Urban Telemetry

In the ongoing battle of wills between Lady Rambo (a.k.a. kimmy would you like her?), little black panther Vincent, and human spastic mother, Lady Rambo has succeeded in setting the stage for global dominion. Vinne, for whom I have no picture, is nearly terrified of this kitten-sized female, and virtually refuses to leave the kitchen. I was advised to lock her in the bathroom, but this seems unfair. Vinne may be a small wing man, but tackled his brother daily, so I fail to see why he cannot stand up to a little girl; my fatigue is telling, and instead of arguing with my aunt, I may just have to circumvent her and do what I feel is necessary. Not immediately, as I believe in the no kill methodology even if I am slightly more ambivalent about TNR. I believe in the dignity of other species as much as you tend to believe in ours, and I am trying to help CK out. However, as much as we tend to ridicule cat ladies, suicidal or not, I meant what I wrote about Joey being the pet love of my life. My relationship with little brother is not the absence of attachment, but it is more mercurial, and I am resistant to the little girl, who might outlive me if she is as young as she seems. If in so many weeks, it  appears I will be hurling toward hell, I will be relieving myself from the burdens of ownership. I understand Debra Horne's concern, the social worker for my landlord whom I denigrate with my interior voice in sentiments that would appall Amy Gutmann, whose circumference is close to the range of my disparity, but whose status is in league with the Davos list; if la Presidente Amy sat in my wheelchair and heard and saw Debra screaming at me, maybe she would take a more nuanced view of what keeps racial tensions alive and inflamed. I have at least three times the education level of Ms. Horne, and yet I never broke into getting an interview past my very high scoring civil service examinations. Ms. Horne did get in, and yet mysteriously floats out of vocational rehabilitation to work for Presby like an obedient Doberman, tagging problem tenants.





I got sucked into the celebrations Wednesday evening despite myself, and it had the nightmarish quality of The Day of the Locust, a mass of mostly fat waddling people, not all Afroid but mostly, and nearly all obese, with bad gait, bad diction, and the lousy posture of our badly educated and egalitarian society. Lacking Ms. Gutmann's optimism, I was lucky, keeping my mouth shut around the newly designed Aero, more convenient, possibly less effective, strolling slowly so as to not injure the children of your misfortune who will inherit a collapsed superpower. Kept my connection to the Asian work ethic, though the clerks were being harassed by an older black woman who I did not take on but deliberately upstaged with better manner. I saw nothing civic, tried to get a drink at X-change, a club I am half tempted to sue, because it would not take much to have a portable ramp available, and they don't. It does not seem so strange to me that the company of small predatory felines is preferable.