the embattled Kim Foxx, of whom my initial post was to be much longer, this not so much to excoriate the lack of impartiality in the bayous of black liberation and its cohesiveness (also hidden fissures, as Foxx seems to disdain Smollett's insecure swagger behind his body guard as much as a significant portion of conservatives do), but to illustrate how faulty Robby Soave's hastily written pieces are. Soave leads us to believe that Foxx was to recuse herself from Jussie's case due to conflict of interest. Gaynor, of Fox News, walks the recusal back, allowing the state's attorney to explain she had *contact* with Smollett's family. Where are the violins for the bedevilment of deadlines? David French considers Yashar Ali's integrity remarkable. Perhaps, but Yashar isn't truly impartial. We tried that with Jonestown, prior to the massacre. People couldn't see what Jim Jones was, but he presages more than Paddock, the Vegas shooter, just as the OJ Simpson trial is more than "the monkey is still a monkey" and got away with it, in the paraphrase of a cold attorney named Lydia Nayo. These two signature events anticipate the sense of crisis in our current populist era, a crisis that transcends Trump's narcissism, which, as a spastic woman with brain lesions of her own, I believe I intuit better than most. That a polemicist like Tom Nichols still uses the participle phrase "drink the Kool Aid" in reference to his lackluster senator from Vermont, Bernie Sanders, illustrates how much of an impact the events of Jonestown had on the American psyche, our inability to process that humanity creates its own self-destructive carnage.


So nefarious, at least until we start thinking about physics, gravitational pulls, the remarkable coincidence of Earth, and how Salvation subverts the expectations of the asteroid catastrophe genre. If I could just return to a pitch a week. A pitch a week, that would be remarkable, in my shriveling beneath the weight of modern African tribalism.

Victor Hugo's Pantheon Ashes

he would fight until they killed him-- Scott J Holliday, Normal

How avidly this barely typing dowager used to read, even now, in her mildly frigid tremors and soils to be coped with, probably forever in these frail encroaching years, which have finally felled Stanley Plumly, one of the few poets I felt compelled to explore since my ouster from the MFA farming system, I am a woman of action. If Notre Dame Cathedral burns, then we must do something, punish someone, even in the realization that ancient relics are frail themselves, I cannot accept that this fire was the result of construction crew carelessness, and in my sin of extracting vengeance, I cling to the refrain from every Catholic service inviting tranquility.
Peace be with you.
And also with you.

But I am not a woman of peace shrunken to convulsions of her colon making her little better than Ezra Pound singing his madness behind bars. No. I do not need any more of my rhetorical flourishes being forwarded to the FBI by disability centers, so I stop short of simplistic threats toward Llhan Omar, but make no mistake about how exacting I would be if I had the executive authority: I'd not only strip her of her elected office, nullifying her supporters in Minneapolis, I'd also strip her of her citizenship, forcibly return her and her family to Somalia. These are the sins of your ferocious Catholic atheist, who like Lucifer, rebels against divine will for the right reasons.
Notre Dame
Notre Dame, I grieve to glory most high. Macron had better have a salient explanation for the Catholic public at large. He needs a very credible spin. I am reading Holliday's novel. Its rapid pace belies its historical context. It's protagonist, a complicated freak, one who would have been right at home in the gallows of Jean Valjean's prison quarry.