Farrow and Allen Show My Age

This is the snapshot of Elaine's as it is today, shuttered. When I lived at Rusk Institute I might have whined to my medical student dorm mates about spying out the upper end Manhattan socialites. Pit the lower East Side against North Philadelphia and use your imagination. This is a thread you can pick up from Henry James and trace straight through to Husbands and Wives, although for those of you in your 30's, 20's, Woody is an emaciated pervert and Mia is the old rerun starlet when nothing else is on. It is not for me to judge her over compensating.

As rapidly as online technology is changing, it still frizzles my brain waves that I have tweeted to Mia Farrow at the same time that I am using her persona for my own literary powers. Would you just submit your work using the traditional submission routes, or when finished, post it where she'd be able to read it? I was never a huge fan of Woody as an auteur, though Husbands and Wives is surreal, so painfully ironic it could kill, and what Allen coaxed out of Pollack touch on my own interpersonal tensions. Mia's career baffles me more, preoccupies me more as a peculiar feminist problem, given the history of the men around her, since Polanski has his own nymphet issues. Where Polanski is concerned I am more ready to equivocate.

Even if Woody and Soon-Yi are happy, even if their affair technically is in the realm of the legal, and even if his relationship with Mia became moribund, what he did is unforgivable, regardless of his influence and stature in cinema. Most of us realize, even today, that there are certain boundaries. My younger sister and I may never reconcile, but I would never allow a romance with her husband. My stepmother (em) did the same thing to my mother, marrying my father after she and my mother finished nursing school. My lover once objected, "Your parents were divorced?" and they were, just as I was also by default invading the terrain of my lover's wife, but there is a difference between a fling and using friendships to steal. Allen committed a crime, imploded a stability of the sort that made our species successful. No wonder we enjoy seeing high society as a morally corrupt contract with resonant forces not to be trusted.

Push Back

I have not worked on my ghetto manuscripts for ages, and when it comes to my poetry, this censor was psychological. I did not wish to discover that my savagery would be sated through troping the murder of lesbians, as occurs in the deflated climax of Discard Me Tenderly. That strangulation exposition is stilted, and not a very good depiction of intramural disability abuse. At the time that this was an active work in progress, however, I saw this violence trigger as an illustration of self-hatred, trying to destroy the crippled body by destroying the projected sycophant, and in mental health terms, maybe this is what my supervisor Linda did to me in the reenactment, the travesty, actually, of when she first hired me. Burning me and countless others under her was her act of self-hatred. After these events completed their cycle, I did not want to write about killing women, discovering any kind of satisfaction in that, so I concentrated on the real freelancing, and since 2008 that has been akin to revving an empty engine, but this is more than psychoanalytic. I no longer derive much pleasure in literary journals, if I ever did, and trying to get back to any positive pleasure in the construction of narrative is rusty, but I am attempting to regroup, and need to cease worrying about my legacy, my hope of cementing establishment through my philly byline. So this is my posting break on top of my poetry break which is a deflection from the stress of having bitten off too much, and I started an argument with Jonathan Capehart's dismay in his comment section and I am telling you that also, and think that he and other black journalists oversimplify their contention about the rise of racism in the age of Obama. I take a dim view of urban black norms because I simply cannot respect them and their sensibility of collective freedom through a mutually restrictive propriety. Capehart and others may be quick to shame someone like me, but they don't have an answer for the punishment I've taken in the black community either. If I had the late Helen Gurley Brown's power, I'd hire Capehart to work for me at a publication, but I don't want him wiping my ass as a caretaker, or abusing me like Debra and Trudy did, and I'm tired of feeling alienated by living in a black city. My willingness to be vocal about my class resentment has next to nothing to do with the president. It is about the destruction of my economic viability, and yes, I'd fire Debra Horne in less than five seconds. Why? She is ignorant, and not particularly competent in her narrow views on compliance. To my mind this is not Jim Crow jingoism, but if you view it differently, it is also not your personal experience, is it?

Comparative Predation

I surprised myself by finding something derivative out of Sebold's metaphysical triumph over trauma in The Lovely Bones. If you like dark parlor games, consider Stanley Tucci as George Harvey against Michael Rooker as Henry, against Hopkins as Hannibal. That is your job spastic, might saith twitter, might saith the hapless surfer, or those who chance posted with me prior to community banishment. My rebuttal is distillation takes time, and my facial ligaments are in pain.

For me to watch a film twice in rapid succession means the transcendent caught my interior suction cups, and decided me to track Sebold even though I cannot do it her way, find my way through the thorns to loss of my own ego. My escape as a writer is to burrow into the agony, with or without substance aid, like Thomas More in his hair shirt, willing to accept the assassin. But my challenge to the Sebold victory is this: Would a mouse be owed the same consideration? It is the snicker bar on the evolutionary scale, killed swiftly, killed slowly, high pitched squeal as its spine is snapped on a glue trap, or pummeled and then eaten by Joey, speared by his brother. What does the fabric of space give the insect, krill, or plankton, for that matter? Why did I pay for my pet's ashes if I am a non-believer? There is also Aaron Eckhart's work, scathing and stark, which I thought of during the morning hours before Sandy's landfall, but evaded me in the initial post draft. In the company of men is a different genre, a masterpiece of social manner, critically acclaimed, then buried by the public, but it is a vehicle willing to be honest in its illustration that blind justice, fortune, are projections about how the primate moral code works, possibly no more than a facade; yet Sebold strikes something a mass audience needs, just as I needed Joey's remains, my deceased, now part of all minimalist dead pet theatre.

Even if we keep it on the human scale, is the serial predator simply an evolutionary outcome our self-domestication refuses to accept, or is it disease, as we attribute it in clinical terms? A footnote on which I'll have to catch up. Tucci's performance here nearly matches his more physically magnetic role in Big Night.

Tech V Earth

"I'm talking about a relationship with a device."
--Cynthia Nixon


If the kindle came equipped with a vibrator and gender identification software I'd marry it; charging it in the face of a hybrid storm is no doubt lame, but this amounts to my preparations for Sandy. Hardest thing is that my plastic nicotine vapor has not arrived and I assume if the winds really hit the postal service will go into cardiac arrest, and this will amount to my most discomforting withdrawal, second hardest will be intermittent power outages, but Philadelphia, asinine backwater that it is, seems to collect sordid child abuse cases and leaves the grand theater of disaster to NYC. Give or take, I can eat until Wednesday; currently mining The Lovely Bones, but I am not sure the story is ripe candidate topically. To cope it uses the magical realism route. An engaging first hour, however, and more than that, to add a quick end note, this adaptation is my idea of a perfect modern drama. Sebold reminds me of Alice Hoffman.

The soft fatalism that resolves this tale may be how Sebold resolved her own trauma. I commend the courage of her survival skills. I know who all my attackers were, and for her never to have received justice, never to have known, illustrates why we cling to fate. It must have taken her quite a leap, but I am not positive that quantum mechanics ensures lex talonis, though on the basis of probability it may allow for it. The film runs again in an hour, and moved me powerfully. My physical stress is taking its toll, and for the next 24 hours, perhaps, I will conserve my strength, and try to talk to my own projects as I talk to you.

Troll Generation

I assume, for all intents and purposes, that my rudeness, character assassination of real people, like Debra, appalls progressives, and is indicative, to them, that I will be tamed in the future by clinicians who will pacify my age. I am not sure what people who once knew me think, as they are few, if not disqualified into enemy territory, and either do not care what I blog or don't know, but I have reached the point of stark indifference. I saw Debra Friday, shortly before the traditional 5pm clock out, her eyes swollen, unpleasant, as usual, and if the extent of my contempt becomes known to her, it does not matter. People like her have denigrated me since I was a child, and my ferocity will not stop that continuance, but I will keep pushing against it as long as I can, because I have to. Were it not for the fact that I still live three floors below Erik von Schmettering, I would have come to blows last evening with the darling, corrupt and evil socialist that this transvestite is. I grieved him for a long time, yes, all of them, these ideology bound disabled associates. No more.

I concede I am fallible, impractical perhaps, and doomed anyway, as even able individuals have to yield to various models, but the state of Pennsylvania will have to kill me, if that is what it wishes, before I will allow anyone else to tell me how I have to live. Though I lack the time this evening, I will continue to deconstruct.

As I just wrote above, I am too worn to refine myself just now, but Debra and Erik are more than personalizations; they are examples of what constitutes both poorly construed activist aims and misguided forms of propriety. For a former female physician who completed her internship, Erik in his mortally failing Yoda look is a rather narrow minded and insolent bastard. To Erik and Jimmi, Cassie, Linda, their disability law associates, the center is their own little mafia.

Can you say muckraker? If I live long enough hopefully I can make a few of them fearful of court imposed punishment.

Nabokov Émigré

"If he is capable of love we have to assume he is also capable of hate."
--Sam Robards, A.I.



I finished The Luzhin Defense today and instantly reset it to read again, because so many things are inextricably entwined here, and there is a kind of shared identity between a cripple who cannot reject what the state imposes on her without incurring more serious constraints and Luzhin's rather vacuous problems with identity due to loss of his homeland. The title character is just shy of being an idiot savant, just shy of mental retardation, almost the antithesis of Humbert. Nabokov's diegesis strategies please me more than those of Joyce, despite the structuralist strains of the Russian who is nowhere and everywhere, European, dislocated, and an incisive critic of the Eisenhower Era. I am mad at myself for banking myself at Ulysses, all the same, as I am rereading Homer in blank verse and three other texts for every allusion I am highlighting and tracking, but if I want to play as an independent scholar with one or two bylines, then I need some familiarity with the grandmaster and his nonchalance on accessibility.

I should be sympathetic to it, given how much I hate those who cannot think outside the box, and I am, but gimmicks are gimmicks, whether the year is 1904, or 2004. Mitchell's book could not exist without derivatives, like Calvino, but his genius is more dynamic than that of the poverty driven gentility of Joyce. Mitchell wants me to work, but also expects that I will enter the narrative. Joyce seems to thrive on dissonance and obscurity and I curse his grave, comparisons to Sterne be damned. My sympathy for Irish pathos is lacking, precisely because it was all for nothing, and history is also written by those with the best propagada tools. Everyone knows what the IRA was, but most of you would draw a blank on those Italian anarchists targeted before the modern unification of the Italian Pennisula

Mechanical Stigmata

There is a passage, page 20 in the American print edition, where Broch's ruminations on the military uniform reasonably anticipate Foucault's pertinent observations about imposed controls on the body, toward a greater efficiency, in Discipline and Punish. Sheridan's translation is accessible, but understanding Foucault is a difficult task, though for me a necessary one, if my only weapon against state control is my intellect, or what remains of it. I am studied enough, however, to see in Michel a near brilliant thinker, who, like Nietzsche, succumbed to sexual death, presumably through sodomy, which, if you were Foucault, was the way to stick it to the bourgeois: be one of the first AIDS cases on French soil. Angry faggots not only make good fascists. They excel at the deconstruction of authoritarian regimes, implemented by state imposition or social pressure. I put the treatise aside for the time being, hoping The Foucault Reader would pave my way into a more accessible grasp of the man and the methodology, as if I could then take it and shove it up Debra Horne's ass. (She would be duly noting my belligerence here, but she cannot see herself that what she gets paid to do is assault  human dignity. I am not the only one with undercurrents.)

My considerable antagonism toward this woman is not personal in the sense that her humanity means anything to me, one way or another. She is a homily black woman with just enough pique about containment to infuriate. Since we have been adversaries, Debra, my wheels have been turning too lady.

I've heard, on the vine, that she once volunteered for Liberty. Fitting, given how much she has harassed me at Riverside, and harassed, and harassed, an archetype more or less, of the compliant patrician who sees that the mortuary receives its toe tagged corpse. Eventually we all give way before it. This inextricable combat going on twenty eight years of my life, the dog shit glistened in the early dark of my late food shopping dash yesterday, and I thought of how inspirational it was of my repugnance, how much I view her as a lard of screeching diarrhea. If I had the power to do so I would destroy Presby. Make no mistake relating to the depth, breadth, of my hatred for what in the Presbyterian sensibility constitutes good works. My country deserves to be hated for its contractual forms of repression. No longer do we fill out applications for Paratransit. A rehabilitation hospital bids on a contract to evaluate impaired or disabled public transit riders, and the ACLU and the sanctimonious progressives are worried about the sacred state of clit lickers and the rights of all of us to sicken and infect from the STD of our choice. More than anything else, the pretense of homosexual virtue makes me livid, because it is really a false issue, and not progress. Only a distraction, while we topple under the weight of our social structures, the complexity of our systems beginning to overwhelm, not simply indolent and linear minorities like Debra, but everyone, even the professional class, of which John, whom I am pondering now only as a wasted excess of dubious merit, is a rather dry example. He and I both came from working class families with some generational emigration, though I know very little of his actual history, I am assuming it is similar to the near lightning transformation between my Roman grandmother and myself. Meritocracy, presumably, has rewarded him, his partner and his support structures presumably better than mine. I was more of a victim of the life he led as a young man than a participant in it, and his dialogue is about nuances of teaching without being a dictator, and this is mine, getting banned from online communities, my crimes sometimes unknown, quite honestly. I do not know if Dana still moderates the Speakeasy, but she once told me my posts were powerful, and I understood what she meant, on one level; if they were that powerful, however, I would have had more control over my own autonomy. I have not made it to the DMV yet, and it will more than likely not be today, but after I get that finished I will start eating rust to hunt out the best contacts I have for that position that ignited that small spark toward remaining a human animal. It will not include this fading deity.

What drives my internal fury is what drives the continued currency of the legendary Dantes. I have seen, but not quite processed, Patricia Arquette in Stigmata. What we seem to demand of female actors when we contest them against the supernatural is interesting. What Polanski wanted of Farrow was to be out of her depth? Arquette is the troubled face of the rational believer, suffering in the pathway of tensile forces.

Leitourgos

I am a liberal Row-Ark. What I am not is a card carrying ACLU radical
-- Matthew McConaughey

Many people are turned off by Joyce's meta-textual efforts, myself included; the saga of Ireland's violins are wearisome, even if this is a callous modern sensibility, and makes me pea green, and thereby inducted, when I think of the money I spent. You do not want to know what I paid to become a patron of a small slice of Philadelphia's cultural history, but it is comparable to what a three credit course went for when I was a student. One among the group is a novelist, and he and I were the first two people in the room, generation divided, I read and typed notes on my kindle, and he had three huge books. Our exchanges were clipped, heightened, and I caution myself to remain passive and let the clover patriots indulge themselves. I am only there to contrast Joyce with Lampedusa and Proust and Broch, who I am slowly rereading, scribbling notes in the book. I did not know The Sleepwalkers was in the Modernist family when I bought the novel, and only remember the anarchist, with a strange jolt, a pang, as if his death was my loss. I am more familiar with Joyce than I let on, but harbor an ambivalent hostility (you gasp! no!). He is one of the greatest writers in the English language, but those Irish violins, the Troubles, the Celtic warriors who corrupted my Roman legions, I sigh... Perhaps the novelist is published, not play acting an amateur. We shall see, and I suppose I should reread Portrait and really make an effort and be a good girl; tis my money, but I think Joyce, and perhaps Marcel, were creating a secular liturgy, and that is my very simple defense of Ulysses and Finnigans Wake. Not sure I shall ever attempt the latter, though I cannot be definitive.

Hoping to get to the DMV today, but not positive. Partly the problem is the distance of the drive; the Septa routes are bothersome for such a short distance, but I do need to get the mug updated. If I hate PresbyHomes as much as I assert, I am not on an intracounty transfer list because I fail to see the point. Every other location is problematic, and I was on the suburban transfer list but DCCC HUD lost me. I can go as blue in the face as is survivable, but this doesn't change the fact that I have set myself up for trouble, barring charitable private property. For all the nerve it took me to write to Babette, getting an acknowledgement is elusive, which does not bode well for my late life cause of independent living center reforms; my public avatar and private sentiments are slowly merging, however, because I do believe that disability centers kill the disabled through incompetence, I really do.

This is the danger inherent in building managers like Trudy Richardson and her bulldog, Debra. They are handed power without the professionalism or training to handle it without violating the very civil liberties the ACLU holds dear, but the ACLU spikes a fever on fusion centers and their infringement of privacy, right of association, or sex, or fringe protest; if I was in Columbia having Marxist orgasms with trade unionists, I'd expect the FBI to have a hard on for my hard drive data. What compliance and case management are doing to our basic rights, however, never mind; it's an afterthought, like me, the scars I carry. The glare  Obama bored into Romney is my own, except the odds that my injustices will be rectified are virtually nil, and yes, it was in part my social fear, and the knowledge that the cruelty of my former employer destabilized me.

I worked last night during the debate, and I'm pushing my body beyond what is safe. Have a good one peepbles.

Did Robert Frost Have A Turkey Quota?

The Hope Zion family must band together to overcome the tragedy and move on to the next chapter of their lives-- a last episode caption.

The medical drama Saving Hope, in the plethora of medical dramas spiraling outward since the innovations of St. Elsewhere, which have yet to be matched by commercial productions, relies very heavily on its metaphysical gimmick, and in broader Hollywood terms, this gimmick, deployed left, right, and sideways, (as in the recently canceled Midnight Texas, which made a heroic effort to substantiate the grievance and perplexity of gender fluidity, failing rather like an anemic carnival) is a concession to the human insistence on spirituality. Michael Shanks simply doesn't have the range to play Dr. Kildare peeping in on the stairway to heaven, which may reflect way NBC shelved the series in its second season. As Charlie, Shanks is henpecked into his privileged information by these civil, more or less disconcerted human souls refracting in the distorted florescent lighting. The secondary reason the series bites the dust north of the border is because it's simply a bad emulation of the American scene. Joseph Iavarone's death at the hands of his neighbor's plug shot in my county of adolescence is a much more graphic representation of America on edge in its post-9/11 edge, and the CBC can never accurately embrace the cowboy and indian games we Americans play in our cancered suburban sectionalism. Why Hugh Laurie and David Strathairn can capture it in a deftly concentrated episode like "Lockdown" is a reflection of Laurie's ability not to fear his own cruelty and Strathairn's ability to condense gravity into on emotive weight at least equal to the force of a metric ton. This is how great acting conduits great dramatic moments, dying in the fusillade of life like a sligshot toward reincarnation that is never exactly the same, despite the bastardization of quantum mechanics onto the popular imagination via the witticisms of Brian Greene.

Elizabeth Banks, Bitch Unwitting

As directors, are the Guard brothers trying to emulate anyone in particular? With an actor of David Strathairn's caliber, you would think The Uninvited would have more ambitions than its twists, and the bets I made at the midpoint of the film were fairly accurate, though I was off an interstice about the extent of the protagonist's delusional state. Mental illness actually does have its own internal logic, though I did not pursue the counseling techniques therapists use to empty the candy dish. Emily Browning's near angelic naivete is almost a facade, but not quite. Insanity can alter superficial facial expressions, but it can also suck you into its own vortex. I had a client or two like the character Anna, sympathetic and even attractive women of whom I thought, "If they know I'm there for them, if I advocate hard enough, I can make their suffering stop," since I felt it as I felt my own. In other words, mental health contains this same dichotomies found in disabilities: there is mood disorder, there is mental illness, and then there is (more rarely) the sick sick, the insane like the Mildred Kemp of the movie, who provides the counter intuitive plot, which does not mean this was in any way particularly challenging, or genuinely horrific; there were seeds, however, grains within the jump cuts, that signaled there was an interesting story here, but no one involved had the stomach to reach harder for it.

I am rushing, as I need to sit down and make a schedule if I am going to make one last grand effort towards a stabilizing career as a senior, but I may return to this, and sweat my diction on the grindstone.

But Love The Cat

This is why my Vincent is a feline of infinite jest, my love ambivalent for my poor orphaned Egyptian panther, and he knows it too, that he is only my best boy once in a great while. Life is ironic enough, with or without fine arts.

Farrow's Generation

The angst I chew in Beckles is rising in prominence, and I know none of you know what to tell me, as only I know my growing physical weakness and remaining strength, but applying for this position would involve a great deal of work in and of itself, labor about which I cannot be too specific, but I would have to jump over many hurdles just to submit a competitive CV. If I do all that would I be strong enough? The question makes me want to split my skull for coconut juice, because the position truly interests me, and the very thought of fighting for it has inspired me with hope that I have not felt in a long time, but there are many issues involved, including my reading voice, which has suffered. Ebert has sustained catastrophic illness. So has gnostic man, who, if he ever mentioned my writing at all, would probably say I represent a safety net failure of unspeakable sadness, but their cases are different. These men are established, and I am a real jock cripple who has tasted what success could mean, but tragically never cemented my opportunity. If I go for broke, I will really have to break some eggs, and if I then get to an interview, I will need to be on, and I have never snorted coke.

Fuck, fuck, and to make a triple play, fuck.

Okay. I managed to get up to view this post RB Farrow vehicle, and let me make a quick observation before I return to burrow in later: A dirty little secret in the disabled community is that most of us want able-bodied lovers like Norman Eshley, which is why I did not let go of getting burned by Tassoni for a great length of time, or burning myself, not playing my cards properly. When I found his picture online, I had an Indian girl then, also an abuse victim, circa 2002. I squealed and blushed and did not see him as he was, a bald half assed jock academic who saved himself from being a punk through publishing on the finesse of his pedagogical concerns, no, I saw the only Italian American of my youth with whom I wanted to repopulate the Roman Empire, and my then Indian helper inflected her voice, "You really had a thing for this guy, huh?"

Yep, even if he suggested a label and then trotted off, not minding Faulkner's adage about the past not being the past.

In my brief scan of his abstract, my scurrilous lack of softened nostalgia burrows deeper, beyond the failings of my tie to him as an unrequited longing: I should have never believed that publishing papers such as his would have amounted to success. He himself was something of a jarring minimalist, as a writer, and I see traces of it in his jargon on interacting with his students as an instructor, much as my first person account of those years is just as poorly abstracted, though I do not toss the narrative because I still want certain parts of it, as a kind of personal mythos.

I want to write one or two academic articles on both Henry James and Italian Modernism, and then I am done; not sure I'd have much left after that, but since I am not an active or independent scholar, I am not sure I could meet the expectations of peer review, disadvantaged as I am.

Flesh Fair: Quest In the Design

Vladimir Nabokov uses a narrative framework similar, but upgraded, to that which Conrad developed with such success. It is an omniscient framework within a framework, like a boxed set of novels that make up a franchise, only on a smaller scale. It is a technique that opens Lolita with blaring trumpets, in the incident report which summarizes the death of all the parties involved. (You might be surprised to know that I do not own a copy of the novel extant, but for me this is not a must have addition to my personal library, not under the duress of my present circumstances. I'm hostile to it as a masterpiece for reasons I shall not tackle here.) It is also present, but in softer fashion, in the earlier title, The Luzhin Defense. I have not seen the film, nor am I ready to view it, though some brief capsule skims convey the disappointment of reviewers; nor am I going to discuss the novel in great detail, except to say that one of its major motifs seems to be that if humans do not search for transcendence in religion, or even divinity, we still search for it through mastery of patterns and formal structures, which is a dystopian subtext when we take up androids, cyborgs, and robots in science fiction, the crux of the matter coming down to a dichotomy between personhood and a set of programmed responses, like kimmy using her piglet self to lie down on the keyboard when cynical adoptive parent is on a roll. I wonder if she'll inadvertently reformat the HP for me. Sulking, she is snuggled with Vinnie on the Quantum, so adorable we should all just die and cede the field to felines, and this too cute moment makes me regret that I cannot join marshmallow heads and upload another 7 billion cat pictures online, and tongue ties me when I say "She's not Joey!" Joey was special in that marshmallow overweening sentiment so very and extraordinarily difficult  to define. He feared all ambulatory humans except those in wheelchairs, and suspect my aunt rushed him and his surviving sibling to me because something happened that instilled fear that left its imprint, at least on the deceased. Spielberg uses the same framework technique in A.I., almost, suggesting that in the end all we can hope for is that testament will survive, but this is an obdurate, romantic review of machine (and man) over the brutal realism of evolution before our eyes. What transforms particles into Being is beyond the scope of our own CPU's to understand, and I am highly skeptical that a mechanical device will ever evolve in the Darwinian sense, although I am less skeptical, and almost alarmed, that through mimicking microbiological processes, we will create artificial life. It scares me, as even cloning sheep and cows seems to create vulnerable immune systems as a residual effect of losing sexual division.

In mulling my quite exasperated conscience, I do not really want to explore the dark side of attendant care too much in this account, and Tim is better than much of the trash I've dealt with, past tense, but the system, designed toward de-institutionalization, is still a highly charged source of class conflict. Tim is basically a good man, and if I could walk, he would not exist for me, unless I was a paternalistic globe trotter like Niall Ferguson or Nicholas Kristof. Do those of you who can balance on the balls of your feet ever think about it? I have no organic sense of what it feels like. I accept it as a fact, our bipedalism, but I can feel my lungs expanding; I'm intimate with what it is to breathe. Walking was ever and only an approximation, and an exercise in pain, as indeed, is much of what mobility I do have.

Feline and Female

The foster child is mine now. Grumbling. She is my last cat, and I still cannot say it was right, but if I had given her back, Vinnie would have been depressed, and like a mother who cannot stand the guilt of loving the lesser son less, if I had been as realistic as I should have been, this guilt would have probably led to fresh psychiatric evaluations, involuntarily mandated rather than freely sought to allieviate. I need work people, technical support, and my ad banners.

I love cats more than anything, but I care about my ability to be good to them, and I am too haunted by losing them, and will never have Joey again. Tim, my helper off  the rolls, aims his barbs at me, particularly on ambitious days when I am wound hard and want him to come and go as rapidly as possible, but I do not sleep all day, an observation both he and my sister believe, in their exclusive views, is an accurate observation of my denial that pharmaceutical dependency would upgrade my outlook, and I'd kick his ass if I could, hers too. I have to get out of the chair to change my position. My legs swell and like many of his other clients, meaning he should know better, I have a pressure sore. If liberals don't meet these challenges, I am going to kick their asses through aligning myself with Krauthammer in the creation of the Militant Quad Party. And this is not all hyperbole, not entirely a barb of my own to stub progressives toes. I always have to bite my tongue, why? Because gay is now a gnostic spiritual quest, and blacks like Tim don't have my erudition. I have been impolitic myself with the fellow in the provision of free sociology lectures, but I am getting real tired, with celerity, of getting singled out for behavioral issues that are not symptoms of mental illness in and of themselves without factoring in the severity of my physical vulnerability. If I could find anyone else who would do the job and keep their mouths shut about my life, I would burn not a few minority views about wheelchair users, and fire him like a raging bull, to boot.

What I am attempting to emphasize here is not Timothy's prejudicial views as a passive and harried paraprofessional, or that my bigotry is virtuous, but that in certain respects, provincialism was beneficial to our species, and losing the bond of extended familial ties cannot be augmented by regulated social services. We speak nearly an entirely different language, Tim and I, even if he has the non threatening aspects coded in appropriately so that my trust is not too wary. I told him I was waiting for him to finish so that I could work on what I need to do to update my curriculum vitae, and he took this to mean I blamed him for my delay in filling out a job application. He has absolutely no idea what a cv is, what creating a professional paper trail looks like, and it is not that I do not understand; I understand perfectly, but also eschew liberalism's holy grail that diversity solves our problems. Was it necessarily a good thing that a private university accepted me, that my professors led me to believe I could become like them, on the one hand, while on the other the student body treated me like a foreign object?

The Beckles Projection

I had a busy, if virtual day, angling to see if I can return to the real world against young turks, such as this gent, if I indeed have enough left in my cognitive matrix to do so, since I am barely a goose with enough down left to hold myself up to a swan, and I was never a turk. In the convenience store, a young nerd said "here you go mamma," and of course I allowed it to glide, but it rankled. My mother was a mamma, a loose one, a lush, without the humor we tend to associate with the Wife of Bath, she opened her legs to the wrong people. So did I, come to think of it, without the magnitude of such reverberating damage to anyone other than myself, still with the mettle of the feckless, social media is not all that it is hyped to be, because I still like the weight of critical analysis as compared to typing "ooo how lovely!" to Ms. Farrow about her pictures. When it comes to Woody's behavior yes I have picked the side I am on, but as a matter of social equality, I have to get fusty with the forces of feminine domestication, and believe, especially in the West, that women have to "embrace their inner bitch" to quote Laurie in script, to operate in the alpha male world, and that we'd be better off engaging without overt lesbianism in the process. Do I expect secular academia to really take me back in the fold with that plank, nearly collapsed as it is? Am I for real? Not in terms of fire and brimstone epithets, no, but as an intellectual warning, yes.

My pleasures are few. One of them once was dragging my body into class with a spastic infantilism, my crutches splayed in the hallway, my breathing labored, gratefully pushing my buttocks back onto the sling seat of a metallic wheelchair frame long rusted into recycle, or landfill. Video rarely takes me out of my consciousness, sex never, good or bad, and I am probably past any point of abandon, and yes, I know abandon is ellusive for the healthy. Levels of practice and expertise are involved. It was like that when I took Paratransit to the Riverfront to see A.I. Bladder filled itself like a weakened rubber, most likely I wet myself in the studio when I returned, not a good day for wonder, or even to feel secure. After the Colorado shooting, reporters kept blaring that theatres were supposed to be a safe place for families, and those of you with relevant pair bondings, of which I am sometimes envious. I never felt that way, not safe, except when Kmac told my mother, the bungle of us screaming at Jaws popping out of the ocean, that "damn shark should run for president." She was wry in the closet. We're catching up with our fictions of science, the erosions of those boundaries, the autonomic, clinical coolness of a Spock, a Data, a Goren, a Sherlock Holmes. I always thought the organic androids from Alien were the most plausible. Should I have my DNA preserved, and come back without damaged brain tissue? Is that possible? 

The Thing Itself

I esteem William Hurt for his public reticence. I have never seen him do an interview on television about any of his films, neither on Charlie Rose nor other syndicated segment, and since my volubility manifests in stark contrast to his weighty pauses and force of expression, I am drawn to it, most of the time. In his earlier work, like Gorky Park, his emotional silences seem to matter less. In A.I. the existential focus of his character is as doomed as any other human social dynamic still in operation. Many of his roles involve definitions that viewers hope to draw on for assurance, only to find ourselves unfulfilled, a hanging chad being sucked into the void, as illuminated in films like The Plague, and Dark City. Very different narrative vehicles, but part and parcel of his presence being a misdirection that frustrates expectations. Doctor Hobby cannot resurrect his son, at the end of the day, and unintentionally creates more suffering, though I have always had trouble conceptualizing robots as truly anthropomorphic. Asimov sees robotic evolution as a rather frightening encroachment of paternalism, the ultimate case manager, determining the future of its creator; in essence, vanquishing the free will humanity once believed it had. Spielberg turns the tables on this, of course, and the meme becomes a bummer, to cull a contemporary reviewer's term.

To undercut my objectivity, as I usually do, I was forced to forfeit my entire day for the sake of cat food supplies, since my order had not shipped, and I grew agitated because I am still not fully adapted to a secure transfer to the Quantum model chair, which is why I rarely use it, although I know I need to change this strategy. Most of you do not know how low I can get on bad days, in part because I grew ashamed of the depth of my anguish in public, and do not want to dredge it up, and I myself do not like reading depressed women crying out and then getting advised by half the damn country on the brand name half the damn country is using, and yet, like an insane idiot, I am afraid of not having the cats to take away what would have been quality writing time if I did not have to charge and then frantically get to the nearest outlet. I am almost far gone enough to roll myself on the nearest Amtrak and get off somewhere in Rhode Island. I have no idea what this would achieve-- if in fact such an impetus is just another way of giving up and letting society cage me now, as opposed to five years down the road; even if I do leave Presby, this is not a magic charm. Nothing would change. I'd still need to be compliant with the categorization of my status of a nursing home candidate. Of course, I will kick my attitude about the bush after some sleep.

Subjective Innocence

Spielberg's A.I. is also an allegorical indictment of liberalism, whether the limpid blockbuster director intended it as such, or not. The denouement of the film was a failure, and Haley Joel Osment's rise as a child star marked my own denouement as a movie viewer on the traditional big screen, as The Sixth Sense and A.I. bookend the last gasp of any positive outlook I attempted to cling to as I entered my fortieth decade. I had previously bookmarked the film in my head as one relevant for my purposes, but it is on my local UHL this afternoon, as it happens, so I might as well refresh myself on the poignancy of human loss which Spielberg highlights, even as humanity faces cessation.

I decided to put in my adoption papers for kimmy, after a lengthy and weary self-argument; in the balance, my despair juxtaposed against economic rationalism. I fear not keeping pets more than my need to reduce expenses, whether or not this means I have purchased my social ostracization as valid because I am, ipso facto, unbalanced; it is more and less than this, however, in that I have losses too, and my only real defense against this, is Jerry's old maxim, via Heidegger, to "focus on the things themselves," and so now I will study Joan of Arc. I used this poor woman of Lorraine as a faulty symbol in my quite desperate poem I wrote about Linda and the ideology, called "My Patron Saint".

(I understood why I wrote the poem; it was a desperate lunge against my impending financial ruin, and in the back of my mind, even then, my subconscious was warning me that I trusted this former supervisor at my peril. I should have never shown her my work, ever, among other things).

I toy with the idea of revising it, savagely. Right now I need coffee, and breakfast.

Glowering Embers

Because the end is just too hard to take.-- Gordon Lightfoot

Not everything has to have Shakespearean elevation, and though a body may understand Ewan McGregor's appeal, The Island, which glimmers in its opening with such potential, pissed me off so badly I'm taking a break. Everything in Hollywood devolves into a fucking LA freeway disaster, and I want absolutely nothing more to do with Michael Bay's fear of taking chances with real moral implications. Spielberg and Lucas, whatever else may be said, at least know how to aspire, though I am eased that I found my dates. I idiotically adopted little kimmy in 12, her age an estimated nine months. She kept little Vincento alive three -- no, four-- years. She objects to my emotional distance and insists I love her, but my heart is already a dwarf star on the event horizon. What the problem is with Johansson in a dramaturgical context eludes me, at the present time.

Dame Edith Evans

The Whisperers (1967) is just as schematic as comparable stateside films, but being British, it is better, and highly prescient, given our current geriatric demographics. This is a reminder that what Evans achieves in this role will come into play, juxtaposed against contemporary films as well, but not On Golden Pond. I have an antithetical relationship to Jane Fonda's on screen chameleon, to paraphrase what she told Charlie Rose. Ironically, I related more to that self-inflicted dig than anything else that came out of her mouth during her controversial reign as America's pussy Communist. (Ouch) 

And Measures Forgotten

Little Vincento was disgruntled to find that his prey had vanished so quickly, to continue on from yesterday. This is the advantage of a diverse variety of medical tools and saving ragged bits of cloth. I did not touch the mouse carcass, nor did my reacher, though I rinsed the claw off after I rolled the deceased like a cigar, deposited to the trash, as I might have done with Joey after he passed, and saved on my blood guilt but did not, and did the pedestrian thing, and it is done now in any case. Vinnie, more vicious than his sibling, extinguishes life quickly.

Judith Schwartz was on NPR yesterday, discussing hospice and end of life choices, and to me she sounded quite angry without necessarily being aware that she sounded that way, but her interview points to what I have been critiquing on the American left: We are processing our existence in such a way that it is bizarre and nearly inhumane, making me believe that elimination is in certain cases the best solution. Yes, that is scary, and possibly sucks, but life is not precious. That is only the cry of self-interest, of privilege, or in my case, the ambitious lack of it. I know, I know, senior housing is better than the horrors I have seen, I have computers, a television, and after nearly losing my life myself due to angry and crippled homosexuals threatening our parent company the way I am threatening that company now, I have two power chairs, minus nearly six thousand dollars of my savings, and cats. I do not have it so bad, but did, and have no guarantee that it will not get substantially worse for me very quickly. It may or may not, but my entire life has been managed, brutalized medically, and what, at fifty, rolling down that biological hill, do I have to show for it? Bylines, violins, drooling and barely literate fiance who was not to be below me in his hospital bed, who is managed so much more, giving case managers and angry minority men a salary, or a wage.

I am tired, my friends, and this class on Joyce was not the answer. No, it is not the fault of the young instructor Lance, and I will make an effort to make the best of it, build a bibliography, struggle to write a thankless but respectable essay or two, plodding.

I am also studying Measure for Measure again on my own; it is one of my favorite plays, difficult, Duke Vincentio's escapism difficult to fathom, Lucio's incendiary tongue less so perhaps, but still mysterious. I missed a production in Germantown it would have been interesting to see, but I did not want to go by myself by bus, and at the time, I did not think of querying Ed.

I am going to try to go to Joe's, late as it is, and will continue this thread later.

Measured Proletarian Treads

My efforts were more vain than insouciant this morning, trying to coax the old charger prong to stay still, connecting to the now ten year old diode, and I struggled for 45 minutes, gave up, pleased that the old kindle ceased crashing, for which I blame my foster child. She gnaws; she is not Joey, and poor aunt is sick from her battle with the little stray; in one of my compartments, Marie is blamed for my dead cats perched on my shoulder. Trust me. You do not have to ridicule me for my love and anxious stress and three thousand fucking dollars blown on a tonka fluffy grey baby boy. I sufficiently ridicule and beat myself, and hope my fucking pedestrian suburban family respects my wishes when the time comes and buries his ashes with me. I struggle not to condemn his little brother to an early euthanasia in the washing my hands of any further feline responsibility, and I repress being furious with my tea cup jaguar for the damage of her canines. Occasionally, she purrs on my chest, and is gradually becoming more attached, but my grief bleeds and it will not clot any time soon. Speaking of which, little Vincento caught a mouse from beneath the radiator, growling as his brother used to, so I knew, and don't care that when he kills it, if it is murdered in view, I will have to dispose of the rodent. kimmy seems excited and wants to share the catch. I could not do food shopping today, pondering the money I spent on this Joyce group and why I spent it, understanding my father's approbation, but wondering if I am indeed insane, rolling home with a gimp, woman about my age, who enrolled from Camden; I did not realize there were any whites left in that city, reminding myself that I cannot sit next to Lance next month when we meet again. I can hear better if I sit across from him. I told the woman my corner wondering if that was wise even as I spoke, but I was off my game last Saturday, disengaged, almost a month to fill myself in, Google Books is helping. A light turned on for a TNR column in their voice, similar to Leon's, had my rhythm but had to leave the chair, and hope I can find it again, not quite sharing his pessimism about writers and content in the digital age other than as it pertains to my declining future; if by some miracle of a Jewish wonk leaf curdle they ever take a piece from me, it won't change squat, or launch me like it did Jeffrey Toobin. The independent press might kiss my ass for a short while like they did when I earned my big local byline in 05. I am drowning, and it makes no difference, does it?

"In periods of difficulty and at special times of the year, the Greeks nominated a scapegoat – a cripple or beggar – who was stoned and then cast out of the community to suffer in the wilderness on its behalf."
Jenny Diski, Tragedy's decline and fall, New Statesman

Fallen Woman: Corollary

I thought of another interlocking subtext, one which I have skirted around, and highlight here, briefly: As different as the fifties and the eighties were from each other, the establishment media takes the prerogative upon itself to assume that an actor's opinion about real events has some sort of validity for the public. Susan Hayward's assessment of Barbara Graham's innocence or lack thereof was solicited, just as, after the attempted assassination of Reagan, I do not think it much of an exaggeration to say that Jodie Foster was virtually assaulted by the press. I remember all this vividly, ignorant at the time of Taxi Driver's full impact. I have stated my sympathy for my talented contemporary, but I think there is something deeper going on here, perhaps a Puritan indictment of theatricality?

La Vongola

This was Joyce before he was Joyce, Lance Walhert, Ulysses instructor.

Susan Hayward certainly fits the part she was to play as Barbara Graham, and I Want to Live! represents a superb movie conflagration, with the Mann Act representing a continuous growth, from the Jazz Age of Fitzgerald, encapsulated by Warren Beatty, with varying degrees of success (cf The Fortune with Stockard Channing), carrying us through the Depression with a more hale Spencer Tracy escaping certain darkness, to the regulation of womens' make up and attire during the war years, well examined in feminist studies, and perhaps relevant even today, with Nicholas Kristof's ever omnipresent guilt tripping our suffering against the animal tripping third world. I list his wife's documentary to raise the interrogative possibility of helping these girls with a McCarthyesque law that everyone feels, intuitively, as sinister, but might be used to decrease trafficking? I am also a little sore with the almighty liberal, as he followed me on twitter using his other account on my other account for less than two days, and brother man, my admissions of bigotry does not mean I do not have relevant arguments, and perhaps not one to be dismissed so readily. You are a big enough brand that the boost helped my esteem. He can tackle vultures stalking starving children in the Sudan, but a struggling disability journalist dying on her own lung fluids and her own abuse from the left, ah, Nicholas won't absorb that, merci vous! I think he is still on my list, but I have not checked recently. Do I care?

How authentic Hayward's Graham is remains open to question. If Barbara was arrested in the process of coitus interruptus with her gang, this is somewhat less than sympathetic, but Hayward seems merely to imprint her own brassy attributes onto her parts. Again, having a telegenic command is an intangible, difficult to penetrate, but it can obscure the truth and the nature of complicity, even if it represents an ongoing conversation with a more brutal narrative, like Monster.

Joyce started this process of interlocking roots, along with his dialectical rival. The effort I took, getting up, getting to the class, gnashing my teeth, getting what I expected in a young post graduate and a cluster of ethnic plebeians, deferring to him with awe, knocked me out, took me all day, not that I claim to be more erudite, but I could have done this study without an analytical boy wonder who seemingly handled me with diffidence. I am really really ill, more so than I have realized in quite some time, living on light roast hot coffee, toast, a constantly upgraded temperature, and an inflammation that expectorants no longer ease, entirely. One use of phrasing where Lance and I would disagree is what Joyce achieved, if I heard the man correctly. Ulysses does not push realism to its limits, so much as linguistic intricacy, which makes being versed in the work of James seem like prep school.

It begins with Dubliners, which indicts authority and progressive modalities alike, exposing the limits of imperialism, the tunnel vision of ethnic unity under which we're all bound, suffocating in it, the brutality of caste, whether it leads to the loss of control in a hot toddy, or inhaling your own asphyxiation in cyanide, with all its complex and complimentary flavors

Fangs Pristine

"And what about children?"-- Charlie Rose, grinning and bearing

Charlie's question to the intrepid and often glib Andrew, last time I watched these two successful media personalities engage, can be considered both hostile and inclusive, or either one or the other, hostile along one line of interpretation, that an HIV positive Briton and his partner should be considered viable parents, immune from state concern for the health of children, or inclusive because Charlie himself is Europeanized, often too facile not to leave doubt in the wake of his interrogations.

Why am I unfair to Mr. Sullivan when he tried an empathetic response? He is not Josie Byzek, or Erik, or Jimmi, who has an innate social fear of me now. The unkindness comes from my innate sense that like the homosexuals I knew, Andrew is a hypocrite, and there must be some folly with his sexual practices that infected him with AIDS. Where is the conservation in that? Secondly, condescending pity earns my umbrage, applied equally across the board. Egalitarian treatment for gay monogamy may be a persuasive argument for progressive logic, but it papers over significant triggers. Pedestrian repressions are going to implode in their faces, and there will be the usual questions about how could this happen?

Here is his screen shot:

Amtrak lights

Scorepad

Now that liberals are frustrated, cooler heads might remember that Obama was not always on point during the 08 primaries, and Dick Polman once laid in on Obama during the primaries with Clinton, in his appearance on Charlie Rose. I am an agnostic either way. If Romney squeaks by, things get harder for me, not easier, towards the end of his first term. Should the President prevail, then I am stuck with the status quo, minority entitlement indignation. I also think the embattled boy wonder did not do all that badly, to the extent I seriously paid any attention. I happen to agree with David Brooks on his critique of the 47% that disability entitlement creates a culture of dependency, and I'd add to that, entrapment, but what I'd argue with conservative think tanks is why they do not invest money in technical flexibility so that those of us who still have cognitive ability and capacity can engage. American Paratransit systems, transportation infrastructure, is deplorable, for one, outside of the DC metro in the federal district. If the right would give me answers, as opposed to pity, I'd be in their column, and Niall, some of your shine has diminished, as I prefer independence to partisanship, and the last time I looked, you're British, and we fought a revolution to get what is now the Commonwealth out of our internal affairs? (OMG, does this mean he doesn't turn spastic on anymore?) My jury is in sequester on that.

Soloist Rational Phobias

And who, she sometimes secretly asked herself, wasn't stupid?
__Henry James, The Wings of the Dove, kindle location 1476-79

I am debating not watching the presidential debate this evening; nothing Romney could say would reconcile me to him as a scion of a cult which has a dark, unpleasant history, and yet, naming Joseph Smith for what he is hurts the feelings of the true believers, and Barack is not going to do anything I have not seen him do, faltering or not, since his days as upstart. Neither man has a real vision for the country which mitigates my disillusion with American liberty. It does not exist for me, and is slowly ceasing to exist for anyone else.

Again, writers such as David Mitchell were ahead of the curve, and the power is shifting away from national sovereignty to corporate governance. It may not be Google or Amazon, and it certainly will not be Facebook, but I agree with Mitchell's vision that we will cede ourselves to a few global monopolies before we collapse, whether due to an EMP disaster, or coprophagia, my personal favorite, which I see in our last days as a matter of course. Solely as a matter of logic then, I should support gay rights as I once used to. My revulsion changes nothing, and the Obama generation reflects a new reality, and if a rollback is not going to happen, why do I see homophobia as valid? There is no real plausible issue with oral erotic stimulation, or sodomy versus traditional intercourse, not as an abstract matter.

Homosexuality on a conceptually level playing field, is evil for reasons that have nothing to do with conservative religious tenants, because sexual liberalism can create a blinding self indulgence, and the risk of trauma, too prevalent. As an iteration, and continuous retreading, I have not yet compiled my data to really weigh in on the problematic issues surrounding sexual orientation, and I have been in the blogosphere, with my voice hindered due to lack of resources, and a frustration with computer literacy, for two years now, but we'll get there, as long as I can maintain access. I was, after all, traumatized to the point of serious doubt, if not conversion, and the issue is complex, regardless of my recoil. My goal? It may not matter, as my lung function is in significant decline, but I will get through my main points first, on a case by case basis, as my remaining vigor allows.

More Rainy Glimpses

I was going to frump off, retire with my kindle, weigh making a facetious comment about incorporating a partnership with @PhillyEBooks (waves), but then caught a small, oscillating surge, and decided to have my dining coffee with you. This is my last cup of coffee for the evening, trying to listen to Jeffrey Brown and remember what I want to write at the same time, but I just shut the news off. Listening to ourselves talk on television can fray sensory input as badly as surfing does sometimes. The one thing we all do well, the literate, the less so, the gang banger, Islamic terrorist and or their supporters who utilize rhetoric to radicalize, is talk. Listening is another matter, as is controlling our own narrative. Everyone wants to tell me what to do. Lesbians who I tried to engage with social equality want to tell me who I can, and cannot date, and then slide the therapy tray through the slot in my jail cell; the Presbyterians want to regulate my housekeeping and go back to interpersonal conflicts with attendants. Some people in this building, like my ex, like Erik, are nearly married to the minorities who just barely keep them out of nursing homes, and this is the situation I will find myself in once again very soon, which compels my urgency for a fresh environment. My father's sister too, has earned her rights as a matriarchal dictator, and we spent the afternoon arguing loudly about why I cannot collect my mother's payroll taxes into her Social Security. I can't, this used to be my job, and the qualifying systems are different for the benefits that SSA administers. A slightly known secret is that Italians can hate each other the most, and you may picture me raising my hand in affirmation.

Richie, if you happen to surf by my account on blogger, I love you and your mother and remember what you told me some years ago about leaving her alone. Well, you may consider this my come-uppance. Tua madre is driving me crazy.

When I wrote the first glimpse earlier, in September, I wanted to do something I rarely do in blogging, and talk about my writing, and I wanted to combine this in a more elegant fashion with listening to Jeremy Irons-- Tavis too, as I was interested to note the gravelly interviewer say he hated his voice, and then I lost the thread of what I wanted to do because I was actually defecating dangerously, and thought I was on the verge of a cardiac event. For an unemployed poet-journalist, whose lack of structure creates the boredom and illusion of endless time, battling the urgency of my vulnerability, my actual work suffers egregiously, including the medical article which is a distorted refraction in the cloud of my aging neurons. I did something stupid, or daring, depending on which way you look at it, and purchased a course on Ulysses, and I rather hate Irish literature, although my entire adult life has been built around Jerry, this unfortunate fellow is spastic's interpersonal mythology, and sometimes I hate myself over it. I used to dream that he and John would come to get me, rescue me, resolve things, and in a miracle of biology I would slap John Tassoni violently across his face, like a Joan Crawford, in my own soap opera, and Jerry would say something cutting, sardonic, relieving the tension.

Google crushed this little psychological comfort of mine. I'd flee either man now, literally. I never saw myself on the inside of status culture, like Rowling, but I also did not see myself as a lifelong and doomed ward of the state. We'll pick up on my work another day.

Abrams' Mulligan

I stopped watching Lost because Americans are not quite so interactively advanced, just yet, for that kind of entertainment. In catching the last few episodes, since it was an off air event, I could not help laughing at ABC's running captions, trying to fill all of us in on the story, and yes, I get it: no one is to blame, human civilization is incomprehensible no matter how many scholars plug orifices, and yet, we all still want our metaphysics, spoon fed. I am watching Revolution because, unlike Patrick Stewart OBE, I have not paid for cable since 1997, which is why the gay community thinks I am a straight jacket poster child. Or is that black case management ineptitude? Am I a real racist, really? Come on! We'll talk about it.

Note to Literature Fool : You scored today babe, love ya for Laszlo.

Two hours until revenge of the Others, no garage sublets there for power chair spastics; have to rest pressure sore or I die.