There are things people don’t realize in today’s Orwellian dystopia.
When thrills are not only bought but niche markets.
She sighed literary theory, ‘representation‘ is defined as to look like or resemble, stand in for something or someone Or to present a second time; to re-present. A comeback. A greatness reassembled, as the spiritual tuning between water and soil, air and energy, it was as it were
I’m living proof of the fact that a human being can thrive after falling from grace. Now that term implies a misstep of moral failing but in my case, it was the byproduct of an effect that was imposed upon my being at a young age and for years, then buried in the subconscious yet destined to wreak havoc decades later in the usual form of self-destructive behavior, a relentless quest for unattainable perfection that caused tremendous self-blame where others can be forgiven for major transgressions while you beat yourself up for not being perfect. Dissociative disorder is the effect I only came to discover well into my 40s from the sexual abuse I still have difficulty discussing that occurred from 4-10 years of age. I simply didn’t develop emotional wellbeing and sexual identity that many of my peers take for granted as they pop xanax and complain about the Joneses.
I am currently not thriving, that opening statement was a fantasy line to kick off an imaginary future where I live to tell the tale. I am, in fact, barely surviving due to a series of unfortunate events culminating in yet again, financial devastation.
How does one go on when the prospects in real time look so bleak? The aspirational phrases can only take you so far before the end is nigh and you must pay the piper. Choosing a creative path, while in alignment with my core being, has resulted in immense uncertainty and a certain extreme financial insecurity that you simply never “get used to.” Or do you?
There are a multitude of weaknesses to consider, “bad choices”.to obsess over and overwhelming grief to slog through making the achievements pale in comparison and creating a self-perception that can be crushing, immobilizing or simply demoralizing – seemingly impossible to combat much less ever overcome.
In the process of self-discovery, all I ever wanted was to contribute meaning to the collective whole, to have made things better for my being here. To that end, it’s hard to say since so much disappointment and despair have piled up at my door.
I still find inspiration everywhere, am in love with the beauty of this world and want to learn everything all the time. Music lifts my spirit, the wilderness soothes my soul and collaboration is my lifeblood. Yet I acknowledge that pain and hardship tend to send me into self-imposed exile as I am the kind of person who gets bled dry by the needs of others. I was always the one who “had my shit together” and would freely help others without hesitation, yet it’s impossible for me to ask for help-I feel a sense of failure I cannot begin to articulate and the net result is sinking deeper into the hole of shame and regret.
I want to move forward, I have made great strides only to get knocked down again and again. Never give up, the mantra goes, but lately there’s a caveat voice in my head that says, but why? When it feels like Sisyphus was right.
Mr. Boch moved from his native Long Island to New York City in 1976 to be an artist. He rented an apartment in Greenwich Village, and registered for graduate studies at New York University, but never attended. Instead, he did drugs, worked on his art and ran around with fellow artists and musicians downtown.
Jean Michel was a gallery. While painting his gf’s doors with aboriginal symbols he was gradually “becoming the artist” he would embody. Become. Infiltrate. Obsess over. Exhaust. Expel. Vacate.
The Times Square Show
A survey of the Underground in an “abandoned massage parlor” aka whorehouse – performance art on your back or on your knees.
Diego Cortez the killer unveiling a smug version of fame showing off on a wall. I don’t get escaping through Drugs, he says, sanctimoniously satisfied with the life he’s living.
“Mudd” was named for Samuel Alexander Mudd, a doctor who treated John Wilkes Booth after Abraham Lincoln’s assassination.
Ida claimed New York society. After all, she had danced with the Prince of Wales in 1860 and even met Abraham Lincoln.
A solialite in the city of squalor. In such a place, you must cultivate your own spurious correlation.
The manager said he had worked at the hotel for seven years and had never seen Ida Wood or her deceased sister. His records indicated that they had moved into the two-room suite in 1907, along with Ida’s daughter, Miss Emma Wood, who died in a hospital in 1928 at the age of 71. They always paid their bills in cash.
A documentary about an artist and the failings within:
Spurious sound bites to evoke the prurient imagination but which provide no context, rendering them meaningless.
Followed by yet another blase, non-chyroned expert musing on unrelated affectactions, which a black and white text card reads “considered one of the best artists of the 20th century” is supposed to fix –without showing any of his art. The filmmaker didn’t even try to get inside the mind of Basquiat. We observe, from the outside, a random collection of postcards from a urinal but because of a title card, we are expected to believe that this is the path to greatness.
After all, we can surreptitiously google a superficial treatment of events to fill in the blanks this filmmaker was too lazy to uncover.
Why deep dive when a synthesis of trivia satisfies the know-it-all clan? These slapped together non-ideas serve only to thin out any impetus to create, replacing the depths of art with the polite parlance of blatherskite.
‘I wanted to be a star,’ Basquiat once said. ‘Not a gallery mascot.’
“Hamlet saw that pithy old Polonius was a preposterous and orotund ass.”
So what began as a quest for more understanding ended in frustration. Why can’t I get a vague idea funded, completed and released when it would appear that even the most intellectually devoid are cranking out content for mass consumption?
Because in the end no one mosses quality if they never see it.
Because I have been reduced to merely surviving after the filmindustry destroyed me.
It’s beyond heartbreaking to have amassed the experience and dedicated your life to mastering your craft, only to be forced to abandon your dreams. To be left with nothing. Perhaps this is how Basquiat felt – Covered up and disclosed by color
With all the reflections fairly offhand and distant so you are told things like how “he was cute and needed a place to sleep” followed by another de rigueur Burroughs riff, the documentary is a collassal wreck of the scattered, tattered relief map of unspoken for grey matter.
There’s no retrospectively gathered meaning to bear down on throes of archival footage blazing through our collective consciousness, just a groupthink amalgamation mess, masquerading as the penultimate artistic nemesis.
The same one that will kill you in a cardboard box without explanation other than the epidemic of undesirables. Acquired. By the immune system like junk bonds for the soul. Deficiency syndrome. A capacity for losing the innate ability to fight this thing that’s killing you, harshly.
An overdose of ideas. Paintings that sell for millions from a man whose work was unceremoniously tossed into the dumpster by a slumlord when he couldn’t pay his rent.
Then, 37 minutes in over an aerial shot of a line of limos, we get a sound bite that we are just supposed to accept as gospel that this was the line of wall street thugs picking up their heroin before work.
We knew about the coke which made sense. I knew a guy in college who moved to New York City after graduating to work on Wall Street. I heard later that he had gotten into crack, long ago sold the stereo system in that bottom floor apartment we crashed in one night with the band. I was their driver at the time and, unfortunately, under the spell of their bass player who was sewing his oats with the sort of chicks who’d ask me to introduce them to him while they were playing. I always had a backstage pass.
The coke made sense, the heroin did not.
“The world exploded”
Jordan mentions the word counter culture
Samsa wentto black sheep island to “take an overdose of pills.”
By the time all LSD had been administered by the CIA and scientists working on mind control shoved out the window, Woodie Guthrie was there with Tymon Dogg getting chords together with Savory Trampyon.
You never knew day for night
By 72 it was all over casualties on the floor
Freight Handlers moving a stack of women’s pasties outside a warehouse on Reade St.
The question of time travel remains, the mothers play mahjong and bake bread respectively in their segregated assemblies though underground trading among all humankind is what has kept humans alive, way past our expiration date.
But that is not this story. As much as Theo wanted in on Ursala Le Guin, appreciated the paranoid speed freakery of electric kool-aid blade – Phillip K. Dick’s paperback library books from Lucy that good kisser were how he saw scanner darkly — this all pulled him in a direction he would collect like decoys and envoys and savings and Loan pivots when did this start his students ask.
Except now Theo is an old man. In this version, he does not die for humanity at 33. In this version he is the rock of Gibraltar who makes it bearable to go on.
A hero’s journey finally except I don’t know how it ends exactly.
In July there were riots in Birmingham, Chicago, New York City, Milwaukee, Minneapolis, New Britain, Rochester, Plainfield, andToledo.
231 incidents were reported every hour.
“Before the riot, public perception had deemed Detroit a thriving, peaceful community with a rising middle class and ambitious redevelopment projects. Ironically, the city had earned accolades as the “model for police-community relations.” However, experts claim Detroit’s rising black population was dissatisfied with persisting segregation and issues of discrimination, particularly in policing, before the riots. The 1967 Detroit riot remains one of the deadliest riots in American history.”
2,509 stores were looted or burned, 388 families lost their homes, and 412 buildings needed to be demolished.
“The riot put Detroit on the fast track to economic desolation…”
…between 1947 and 1963 the city’s manufacturing economy hemorrhaged 134,000 jobs, triggering the start of Detroit’s long decline.
In the 1950s Detroit was the wealthiest city in the world. … Since 1950, the population of Detroit was dropping by 50,000 people per year for nearly 4 decades.
“The auto industry’s instability started in the immediate aftermath of World War II, when materials shortages bedeviled the business. As the nation converted from wartime back to civilian production, there was huge demand for steel. Automakers stood in line with railroads, stove and refrigerator manufacturers, and many others for limited supplies. Strikes in the coal, steel, copper, and glass industries, whose workers struggled to keep pace with postwar inflation, further limited supplies, shutting down auto factories for weeks and sometimes months. With thousands of parts going into each car, any missing items—from seat frames to bolts and screws—could quickly result in tens of thousands of auto layoffs in Detroit.”
“We are nonviolent with people who are nonviolent with us.” — Malcolm X
The man whose son started the riot (by his own admission) had lost one of those car factory jobs, which, in turn, caused him to lose his house.
If you’ve ever lost a place you had once lived to economic adversity, not necessarily caused by you, then you understand the despair that pervades this pattern of money changing hands we call the economy.
What this beast actually is though is nothing like the happy-go-lucky term economy – no, it’s simply a death sentence to too many of us. Poverty leaves you few options. Those Oprah affirmations about how bad luck is just bad choices are not actual fact. Life doesn’t line up good and bad choices to tick off like some kind of chore. People make choices based on the present situation, informed as it may be by heaps of bad choices smothering out any good ones because sometimes there is no way to reverse the course of a life where poverty is a given. When enough people just can’t take any more of the unfounded blame, cultural degradation and physical, emotional and psychological pain, they push back.
Where do we go from here? The police have not changed in 50 years, just become more crafty in exploiting the law (the law they break) and more blatant in their systemic violence, predominantly inflicted on African-Americans.
The cops view everyone as a target (see NYPD calling a camera crew “a piece of shit” for documenting the protests that seem to be a personal affront to them). Just watch LAPD shoving a homeless junkie so hard and so many times that his brawny handler had to pull him back-coz cameras.
They “protect their own,” which is code for a gang replete with tattoos, spirit patches and hand signals. Like the gangs they demonize except they’re worse. Their “turf” is our country.
Where do we go from here? Will it play out as the biblical version of Armageddon sold in airports because natural disasters won’t relent, worldwide pestilence and plague, raging floods no ark, infernal fires, and the hand of Satan in man’s inhumanity to man grinding us down til the day we die? Alone with a virus in a hospital bed, asphyxiated by a brutality made official? The people we’ve put in charge think we are a herd to corral, who deserve police calling us a piece of shit when we can’t take their lies anymore.
The blue lives matter cult must justify their own fear, rage, rush to judgement and consistent overreactions. The hostility towards us because we want to be heard, the violence directed at us for just not being them, their addiction to excessive force, meted out in rubber bullets tell us we cannot be trusted.
Hostile and heavily armed (with military grade toys they’re untrained to use) the always prejudiced cops merely seek quotas (“we plan to make lots of arrests” and will plant evidence and lie about the circumstances to achieve this”) and calmly, calculatingly cut off our breath.
How does anyone do that and continue on about the day? Protect and serve should be struck from the propaganda they snarl. They want to hurt people, fail to prevent egregious harm, much less catch rapists, assist the distressed or serve any form of justice. I come to this opinion through personal experience, from four Rampart LAPD terrorists to six City Terrace Sherriff thugs brutalizing me, lying about “evidence” and falsifying another arrest to destroy a person’s life without impunity. The worst of the Rampart four hissed at me for asking why I was being arrested since no crime had been committed. As he forcefully tightened the handcuffs (giving me nerve damage), and twisted my arm and shoulder before finally, locking me in a 100 degree car so I’d pass out, Ponce snarled, “If you don’t shut the fuck up, I’m charging you with resistingarrest.”
The City Terrace sheriff cunt said there was a “warrant for my arrest” (there was not) after illegally searching my car (actually, ripping it apart) in their local chop shop. This is standard. At least in Southern California. I’d never experienced the 0-60 escalation over exaggerated or entirely fabricated infractions until I moved to Los Angeles.
There’s a reason LA evokes riots. It’s called years enduring the LAPD. But we are not alone. They’ll kill you on no evidence of a counterfeit bill in Minneapolis. Or for, god-forbid, selling single cigarettes on the street in NYC. They’ll bring out riot gear to combat artists’ drawing with chalk on a sidewalk during art walk in DTLA. You could die in a “routine traffic stop.”
some reason, these are the humans among us looking to punish anyone and everyone. I’ve heard laymen say, well if you’re here (jail or court or anger management), you must have done something. Well, that’s actually not the case. And with AI, robo-cop profiling of “criminal” intent – an imperfect science if there ever was one, like the whole assumption that police can tell if you’re guilty by how you behave in the aftermath of trauma. I hear fat detectives on the justice network say all the time how they knew he did it because he reacted too calmly (can’t be in shock) or was not responding the way their psychology training declared. We’re talking negative emotional intelligence when it comes to cops. Bullies or they were bullied and now we are here for payback.
Shock and awe can be had by the highest bidder. Pay for the toys not the training, for the privilege of assaulting your very own fellow countrymen.
It’s appalling how it’s gotten worse. How Rodney King’s experience changed nothing. How shooting a man in the back, shooting an unarmed suspect while serving a warrant because the man with books not guns in his jacket was nervous, and black. I do know what it’s like to feel like a target because of the color of my skin. I can’t even begin to know the experience of my whole life being threatened all the time because of it. It’s the feeling women have all the time about the probability that at some time in our lives we will be sexually assaulted. I have never felt entirely safe and just the past four years’ experience would verify that such vigilance is required having been beaten within an inch of my life and left for dead at a hospital that never reported this violent beating and brain trauma but assumed I was drunk because why? I don’t quite know. I have amnesia the kind where you dissociate to survive. Your brain cuts off the trauma. You get t keep its effects.
I want to do something with this awareness, it is founded in experience and real pain. I want to do something with it, help somebody, advance the human race which is devolving so fast even I am surprised.
Not that I’m much of a Pollyanna but I’d fought for many better things and accomplished some. I’d felt a common ground with others and a belief in those God-awful truths we hold self–evident. Treated equally before the law, freedom of expression and the pursuit of that naive American playbook which now only wreaks of secret societies, corrupt judges, and an endless loop of warring factions’ scorched earth policy of mutually assured destruction, rolling down a never-ending trail of tears.
This is not the only narrative. It’s mind-boggling how ideas thousands of years ago about tyrants, power and oppression still hold true.
“Does the government fear us? Or do we fear the government? When the people fear the government, tyranny has found victory. The federal government is our servant, not our master!”
How we can’t as a social whole re-calibrate without rage and excessive force, how supposed men and women of faith of all kinds can’t even follow the basic tenants of their religions (which profess love as a collective goal) to shape communities. Instead we are defined by our inequity, our lack, the corruption of power, and adherence to the bellwether of consumption. Breaking your glass because I want what you have or better yet, I don’t want you to have it if I can’t.
The dark ages followed the plague. These dark times hit us right as we were trying to get back up. All because one cop who’d been written up 17 times decided he could kill because he was a cop. This wasteland of grief caused by the actions of one vile human being should be answered for.
Don’t expect leadership from law enforcement. (Camden and Denver may be exceptions, but in LA, we see cops shoving homeless people around while businesses burn to the ground). The cops are the same type of people as those who would prey on whoever is weaker or different or vulnerable.
The police want that. It justifies their undisciplined ignorant rage. Their actions belie a preference for shooting fish in a barrel (roughing up addicts, busting people for possession and attacking the poor for existing) over keeping a community safer. The cops here degrade our communities. Cutting their “budget” will only make their resentment grow. Training by civilians with expertise in human behavior is never even considered. People with the power and they feel professional discretion to decide whether you live or die do so on the basis of their own prejudices and dishonest intentions. Lots of arrests the police chief here vowed, talking tough. He admits on the news that they only planned for a “peaceful protest.” What the fuck is that? That’s like saying we only planned for no deadly accidents on the freeway so fuck you for not adhering to our stupidity. Planned for easy overtime. Bash a few hippie heads. Bust out the bear spray, have fun with tear gas, fire away those rubber bullets – watch em scatter.
Perhaps a gladiator tournament that’s in order so cops have to fight against all the hatred they’ve spread. Perhaps fire rubber bullets at a bunch of them for daring to express that justice is for them. Just because they’re cops, we shouldn’t shoot them in the back, put them in a quick chokehold or pin down with our knee even after they say I can’t breathe. It could be cathartic to have a public melee since all police understand is violence. Our president would sit front row.
That’s the only way you will get through to an entrenched band of outlaws with violence as their creed. Reform won’t happen because they are scared, weak and incapable of understanding what justice looks like. The cornerstone of police work is making sure we know your place. Protecting their own. Knowing the DA won’t charge you. The rules don’t apply to Steve Cooley, Jackie-no-charges-for-cops and False Arrest king Ponce.
As I’ve mentioned, my distrust, fear and hatred of cops is entirely built from personal experience. I’m just a 54 year old adoptee so I don’t know my “race,” and choose not to identify with it. I have no family ties and no lineage to protect, preserve, be proud of. I speak as an American citizen. And as an American the matter of race has eclipsed our consciousness because insecure white men have exerted their corrupt power over our shared values.
We don’t have time to grieve. One evil man destroyed any chance of collective recovery from the latest scourge. We have a leader who flaunts his ignorance as some kind of proof that he is speaking the truth – a deep state when it’s convenient, military protection from the losers, and declaring anti-fascists are the enemy because we really do want fascism, particularly his brand.
Why the hell is there an insurrection act in the country designed to overthrow bad government?
mother falls into the ‘silent’ generation category
a square peg in a round hole
She does not suffer fools well,
Slightly quixotic and
smarter than ever given credit for
The better half,
A father to shed the skin
of the runaway
electro-shock treatment inhumane
but at 15 he was fighting a
a world war, for god’s sake.
A con artist brother
the typical boomer,
a line item,
with residual hint
He consumed everything better and greater than you.
He consumes it all so you don’t get to…
As the year 2011 began on Jan. 1, the oldest members of the Baby Boom generation celebrated their 65th birthday.
This commensurate consumer palate of special interest subcultures, intra-generational whiners, bemoan any history that must be adhered to. Theirs a final birthright to consume.
This was 2016.
Boomers – whose generation was defined by the boom in U.S. births following World War II – are older and their numbers shrinking as the number of deaths among them exceeds the number of older immigrants arriving in the country.
Their deaths (in numbers) exceed the number of older immigrants arriving in the country.
What defines ‘older’ and what defines ‘arriving’?
And, who decided a generation could be reduced to a theoretical construct of ages?
You can feel “my generation” on a visceral level, a statistic on a government chart – the first generation to not ‘do better than’ their own parents, a true point of national pride since 1945.
People try to put us d-down Just because we g-g-get around Things they do look awful c-c-cold Yeah, I hope I die before I get old (Talkin’ ’bout my generation)
developing a popular and expert consensus on what marks
the boundaries between one generation and the next
We were defined by a half-joking derogatory tone created by pulp, then more or less forced to live it out.
McJob’s, the fact that we would be worse off than our parents and their parents, and would,
in fact, be blamed for it.
Our older siblings who did so well would be given the compensatory nod of approval, they were given it all, showered with the spoils of war fought by their ancestors. The only “war” they could own was one that put 0.7% of the population was behind bars.
Those who followed, the latchkey kids, the ones who defend reproductive rights to the death, whereas their progenitors were all about gun rights (both about whose lives get saved or spared).
What will concern the millennials? Which issue involving the rights of others will be added to the trifecta of abortion, guns and_________ that come to define each generation, loose conglomerates who have many more concerns than are reduced by special interests into pre-packaged, bite-sized identifiers.
Pew Research needed to simplify it for whoever paid for the study, skew the data, ever so slightly, away from anything meaningful, because, as a collective whole, in a mish mash of generational muck, we have collectively decided that we don’t give a fuck.
Generation Xers were hit particularly hard. Newer to the housing market, more likely to be buying at peak prices and taking on more mortgage debt to buy their homes, they lost more wealth than other generations.
But a new Pew Research Center analysis of Federal Reserve data finds that Gen Xers are the only generation of households to recover the wealth they lost during the Great Recession.
The median net worth of Gen X households had declined 38% from 2007 ($63,400) to 2010 ($39,200), while the typical wealth loss for Boomer and Silent households was not as steep (26% and 14%, respectively).
The Great Recession began in December 2007 and ended in June 2009. (Who is the guy who gets to decide on a definitive date?)
The median value of the financial assets owned by Gen X households fell 20% from 2007 to 2010. Typical Boomer and Silent households had modestly larger declines in their financial assets.
Since 2010, the median net worth of Gen X households has risen 115%. In fact, in 2016, the most recent year with available data, the net worth of a typical Gen X household had surpassed what it was in 2007 ($84,200 vs. $63,400).
As of 2016, the median wealth of households headed by Boomers and the Silent Generation remains below 2007 levels, though their household wealth still exceeds that of Gen X.
The typical home equity level of Gen X homeowners has doubled since 2010, though this was not achieved without considerable borrower distress. According to Federal Reserve data, 15% of Gen X’s homeowners were “underwater” on their homes in 2010 (meaning they owed more than they owned). By 2016 only 3% were underwater.
The median financial assets of Gen X households nearly doubled from 2010 ($11,300) to 2016 ($21,600). In comparison, Boomer and Silent households’ financial assets are at a level similar to before the Great Recession.
Gen X’s ability to rebuild its wealth may reflect its relatively robust household income growth since 2010. The median adjusted household income of Gen X households increased more than 20% and, at $73,200 in 2016, surpassed that of other generations. The oldest Gen Xer was 51 as of 2016, meaning that Gen X workers are still approaching their peak earning years.
Through first-hand experience Gen Xers learned the painful consequences of economic contractions. At least in terms of wealth, they are now better positioned to weather the next one.
I had the orange cover copy of this book given to me by my boomer brother. He seemed to be relieved to find nomenclature for my ailments, although McJobs were hardly my foray. I had social consciousness in the spades. Was intent on saving the world to the hilt. Would never find my promise delivered, instead floundering in a to do inbox alongside a boulevard of broken dreams, a gaggle of googled misfits long since off-the-radar, with glimpses into reams of relevant identifying information.
Wouldn’t it be ironic if your adopted name, so common the cops like to tell you that there’s a warrant out for you despite never mentioning the requisite arrest, just grinning that sardonic smile that lower-than-you average IQ officers “of the law” give before declaring “There’s a warrant out for you” because they’re too fucking stupid to actually find your actual identifying information (whichinvolves make and model not just moniker) which would show off the personalized plate.
After you’re dead and buried and floating around whatever place we go to, what’s going to be your best memory of earth? What one moment for you defines what it’s like to be alive on this planet. What’s your takeaway? Fake yuppie experiences that you had to spend money on, like white water rafting or elephant rides in Thailand don’t count. I want to hear some small moment from your life that proves you’re really alive.
It was a bright cold day in April, andthe clocks were striking thirteen…
It’s a cool April morning and we have yet to awaken from this common nightmare, set to put the cat amidst the pigeons.
And if things weren’t bad enough, mere moments ago, a notification declared non-essential errands must come to an end.
Each day, a new rule that could end in death or disappearing into the void of state-managed panic.
The confusion is oppressive, the paranoia, catching. Now would be a good time to get under that rock, disappear for a few choice years, channel your inner Rumplestiltzkin. But it’s as if we’ve frozen in time, stopped in our tracks, left odd man out in a cosmic play of duck, duck, goose.
Not sure if it’s a good or bad thing, this waiting to be divided into numbers on a page, remembered en masse during state-sponsored moments of silence humming like a swarm of bees worldwide. Holding our breath, scanning for that pain in your chest. Praying, expectorating, intubating, mitigating.
The response has been dizzying, human nature fulfilling all those scenarios you’d hoped would stay in their genre.
Yet, here we are in the alarming state of affairs that allows this to progress unabated, a surreal plane where the ACLU argues for prisoners to be released onto streets while people afraid of everything, who can’t trust the government (why would they?) to have their best interests in mind, get arrested for misunderstanding the daily changing rules.
If you’re healthy, fuck off.
Lose your job, your business, we’ll arrest you if you try to save it.
If you’re sick, good luck with that. You probably lost your health insurance right before this became a global pre-existing condition. And it’s most likely your fault anyway.
We’re okay though, your political leaders, having been tested when there were no tests for you.
How dare you question our response? We seize your masks, your gloves, your breath, your future – it belongs to us. After all we must collect reimbursement for that $ 1500 a piece – hush money, oh please.
We have new ways to lock you up if you defy our unspecified terms of societal lockdown.
Today is April 7, 2020. This is already old news.
I checked out a 2019 list of California crimes and their bails. Under Villanueva’s edict, a criminal could even kill someone in an involuntary manslaughter incident and (possibly) not be arrested. Here are some other crimes under $50,000 bail for which criminals could be given a ticket or a pass:
Battery on a Cop
Assault With a Deadly Weapon With Intent to Cause Great Bodily Injury
Driving Car Without Consent
This kind of edict is going on all over the country in light of COVID-19.
. This is the decision of our omnipotent leaders in a land where your life can be destroyed by a false arrest.
The land of the free to exploit
The home of the hypocriticrace
where justice can be bought
or distributed freely to those who would harm just because they have the power and opportunity
How is it that Assault With a Deadly Weapon With Intent to Cause Great Bodily Injury and Involuntary Manslaughter (“crimes under $50,000 bail for which criminals could be given a ticket or a pass” under the directive of Los Angeles Sheriff Alex Villanueva who announced that local cops will not arrest people who commit a crime for which there’s a $50,000 bail or less) are not cause for reproach yet
officials of the city of Menlo Park, an affluent suburb of some 30,000 people, ordered police enforcement of this insanity to “protect” us!
Who decided what California businesses are essential and non-essential, and then authorized police to arrest shop owners for remaining open, joggers on public trails and lone surfers?
Because they sure didn’t make it clear before the police started cruising by slowly if you walked to the market to check if toilet paper was restocked…
Where were these same squad cars when the drunk guy who didn’t bother learning English for the past ten years circled back to see if I was fair prey for just getting some fresh air outside this tenement?
Okay, so when were those notices put on everyone’s door? (The Census “takers” sure figured it out.) Why wasn’t that scrolling in the banners of the weekly emergency broadcast instead of the “act like nothing’s changed” as usual message that declares THIS IS ONLY A TEST.
“Los Angeles prosecutors on Friday filed criminal charges against two smoke shops, a shoe store and a discount electronics retailer, accusing them of refusing to shut down despite orders imposed to fight the coronavirus,” the Los Angeles Times reported Friday.”
Public health officials are making decisions which are killing off businesses and tanking the economy, despite that in the U.S., a country of 329,227,746 million people, there are 239,279 total coronavirus cases and 5,443 total deaths, according to the CDC. The Worldometer coronavirus website says there have been 7,896 coronavirus deathsin the U.S. as of April 4, 2020.
According to the CDC there are an average 7,838 deaths in the U.S. every day.
Which is it? 7,896, 7838, or 5,443?
Just now on the official CDC website, here are the numbers:
Total cases: 330,891
Total deaths: 8,910
With the following disclaimer: confirmed and presumptive positive cases of COVID-19 reported to CDC or tested at CDC since January 21, 2020, with the exception of testing results for persons repatriated to the United States from Wuhan, China and Japan. State and local public health departments are now testing and publicly reporting their cases. In the event of a discrepancy between CDC cases and cases reported by state and local public health officials, data reported by states should be considered the most up to date.
Okay so the CDC takes no responsibility for accurate statistics, so in effect, the federal government is punting to the states. Not that this is surprising given the fact that our commander-in-chief, exasperated by any questioning of his COVID19 task force’s efficacy, snapped, “We’re not in the shipping business you know!” With regards to yet another snivelling request for the feds to open up their measly stockpile like a Black Friday at Walmart.
[Beware: satire ahead. Please don’t call the police.]
Clearly a dig at Amazon (as reported on the back pages by the Washington Post), the reference to why shipping masks and whistleblowers to NY was beyond protocol.
But apparently once the states do fend for themselves, as was the case in that patriot loving state of Massachusetts, the feds clearly established that it was their responsibility to seize the PPE ordered by said self-sufficient state because the bidding process had somehow been better played to Uncle Sam.
However, the Garden State, home to bridge closures just because they can and everyone’s favorite mob boss Tony Soprano, found that getting to the cargo baggage claim first was the new game being played.
Another case happened just yesterday when the top county official in Somerset County, New Jersey, Freeholder Director Shanel Robinson, announced that a shipment of 35,000 masks had been confiscated by federal officials. According to thisreportin theFranklin Reporter and Advocate, “As of early in the afternoon of April 3, Robinson said that the county was told the surgical face masks would be delivered that day, but that the federal government had taken the N-95 masks.”
We all heard it. The better- ratings-than The Bachelor briefings where “the stockpile” was revealed. You can’t just start sending ventilators to every Tom, Dick and Harry who says they need 30,000 of the damn things. I mean who needs that many whistleblowers? There are some very bad people, you know, out there just asking for masks and gloves and very high end ventilation. I mean, they’re supposed to be trained medical doctors, they should be able to perform surgery with a pocket knife. I saw that one time on M*A*S*H.
It appeared that “our” nation’s stockpile wouldn’t even cover the military branches (which one could presume might require first dibs should any invading body decide now was a good time to attack, using the tried and true kick ’em when they’re down modelfound in chapter four of The Art of War for Dummies, revised 1991
The speculation has been somehow that FEMA is the property room in the chain of custody for seized pandemic contraband probably because the Pentagon is the world’s largest low-rise office building and FEMA has those Political Realignment Facilities.
And if that isn’t enough, there is always the guy who robs from a church, harms the “innocent” and desires destruction over all.
“We’ve never had a political leader say stuff like this . . . At the same time, what we can’t do is just have media messages that focus on his words and not address practical things that people can do,” she said.
Her forthcoming book, Constructing the Outbreak, reveals how news reporting on epidemics communicates much more than information about pathogens—rather, prejudices, political agendas, religious beliefs, and theories of disease also shape the messages coming into Americans’ homes.
Mob rule sits six feet away convinced that a masked, flagitious force of nature must be man-made weaponry because he cannot imagine anything pursued outside of man.
Specifically one man, knowledgeable in the ways of narcisstic self -pity, whines each time the subject comes up, kvetching about the inevitable 80 per cent, asserting the definitive probability that he will be sure to die because he’s in the 80% who are doomed.
OH yes this virus is after him as he leans in to intake one more toxic form, setting forth to abort mission, turning the latest global catastrophe into an epic disaster of one, the tragedy of himself.
Of course the Alexa reveal has been deleted. According to the Gregorian Rubblemaster rabble rouser, everything is further evidence of a great big master plan set up years ago when dinosaurs flattened the curvature of the earth.
It’s impossible to argue with the sinister demagogue diel
preposterous notions at the top of the heap say so
simply because there’s no place else to go.
The first stage — The Ordinary World — happens to be one of the most essential elements of storytelling.
expectations of an Ordinary World
CovertCorona sifting thru the rubble of how people choose to reveal their present threats to your existence.
All scripts are essentially math. Brilliant scripts are string theory.
“Luke Skywalker living on a moisture farm. Sarah Connor working as a waitress. Neo living life as Thomas Anderson — a computer programmer and hacker..”
Evening the odds
calling forth from within
floating, then gliding as cover
Moors, tethered tight Theo’s mother climbed the stairs of entanglement, a ring obscured – each time the dream stopped here.
The days slowed time.
The nights were set in limbo not explained by Dante or shown in light of day —
an evil shadow-spirit slipped in through the “door” Ged had opened between the living world and the dead.* This evil power hunted Ged until he was able to name the shadow and thus understand it was a dark part of himself—his materialised evil.
Ladonna, Rosalind, Charmaine the mothers of Ffion Owen’s daughters.
Ged recovered the second half of the broken ring of Erreth-Akbe
Yusuf ben-Tachfin counted 30,414
6,160 miles of coastline and 790 surrounding islands
an evil shadow-spirit slipped in through the “door” Ged had opened between the living world and the dead.
Carved by glaciation, tectonic plates crashing into each other beneath the fragile face of earth’s crust, the future was joining together 6,160 miles of coastline.
This made an epic journey from way down near the equator to the South Pole, and then north to its present location.
Delilah was getting tired. She’d been holding court for 79 days, regaling all the youngsters who were devoted to her tales. Unlike the likes of Joyce Carol and Aaron Sortof, she gave it away for free. The “it” being her extensive yet disconnected knowledge of everything from hawks to cameras, Greek mythology to stock market wins, and medical hacks to horse wrangling v sailing knots.
“We do not talk — we bludgeon one another with facts and theories gleaned from cursory readings of newspapers, magazines and digests.”
Saul sat at her feet. She had nodded off. They were newfound relations. Him, the nephew of a half-sister she never knew. Her, the gradually fading bastard child of unknown parents who had lived on every fringe she could find.
She’d taken off, courageously, to travel after finishing her studies. Fallen in love with a brilliant but troubled junkie. Created a king, saved a woman living in a garbage dump and scrubbed blood off the floors of the first wave of AIDS patients. She was, if nothing else, relentlessly brave in her modest convictions. Being adopted infused her with a false sense of purpose: for years, she presumed she must be the new Jesus because only a child who did not know her parents could be trusted by God to do the right thing by humanity.
You see once we are broken into tribes and familial commitments, our sense of responsibility extends only to those with our family names. She’d been alone in the world for so long, the only connection that prevailed was what others found abstract. To her, it was life’s blood. She knew not where she belonged so, in effect, she was no one and everyone at the same time.
In the alley, the perfect blonde unloads her crossover vehicle full of practical supplies for another week of a global pandemic. Wondering why she’s been spared simply never occurs as I pass by with spurious deeds and formidable habits, knowing the likewise justifies no amount of suffering. Suffering unknown by precious blondes hoarding their fortunes in alleys they wouldn’t dare revisit at nightfall. The divide no longer brings yearning nor shame, just a remarkable resonance of nothing.
A canopy of delinquent vines fluttered by the open window. Sage burned on the antique desk in the corner. Her dreams were of her adopted mother.