All in the Family

"We could just keep quiet about it."--the Attenborough version

I do not know if Google would remove my account if I was exceedingly blunt, or honestly cut to the chase, as quadriplegia does not excuse illegal incitement, but I am worn out with swallowing what I have allowed myself to swallow, taking it year after year, from one form of institutional horror to another, to Medicare dictating the terms of my quality of life when I was younger and stronger, my acumen and intelligence deserving better. It is a rare investigative journalist indeed who examines Medicare and Medicaid in terms of allocation and delivery of service; our old world cultural bastion deserves credit for its in depth look at dialysis, but I can't remember the last time Paul Krugman turned his radical liberalism to the heart breaking reality of the limitations imposed by socialized medicine, not within the scope of his intellectual pretensions; he may be the smartest New York Times economist on campus, but that would change considerably if a stroke paralyzed him and he was traumatized by minority paraprofessionals, perhaps even humiliated by his peers, academics in whom he trusted.

I am not the first person to wish ill on a former superior, and I won't be the last, but my anger primarily stems from the knowledge that disability centers are segregated obscenities, and Linda Dezenski, involved in one law suit after another, remains there as a titular second in command. In a real corporate climate she would have been forced out of power, and there lies my anger. She created a hostile environment for me which compromised the supports I needed. Statue of limitations long gone. Sorry. Mixed race aide wants to make love to me, another swindles me and their supervisors say don't press charges, we'll repair it, and I just wind up being another profit margin, while the minorities who manage my building for the company want to put me away, shift the burden. There has to be a smart attorney out there who can see my adult life has been a living land mine and can adjudicate justice for it. Linda would tell you her side, that she did not mean it, that I displayed considerable anxiety; I was emotional. She acted without thinking and attempted to reflect my concerns, but she broke the law, needs to be removed, and my suffering needs to be acknowledged, served as an illustration that compliance paradigms can do more harm than good. When people lose faith in the system, crime statistics rise. She may have removed her digital footprint, but I'll refrain from speculation.

I am virtually helpless, but if I have to die with all this swept aside because I am inconsequential, then our civilization doesn't really amount to anything.

Linda Ronstadt's Parkinson's was the luck of the draw, ended the normative comeback cycles for recording artists on the downward curve of the apex. I treated her as an afterthought, not realizing she is still out there, stoic and less of a point man than Michael, not as flamboyant; I am considering purchasing her memoir out of commiseration, because she is of my time and I understand the period in which she gained recognition, but I do not actually care about her duet with Smokey Robinson.

The nihilist sniggers, wondering if I should teach you how to steal without getting yourself sued for plagiarism  I am considering it myself, taking an idea from an author never read, and writing a horrific tale of graphic precision, daring to get it published, as I am doing with my inner city attacker. Producing from the heart of a searing and authentic vision is difficult, the difference that divides canonical authors from the mediocre and the offering of platitudes.