Nevertheless, America's "culture of celebrity" remains misunderstood, particularly when critics discuss its historical roots.--Charles L. Pounce de Leon
I cannot say I am intimidated so much as astonished. Miles O'Brien not only responded to an innocuous question of mine, straight out of disability culture---
but followed me back. I am not an uber fan of his CNN rapid fire delivery, but decided his reporting was occasionally useful to me, and then, with his unfortunate accident in 14, lifelong cripple decided to take pity. He never noticed me before, and I just telephoned my entire family within local range to express my jaw drop at this offer of credibility from a video professional with whom I could never compete. I certainly cannot chastise a recognized science journalist for not paying attention to what he was doing, and unless I delete significant portions of my caustic rancor from this account, and never tweet another post, it won't last. I violate every aspect of decorum this fellow's moral clause contract imposes upon him, regardless of whether or not it is a natural inclination of his personality, or learned behavior. I do not deserve what his follow signifies, but I will bask, momentarily. Perhaps it came about because he learned a thing or two in the club.
This is what I'm trying to protect myself from, and couldn't, despite mt IQ, my investigative work for New Mobility, Josie the pissing milch cow's bread and butter, or any lies and subterfuge I engaged in to stave off worse than a sexual pass from the most gluttonous mulatto I ever laid eyes on. It happens more frequently to the disabled than any outside of disability centers know, hence my support for morally cool unpleasantness like eugenics, euthanasia. In 1991-93 I had a true quadriplegic client named Don; his aide put him on the commode and cleaned out his apartment. Not sure how he managed his rescue. Could you forgive or get over that? This is why state Medicaid Waiver systems need to be stopped, and it has nothing to do with conservative astringent.
If you read the fine print of these federally "mandated" centers, and you comply with the paradigm, they have a "no liabilities" clause for pairing clients with fly by night providers like Unlimited Staffing, an agency against whom I had had the most cause to seek redress. That "no liability" clause is written into contracts because disability centers couldn't function otherwise, and still, like medical supply vendors, they unravel like a ball of yarn. Homemaker Services broke up its incorporation a number of years back. I first signed onto the waiver as a "federal employee" in 97, then the state treasury said I owed them taxes, because I was assigned a deaf case manager who was accused by the next one of bad faith procedure.
Centralized institutional care is hell, cushioned by money or not, but decentralization doesn't work, I am sorry. Very few people like me, without some kind of professional earnings valve, are freer within being constrained by services. Wapo's reporting illustrates this fact. All the state statues amount to nothing because of substantive victimization between client and paraprofessional, left to their own devices. Get rid of it. In the interim, I found an old housing list, by virtue of dumping and cat knocking and then straightening up; dated, but it is what I need, a list, and maybe I can kick box a summer transition.
[Yes, I wound up approving Cheryl, since we knew each other slightly twenty years ago, and no, I have not been rude, reducing her to her pigmentation and superficial biological characteristics, but I've ignored her, almost absolutely.]
I despise Facebook to the point that getting an account suspension means next to nothing, quite honestly. The social media giant only magnifies my contempt, which is held in check only when I care about a group, or topic. Do not listen to your brothers if they tell you to open a Facebook account. I am nearly a 360 degree rotation opposite from Ebert's species optimism for Facebook and its models. What I see is innovation going static, the beginning of our zombie apocalypse, as opposed to a world's end diverted.
One of my former co-workers from The Matrix Institute sent me a friend request, and I am leaning toward denial, even though at a holiday dinner she made a funny. It made me laugh. One of those had to be there moments. Richard Baron, our chief executive, was pontificating about being Jewish during Christmas, and Cheryl, rushing to defend her own pleasure, said "Christmas is universal," which stopped Richard in his tracks and earned her the stony stare opprobrium. I just found it amusing, and broke out with a guffaw. So this is why I remember who she is. We did not work together directly. She is black, but better educated than Harriet. I do not feel like picking the Harriet Fowler scab much further than I may have in 10. I have a great many conflicted feelings about Matrix. I helped destroy a liberal, overly permissive research facility that let me lie my way out of a few things. I was unhappy with the job (when am I not?) but I quit, really, because the battle to get around became the job.
I understand social media's rather scoping power, even if it creates tunnel vision: I myself waste no small energy asking "who blocked me?" and I have other things I need to do, and by now, I might have had at least 2k on twitter, if I wasn't me, and Cheryl is sort of like my aunt in that automated chat with photo and video do it for her, and I could almost hear what she thought, OMG it is Joanne. She has 508 connections. I have 8, and do not care for many more. The fact that I now openly wear racism, virulently at times, has little to do with my link to her, and I'd never use Zuckerberg's platform to do what I do on this domain. I bring it up solely because I do not feel any guilt looking at her account and shrinking back. I am supposed to feel remorse, and do not. This woman did nothing to me, never aggravated me, delighted in her life, and like the late Gwen Ifill, had a light bulb smile. Perhaps my humanity was always doomed in this fashion, but it is the fault of the black nanny terror I live with, as well. She and I barely knew each other then, so that she took the trouble is more or less a numbers game of seeking out the appearance of popularity. Not sure how conducive this is, whatever I decide.
I figure, if I am getting blocked without being able to pinpoint either the user or the rationale, it must be because I put too much heart in saying "look, here is the end of the road!" I have little to no idea how Carson will change section 202 policies by the beginning of April, but by any reasonable standard, I am non-complaint, and my interior is not orderly, nor clean. Eight year old carpet needs section replacement, etcetera, yet shame is the least of my concerns, as I sat here attempting a minor note of eloquence to Sheldon Novick, his a learned mind of wonderfully constructed explanations of our best achievements. Henry James as a collector of social culture. Legal theory that turned constitutional law into the progressive victory whose zenith culminated, and started its process of erosion, under Lyndon Johnson, and I, in my worst moments, the stoking troll with charcoal eyes whose rage, when she is really tired, really tired, is beyond reason in its destructive cruelty. His social media metrics are sterile, Sheldon's, though I alternate with my distance of address from him, one one formal, "Dr Novick," which feels pretentious. He is neither colleague nor instructor, we are not socially familiar, and my numbers, not huge by any margin, yet more dynamic than his, My private message failed because the Toshiba cursor bounces and I lost the window. Sheldon would not care and I'll try another day. He's been extremely generous with me, and I feel traces of guilt. How can I froth with genocidal pathology and appreciate his scholarly arguments in the same brain mind dualism? There are ways to defend libertarian freedom and deplore Donald Trump simultaneously. I'm getting there but I'm not superhuman, and if I give this building manager her victory, go out into a cruel world into an environment where many people my age are strapped, I at the very least, need a destination. At the same time, I am too overwrought. But I am not doing what I plan to because of libertarian theory. Last time I checked, we all live once, and I need to get the fuck out of here, and the wreckage of my past in the gait of Jimmi Shrode's indignation, his partner's virtually zombie dead body with catheter tubes. Erik is a literal figure out of Shakespeare's supernatural.
Beneath the surface of both, liberal and libertarian exhaustion, The Washington Post seems to have gone into hysteria mode, and I am bemused, partly incredulous, but bemused, all the same. Jeff Bezos doesn't run the editorial staff, or so I imagine. This is not All The President's Men, just a wealthy New York shyster implementing a Gilded Age, the likes of which we've never seen, and yet, it seems Amazon's might and power have taken the reigns, trying to curb the living embodiment of a dismantling: the dignity of presidential sovereignty has melted in the span of a week, and I am in a mild case of hysteria myself, desisted from tweeting to Potus that his thumb and forefinger movements suggest he's over-skilled in the art of penile stimulation-- yet, libertarians aren't incorrect. How can I possibly say that when my life is in jeopardy? Because the entitlement system is a strangulation. I've lived it nearly all my life and all the sudden, the telescope sharpens focus, and I'm in my fifty fifth year of life, nearly insane with misery. A young Southerner graduate I met at LOTR last summer said he hoped Trump would bring down the government, and we seem to be already there, whether Article 25 is invoked or for some reason, Ryan is compelled to impeach. I do not see that happening, but my country feels doomed, and I'm going straight to hell with it. I never liked Trump, ever, never followed his damn show, yet we voted for an antithesis of liberty, not an actualization of it. We're finished, and the young woman I once was, who I used to be, has a broken heart. I'll come back at this later. I had a horrible two weeks. I am sick of being a welfare pigsty, and running, abandoning what little I have, will certainly shake a loose tooth out of my gums.
"I believe God wrapped himself up in that baby boy."-- Josie Byzek
One pitch last evening. Only one? When I reference the blank spaces in eschatology, I do no mean metaphysical definitions of the afterlife, and the metaphors we create around the notion of souls. Heaven is a postscript for serenity. Hell is a more dynamic narrative of unfinished business, degrees of intensity, passion, murder, vengeance, lust, avarice, treason. The worst sin is betrayal and what and whom we turn on, sort of like Donald Trump and Ted Cruz playing jacks with slay the bimbo. Rape, molestation of children, this is a betrayal to the species, and homosexuality, taken to the level western activists have taken it, basically is a materialist argument in evolutionary terms. Humans are like other mammals with sexual drives in need of being sated, so we divorce sexuality from its main purpose, and have industries devoted to cock rings, dildos, erotic films, smokers, rape fantasies, not that these aren't also heterosexual excesses. On one level, liberals glorify the liberating aspects of a great orgasm, and it is so closely tied to death, not only because vigorous intercourse can wind up killing people, usually males, but I imagine women too have bought it, in time honored fashion, with their shins clamped on a nice buttock, but because of the loss of control mimics physical escape; not that I'm saying a world of gender neutered eunuchs is preferable, but freedom aggrandizes bodily sensation to the point that it obscures other potentialities. No, what I mean about this void, is, what do we look upon in the face of decline? Family dynamic? I never had a good one, with the possible exception of baby half brother, love my father terribly, but our relationship is a cash register. My entire life might be summarized as doing everything to win my father, and failing. I learned and watched football to talk my father's language, and do him twice better as a Roman mafioso race baiting reactionary. He'd break my jaw if he knew what my posts convey. It is a method, many times removed, of how angry I am with him, how much I blame myself for Nicholas junior, his punk thuggery, suffering, the pain he caused so many people, his wasted AIDS skeletal frame in the coffin, cherry monoxide cheeks.
Do I believe in Jesus, like Josie Byzek? No, when push comes to shove, to give Catholicism a difficult time, if Christ actually existed, he is not what Saul, the original Christian killer, fed to Rome. Then why do I label myself a Catholic atheist, and believe the Office of the Inquisition should be restored and granted the death penalty? To which I'd be first in line? Grace is only achieved through martyrdom. I lived in hell for significant portions of these fifty plus years headed down the drain, what have I done in that time? Over invested like a pinball held aloft in a miracle game of Frenzy, giving myself first to devotion, yet always truculent with the collar. Then it was romance, never actualized, ever. I thought, a long time ago, maybe I could win a spastic New York therapist, went back to Rusk for work study, and his first words? "You got heavy, didn't you?" My parents would have been appalled at how hard I then tried to get laid, alone, sixteen, in Manhattan. I played up every virile male I could find, black, white, Italian, cop, disabled, Italian-Japanese, Hispanic-- Jesus, with the H morpheme. What do I have to show for it? 300 poems, a handful of bylines, controversy, giving everything the finger, no security, alone, afraid, with moth worn skirts, soiled clothes, survivor of medical practice that did absolutely nothing for me, in a prognosis of any sort. Had I snagged An Academic, might I have had more tranquil pleasures? I should have never allowed myself to relocate to Riverside. I perhaps should have gone back to my mother, but we would have harmed each other. She died alone. I'm gone, a boon a rang rang.
