Wheelchair Basketball

Not a day passes over the earth, but men and women of no note do great deeds, speak great words, and suffer noble sorrows. Of these obscure heroes, philosophers, and martyrs, the greater part will never be known till that hour, when many that are great shall be small, and the small great; but of others the world's knowledge may be said to sleep: their lives and characters lie hidden from nations in the annals that record them. The general reader cannot feel them, they are presented so curtly and coldly: they are not like breathing stories appealing to his heart, but little historic hail-stones striking him but to glance off his bosom: nor can he understand them; for epitomes are not narratives, as skeletons are not human figures.--Charles Reade, The Cloister and the Hearth

Ah Charles, the five minutes to midnight conservative psychiatrist to whom I've edged ideologically closer. I could be making coffee, nursing my monoxide inflicted lungs, eating my Snickers bar watching the younger Alec Baldwin before his unseemly disgrace put grappling hooks on the God complex, and instead I am asking myself why European Antisemitism is necessarily a congenital defect. For you, apocalyptic scenarios are easy because everyone apparently has it in for the descendants of the Hebrews. It is a polite matter of degree: The Catholic Protestant West forced conversions, and then it tried Fascism, and the East, having lost Constantinople a long time ago, never got its chance at global dominion, so here we are, doomed in the modern world because of Resolution 181 and Albert Einstein's unwillingness to hose nuclear technology off his sidewalk when he was teased, and the Persians are more wily than we expected.

The Iraqi state might have fallen to the Shi'ite minority without the considerable interference of the Bush family of course, and Jimmy Carter could have taken a page from his brother and supported SAVAK with our considerable American resources. How is the contemporary Revolutionary Guard any different? But Mohammad Reza Shah Pahlavi died somewhere in exile after being treated for cancer. History being what it is, you're goading Obama, who is basically out of gas, or scolding Hillary, should she win and give her husband a third term, but simply as a matter of geopolitical reality, the modern state of Israel cannot survive into perpetuity on the guarantee of the US military, but beneath these macro niceties, la bonne docteur, lie the petty details of what makes people what they become. History isn't made by analysts, but by backlashes, and paradigm shifts, misery and discontent, reactions against the status quot.

I am not winning any popularity contests on Blogger with some of my posts, my clever veiled strategisms to admit.to belligerent attitudes after a lifetime spent as a discarded lab animal. but the Holocaust isn't going to repeat along the lines of Auschwitz due to the imposition of post-war borders. The petrol states fuel extremism to shield wealth and privilege, and Americans then wonder about fractious Arabic peoples like puppies dumbfounded by a coiled newspaper. I've branded myself as a bigot, to use a softer term this evening, because a good chunk of my prime career years have wafted up in smoke due to disingenuous assurances, duplicity, prevarication, lack of caution around caviler Jewish princesses, and if I was still physically resilient enough, perhaps virulence wouldn't have taken a toll on the ability to rebound.  

Remonstration from the graveyard has minuscule reverberations, but humanity will not yield to the destructiveness of its nuclear capability, despite my lack of optimism from my simian bleachers. It is too simple, but the recognition that a Jewish state with an exceptional covenant is a contradiction in terms is not. Another thousand years, demographics will prove that point. 

Bakery Frosting

Dick Polman's 2010 article in Obituary Magazine castigating Hitchcock's Psycho at 50 was fair, perceptive in view. I do not think Judith Rossner's Looking For Mr. Goodbar would have been possible without the reverberation of the first slasher movie on camera, but I also cannot find an archive version of Polman's piece for reference, and Dick has no reason to help me out, nor twitter as a whole, despite my pleading. 

Polman was one of the first journalists I read on Blogger, and if I wanted to be that kind of introverted groupie, I could drive to University of Pennsylvania's campus and attempt to place my disenfranchisement in his path, but I was never that far gone for our locally grown national analyst; drifted away from him, not from any distinct animus, not in terms of ideology, though his entirely wasted opinion about Romney and the sect that stuck in Utah provides a good indicator of my waning enthusiasm, with some exceptions, his byline in Obituary being one. I could scold and say "Dick, by the time I get to the library guide to periodicals." Or just be myself and say Dick can you help an old woman out? Unlike Scorsese, who can teach us about what Hitchcock was doing with Janet Leigh in terms of artistry, Dick does not like the legacy of Psycho's impact, which some critics suggest Hitchcock himself attempted to address with the later and even more chilling Frenzy, circa 1972. The opening rape strangulation in Frenzy was a vivid remonstrance of my childhood, and I did not need ThisTV to remind me that British pathology can be just as pernicious, and far worse than Jason in a hockey mask.

Hitchcock, however, is an unabashed structuralist, Polman's grasp of the culture shock in Psycho's wake notwithstanding.. What came after also got messier, and I believe Richard Brooks tried to take his cue from this in Goodbar's climax, which, if the filter is correctly applied, might be seen as Rossner's argument against Hitchcock's stark, manipulative fantasy sacrifice, and not simply in terms of Theresa's masochism goading her into her dangerous liaisons and lack of caution. Rossner's work begins the process of de-glamorizing pathological misogyny which Hitchcock consistently elevated, and Spielberg parodies with devastating irony in his use of Jude Law as the automaton which may not even know it is innocent of our fascination with murder of women in A.I. Law's Gigolo parody is an enhanced version of of the chameleon he plays in Music From Another Room, the Clinton era touchy feelly romance of manner which has not sold me, yet none the less wrestles a rebuttal against too much of a sweet tooth for dandies.

What I feel about Andrew Sullivan's departure as an online columnist, now, is contempt. He deserves credit for pushing back against LBGT militancy to silence hostile and trauma- considered it persons such as myself--but he is in part responsible for this path where the inclusion and destigmatizing of every form of conduct will ultimately be our own undoing. I'd like to see Andy take on the corruption of activists like Erik von Schmettering and Jimmi Shrode. If I had the dexterity I could make a best seller writing a title like Faggot Wars.

Fossilized Valor

Looking For Mr. Goodbar has to be studied when it is passed around on the small screen, as there is little other way to view it in the present tense. I cannot compete with Ebert's pique at Richard Brooks. I was too young, and though my mother let me into a hedonistic and disturbingly subversive world as a tantrum throwing evil coming of age tyrant I was (Milkman and his passive mother in Morrison's daddy novel imprinted on my psyche in a bad way: I was too young for Solomon even though my rereading of the novel was immediate and intense as an upperclassman), she kept the gate closed on Judith Rossner, with good reason, as I am now haunted by Theresa Dunn, I knew Goodbar as a cultural marker in my younger days, but wasn't literate as to what these markers truly entailed, and now that I am, I have to go back and read the novel. Brooks may have distorted Rossner's story, but the masochistic elements remain, a rotten egg transliterating anger into bad behavior, even if Keaton does obscure Theresa's more destructive triggers: Did I self-consciously want to die when I defied my father and Jerry, my surrogate authority figure who abandoned me (!), according to my inner child (I knew he didn't but my solution to this emotional need to cleave to this Irish Shakespearean was to flee, and no, I am not over it, though he looks like Gandalf today and I am Roseanne Barr who cannot afford veneers) and moved into the inner city?

I almost succeeded. And it takes a great deal of courage to look as closely and boldly as Rossner did in her investigation. She opened the flood gates, with nary a closure in sight. For myself, I may have the courage, but was never a long form fiction writer. My story that fictionalizes my assault is stark, and highly prejudicial. A former farmer friend named Jack suggested "I tone it down," and did, but I let the main character have my anger, and run with it. My conceptualization of its arc is the most difficult literary motif I've ever envisioned.

Vincent Likes The Bed Making Game

All this scar tissue bubbling over the loss of simple plastic tube technology, but the Aero filled in the gaps from the e-vapes, and I became dependent on both cigarette technologies to keep me away from traditional tobacco. Vuse is nice, and I am switching over to it from blu cigs, but the Aero simply worked for me, and I cannot back slide back into 3 packs a day. My lung decline is too advanced, aside from the children I must soon give up, unless the sliver of my mind left still convinced of my tragic mental acuity can pull a stroke of genius out of my life long location misery. Tony Stiles is the most recognized libertarian following me on twitter. I took a few days to digest this, think about it, schedule a slot to listen to his broadcast, or flag my time to do so, at some point, but let me say this: The one thing we all know is if you break your leg, you can no longer run the Olympic marathon. Liberals out of sympathy create the Paralympics so the gimps can imitate what they once were, and a conservative might say amputation is the better part of valor-- so, there are politics around these broken bodies, and my desire to get out of Riverside Presbyterian is not a denial of the fact that I'm over 50 but a recognition of it: I want the housing authorities to stop criminalizing my limitations and I want to decline without constantly being threatened by Protestants modeling me on their "good works" doctrine (through terrorizing me for 30 years, that will do it), first under Caucasian hypocrites, then under black liberation theology, which has its own pretensions that personal responsibility burrows over African psychopathy. Like Stacy Head, I know it doesn't, but unlike Stacy Head, I am unapologetically racist.  Philadelphia's minority majority encrypted that codex for me, and the city of New Orleans is a disease I am buoyed not to know, just as sibling frictions are complex. I apologized to my sister for going overboard with her in 2007. My life was in jeopardy, seriously, and I lost it, but this isn't to recognize simmering resentments.

Stephanie married badly, and her husband is placid but also white trash, and having four children in rapid succession dampened her aspirations. What they were I can no longer say, since she enrolls in college, drops out, takes a nursing degree but has to end her career for the sake of the husband. In her book, I have unenviable freedom, and we both accuse each other that these are the lives we made. I know I need technology I can no longer afford to stay independent. Christ knows I've grown old with militants like Cassie James frightening people and my former editor Josie Byzek preaching catechism to the choir, but I'm of an age where I make the decisions: look at how many layers of government direct how we live our lives, SSA, HUD, the VA, the IRS, and the favorite of drug dealers, public welfare. This is why I spent my childhood under the knife, so that I could provide a house nigger like Trudy Richardson a job telling senile people how to handle their ovens in a kitchenette. This is it, that's all I am, a problem that justifies her salary while I was doing home economics before she was born, in rehabs, when I was fourteen. Freedom is making the bed on my time, thank you, and saying let me go when it it time instead of medically torturing me back into bed ridden containment. I've considered accessing 4 chan to help me get out, even for a short time. I know it is a risk, but this is how much I want to breathe without regulatory dictation at my back, though it could be too late, could be.

Absence of Forfeiture

And then I get angry and make the fucking bed by myself, angry because Karina suggested we could live together and hastily retracted the idea, angry at my sister with her I have everything but nothing woe is me attitude,making the bed a form of fighting back, though my sister and the Presbys would not know this, that I can do a great deal, how zealously fucking strong I am, but rage will not sustain me forever. This was exercise this evening, getting the bed spread on, Vinnie happy and swatting. 

If I had taken out a mortgage when I was with Matrix I would have been and gone through foreclosure, as opposed to Presby threatening me with lease violation this and threat of eviction that, like an earthquake and tidal wave, me and this company. What they fear about actually kicking me out is obscure to me, as my lease violations are contiguous, and I want out and what judge is going to care about my civil liberties and the shit the building owners get off with is beyond me. I have started to roar, however, and thrown down my hand, and cannot pretend we're not at an impasse, without any innovative way ahead: I want nothing more to do with 811/202 housing, racking my brains, but I'm dozing off.

The standards of Sierra Leone

This is undoubtedly a bogus account, either malicious or not adept enough at evading social media security apparatus, another bad link which I clicked,and I followed it first, and remember doing so, motive unfathomable, fighting my major recurrent depression. Reconciliation with Stephanie, my sister, is moot. I lashed out at her in poor form in 2007 during the nearly lethal building renovations imposed on every Riverside Presbyterian resident at Erik and Jimmi's insistence. Residents perished during this event, and my mental health hit a dead end. I screamed at Stephanie and called her a cunt in front of Frankie and it was an unforgivable breach of conduct, regardless of her narcissism. I've never gotten past it, but Stephanie and myself will never sheath our weapons of destruction. She wants me to accept that I need to depend on racist West African emigrants for my care who treat me with Francophile ingrained disgust. "Try to control it," in her heavily accented English. She meant my incontinence, and was gone in about three days, did next to nothing toward my personal care, and this is why I'm criminalized, because it will repeat itself over and over until I am forced back into a nursing home facility. Mary, mother's sister, would not succeed in such a forced interpersonal relation with the poorest Africans on the planet, and neither would Stephanie, for that matter, but I have to, because I can't meet ambulatory standards, and feel like telling Mary, who I watched discard beau after beau until she and Tom lip smacked on the couch, babysitting monkey freak niece in football helmet, to fuck her damn birthday card, and again, shatter familial standards, but I am not going to tell my Catholic educational leader aunt to fuck her damn birthday card.

Karina did much better than the emigre from Sierra Leone, but my unit was not so saturated with the saluatory urine infused nicotine wafts. by the time I found the Christian blondee. Karina is not a godsend, however, and I am pulling on her with suicidal agony pleading for regress, which is unfair to the woman. Her mother is dying and Karina doesn't pull on me with suicidal regress. All I really want is her mobility, the utilization of her car to get the fuck out of this building, and to what extent this is going to happen remains unclear, and my Russian viewers probably weigh my utility as a cyber target, out to hurt me in the amusements with lifelong worthlessness. Do we all enjoy Google's birthday greetings?

I am not against accessible architecture, but what Jimmi and Erik forced HUD to do with this building was the most inefficient and hellish interface of federal and municipal procedure, breeding more corruption like maggots.

Elmer's Glue

"Tollefson has lunch with President Liacouras every week!"-- a liberal literature instructor empathizing with student body sense of collusion.

One cannot be too harsh with the image of perfection that television projects. It is human vanity in play, but it is due to this, and moral clause contracts, that media personalities seem invulnerable. When they topple, it can be gut wrenching or gratifying, and in Tollefson's case, I fall into the former category. On video, after the guilty verdict, the man looked ghastly. It comes as a bit of a shock, and yet, for those of us who has never cheated, merely buffeted by corruption, events such as these only stoke reactionary anger. I made an unexpected windfall from group insurance, little more than two years of my former salary, last 8 years, despite spend down and medical model brutality, so I am at a bit of a loss in comprehending how Tollefson landed himself in this predicament with what seems like a generous pension, and I can hear Jim Gardner's condolences without searching his tweets, with the usual sentiments of high social standing.

The Great Recession is still reverberating, except for special cases in their own bubble of indigence. Everyone wants to be Bernie Madoff, floating on flimsy straws of derivative opulence, except for schmucks and half-crazed peasants, like oxen, tilling hard under the yoke, not succeeding on the basis of virtue, examining true crimes to look for loop holes, discovering that most murders involve petty vendettas and salacious neighbors who want to get their tattles in to modern muckrakers with microphones, lovers killing each other, husbands dis-articulating wives, vamps using sex to kill deluded paramours, everyone trying to look their best: the right sports bra, the best hair extension, the most efficient face lift, the least lethal erection enhancer.

I remember many of the most personable WPVI anchors: this deceased and colorful Texan, Larry King, Dave Roberts, father of the third rate actor David Boreanaz, Lisa Thomas-Laury, whose illness apparently got an astonishing level of accommodation from the ABC affiliate. One assumes this is not due to threat of a wrongful termination lawsuit, since Poems Syndrome seems rather singular and distinct, and Rob Jennings. WPVi's sense of continuity worked in terms of brand loyalty, but that too has pitfalls within our unfortunate mortal coils, even arrogance.

The Aquarius Water Tank

Why is Jessica Alba a derivative J-Lo stand in?

For all the technical prowess of her 2008 vehicle, The Eye, Madeleine Stowe's earlier Blink has a more congruent aptitude for an American audience, if we're willing to examine what the camera offers beneath the formula. The Pang brothers remake is saying something in odious colors about predestination, the cost of going outside our limits and then returning to find new ground within them. 

Now I am being irresponsible and going back to bed, and more irresponsible still, I am going to ask Karina to take me out of Riverside. Where? I do not know. Will she? We'll see.

I fully realize I'm nearing my mid-fifties. But if I leave things as they are I'll eventually lose to the strength of trauma. My aunt, her aging mind locked into the personal liberty to smoke, says I'll be making things worse, but that is relative.

I hate the African Americans who manage this section 202 building, not enough to serenade you with Keith Jesperson's disingenuous,sentiments about murder: the killing of living beings is not as routine as walking your dog, this is how predators sublimate their loss of altruism within their troupe, but enough to know if I am going to salvage anything of my youthful ambiance, I need some fresh air. I've moderated my tone a wee little, but poison strips away at the humanity of oppressors.

If we want to dwell on the incongruities as well-- Jesperson is nearly a hilarious contradiction, a Canadian who's affable in relation to homicidal impulses. At least Manson and Bundy understand Americans like glamour within the drama of our psychotics. 

I Propose to John Dunn That We Stage a Coup

I argue with my aunt Marie, cruelly, brutally, or with the compassionate realism you may like, to get a grip and prepare for her palliative care. She too is dying, like my stepmother, Louise, but Marie and I are much alike, obstinate Roman American temperaments. Neither Marie nor I want the home health care aides, but the difference is Marie has had cancer surgery twice. I only struggle with moderate obesity and the agitation of not enough nicotine, and I have been abused by and within the welfare system. Marie Varenas is dying, and even if this post earns the ire of her sons, my cousins, they have to get on the ball, knowing full well that Uncle Joe is one large plaque blockage.

I managed my shower chair, grateful, but I am telling you now, I would rather put myself to sleep than move here. I will not do it, and though I cannot assign blame to my infamous supervisor for the real horrific hauntings of warehousing our chronic conditions in homes, I wish I had been a wiser 28 year old than I was, wowed by Linda in her jeans and cuff crutches. Even my work for the disability center left the indelible stain of hell imprinted on me.

Hence the issue with algorithms: Eschewing the power of case management doesn't mean we should forget we cannot do human relations by binary code. Twitter suggests I follow Ms. Byzek without being able to denote my hostility toward her for her violation of my trust, and I have used some venomous terms in relation to her sexual orientation. What a solidified block we are, eh? Josie and Erik have their own enmity toward each other, and I hate all five of them, though I do not know Linda's status in ADAPT or Disabled In Action.

I emailed Josie within the last 24 months, chancing my pain to be graphic, because her email account was still on my group. I took her off, with an acerbic bristle, writing "I'll never be civil to you," and never shall.

The way that gays and lesbians informed my past is, if not dying out, ameliorating, and Josie, like many of you, would say her violation of my trust occurred years ago, she lashed out at Cecil to protect me, and tried to make it up, when she and her partner visited the city. The voice of reason in her Christian loving temperament. Cecil may have hurt me of his own accord, true, but that was my business, and even if I beat a conversation to death with an opening, I did not deserve what she did, and she knows it, given what happened to me at the CIL.

I need to read more staff and scrip, and assure John that if my circumstances change, I shall support his output. Let's usurp the UN!

Teeth Grit

Gary Oldman's Romeo is a precursor to Things To Do in Denver, of a kind, though Garcia and Walken finer tune their ridicule. Oldman and Olin are Medak's marionettes, self-consciously absurdest, overtly farcical, only Roy Schneider playing the Don like a Prospero who has learned the value of enhanced interrogation behind the finesse of seemingly victimless corruption, the short cut to the buffer zone of high class bling worth transforming into a gimp, or a one-armed villain like the elusive one armed man from The Fugitive, only difference is Olin is a brass tit menace, and Oldman doesn't need veneers to grind himself into a grimace offering the illusion of soot between the incisors of his under bite, suggesting the permanence of his tainted morality, unable to erect the decency of his desire to be the straight man with the model trophy wife.

Cross Stations

"He is one of the very greatest English poets, and his greatness has never been fully acknowledged or described, in part at least because his prolific writing and his huge and idiosyncratic erudition make him hard to come to terms with all at once--" AS Byatt, "Robert Browning: Fact, Fiction, Lies, Incarnation and Art"

I haven't made an effort to meet any more divorced or widowed males, and at my age, single men might be slightly suspicious, since the lesbian Josie Byzek conveniently disrupted mine and Cecil Morales prospective interest in each other, difficult to dwell on,(excluding my infantile glutton driven ex) but even if I stuck my neck out of my tortoise shell and fortune surprised me with an alternate ending, a good man would have to compete with Linda's shrill enthusiasm in my head, "Oh come on Joanne, we all know that spastic..." It will always make me feel small, her voice, in email, crowing about Bruce's performance. I can ask myself why they divorced, and their split had reverberations within the CIL community, and immediately understand that divorce at the same time, though she never discussed her marital life, other than throwing her gratification in my face, and I can hear her with her most confidential sympathizers calling me a mawkish asshole.

She'd be right. I was a mawkish asshole, but desperation not to have sanctuary and order implode, not to be abused, under intense harassment by Riverside, which is as about terrible as you can imagine without an employer, and the racism of case managers, however veiled or overt, this is why I was so emotionally vulnerable with Linda. Marcia Ian tried to offer me a psychoanalytic perspective, that Linda was, subconsciously or otherwise, uncoupling my infantile need to return to the nest, and buttress those forked tongue assurances that I wasn't abandoned, but Marcia's admirable theorizing doesn't begin to heal the wounds of being scapegoated, victimized on one end by ineffectual case management, re: Trudy Richardson, Debra Horne, Jenelle Dost, and every defensive den mother at Liberty I've dealt with since, and exploited by black dysfunction, attendant neglect, on the other.

I pounded out a regressive rhyming verse for Linda, which I should not have done, simplistic and childish in stridency, which took me fourteen years to rewrite. I sent the esteemed Sheldon Novick a draft as a summary apologia for my social inappropriate familiarity when he was just a blank on whom my libations seeped in their wounds, and Robert liked it. American Poetry Review has remained silent, and I assume I am in the slush pile, if hard drives have one. I do not know, especially since  my mortality is close at hand, if I can ever resurface, scythed, but back on my feet.
*******

My Patron Saint

                             --for Linda C Dezenski

Gold filigree molded to the cast  by the armature will boil
you alive in a molten vat, crisp the epidermis, heaven of a bacon 
back, the needle sting of rosemary, little pitch of thyme,
silken filaments of liposome accumulate the pupils;
accelerate the blind exhaust in idolatry, her moans: their
satisfaction leave you biting fugal dust, serrated blade in puncture.  
Aerophagia onsets beneath the pressured ribs so rapidly,  ebbing away and scrub,
the wounded climax but a moment, these the later Hebrew saints a
prelude to St. Anne, sort of, in the name of transitional gentile
Hannah was barren like Sarah, ailing tadpoles in an acid slink, writhe
and writhe again old woman, forth your issue a womb to hold the uncontainable
Incarnate, supposed to feel good, it is, within Blume's exploratory wash 
cloth, or Toni's mad black bitch.  Liberate it to the boast, pubic spasms an 
end onto themselves, with vocal mandibles they speak, they're old stridency,
Helen Reddy on the LP, brass decor fit for flamenco, if barely in sync.

Empowered with a roar, intimations for the pedestrians on those autonomic
chilly roads, impregnable with so many episodes, turning points. Franciscan 
orders create ascetics impervious to anything but pleasure in humility, one
dimension fresco with its halo most certain as an object, zealotry feared, good
reasons for it amid the lawyering medical class, those who shifted the axis.
Francis de Sales peddled something in commerce mind, not as padre might
envision, running with the bulls, ripped to a weight lifter's stance; better
yet, a green man so full of rage the canopy trembles beneath his tread.
The blessed meek anticipate the end we've reached, the end not of aggression,
eco-colony collapse, nor the whimpers of irresolute despair.

Sissy primate with its tartly bitter taste, the wanderer has a lesion on its
mind, circuits that scramble to ever greater depth, spastics brag,
appalling, sugar cubes of suffering carved into the metastasis, fettered
beyond benign, conscience felled the breast of Joan d'Arc.
Never to suckle, rear her own. Where is this freedom of the broken body?
Bundled into the derivatives, convulsing credit to a standstill?
Compliance gives us more within the fortress built to hide.
Urine bags burst the blush to purple, humiliated by the smell.

--Revised from 4/27/2000

The complex nature of human decency

What Lisa Glatt actually wants to say is the Bill Cosby we thought we knew actually exists, that this Bill Cosby we loved was decent and charming with her mother's memory, but Salon is such a bleeding heart progressive vehicle, that Glatt has to diminish an event that is important to her mother's memory.

Now, as you know, I follow Joan Tarshis, and I respect her memory, her emotional pain at the suppression of self blame. I have a lot of that. My trust was abused in numerous instances, including my very brief attempted date rape, but this doesn't mean, within those violations of interpersonal dignity, that Cosby isn't good, in certain respects, and contributors like Glatt should not fear this, nor is everything about being an icon a gross distortion. I do not get the joke about Wilt's shyness. I would not have been able to join in the humor of what was being underscored, but still. Americans still have a great deal of difficulty, unlike the French, with handling the more salient aspects of human need.

I have not yet been forcibly penetrated, and George Will, the embattled columnist, would say the number of hits I've taken veers on triviality, and taken out of context, he is probably right: Rick trying to force his penis through my robe and clenched legs was sordid but not truly traumatic. Beaky trying to rape me in the middle of my crush on Tassoni was as deflationary as Joan's account of her struggle with the celebrity she obviously looked up to, and I got lucky. I could not stop Beaky, his hands were up my blouse after I got home from that party before I could sneeze, and he made me jerk, but he was too stoned to make me eat that bullet.

Adding up my totals is another matter. Perhaps I over-reacted to former supervisor Linda's graphic statement of her sexual pleasure: I was, after all, soliciting her advice because I am plagued by dryness, however I stated it, and I showed her a Tassoni love poem (all dried up) but her need to be domineering and over the top was unexpected, and shocked me, even if I opened the door; it is too much. Destroying what we need to admire about Cosby's fictional restraint, responsibility of manner, destroying what reticence would, supposedly, increase in value, so yes, I mourn the luxury of ignorance for our greater good.

Brush Burn

There is a bemusing sense of frustration when you catch a film in the middle, or at various points in its arc, know that you do not wish to follow through and pay attention, to the extent your hearing loss can field the lack of captioning. As a child of suburban familial dysfunction, I did not care for Green's screenplay in Snow Angels, and wasted my time with it on Wednesday with familiar repugnance for certain pretensions within the independent genre, when I would have been better off doing something else if I could not sleep, my writing life essentially funneled into the immediacy of always being *on,* my professors never having been faced with this problem, as the Internet was in its infancy in the eighties, but Rockwell's performance provoked me, my eyes fixated on his knuckle scabs on his hands in his final scenes with Beckinsale. Superimpose this meaningless intensity of blame onto a terrorist's cause, and this is basically my ravaged psyche on indigestion, fish oil, tobacco juice, and yet, within my self-hatred, I get distracted by putting on my Jerry McGuire failed scholar cap, asking what makes an independent different from a Bruce Willis action flick? A practiced academic would be able to make an immediate differential. I have to struggle, and come up with allegorical realism. Beckinsale's Annie is not particularly kind, to her husband or her lover, or the little girl, though she is wry with Angarano's Arthur, whose nascent attachment to the attractive four eyes girlfriend is a kind of anecdote to the sour familiarity of human maturity.

I'm weary of Robert Redford's pulp in the mill with his Sundance, but of course it will outlive him, his liberal film school, because he's Redford, the movie star who could act, guilty that he had the blonde nadir going. His look was never my type. I could engage in some sardonic hyperbole towards the American Nordic hero who is getting old, Redford, which of course I do not mean, but after the Charlie Hebdo attack? Poking at prominent figures for ventilation leaves us all socially uneasy, even me, who normally would not care, and look at what I'm doing, my diffident dance with a well meaning klutz who destroyed part of my personal history because she was nervous. Maureen, my neighbor, was a blonde klutz in the same manner.

Still Fucking Around With Dumb Blondes

Karina and I are both indecisive, despite the age difference, and now she is considering attendant care as a profession, and I keep telephoning her. She reminds me of Maureen, little hat tricks of resistance, am I really going to reapply for the Medicaid Waiver over this fractious dilettantism? Not yet. but I rescheduled the Christ is the real God Christian for next week, again, budgeting her in to retrace her steps, probably in vain. The Post does not have arguments with me. But I certainly argue with it, with its hagiographic legacy-- the only media outlet that toppled a presidency without giving much rift to counter arguments that maybe Nixon was not angling to be dictator for life-- with its pro gay stance-- with its minority reporters, and even with its hagiography on broken body heroics.

Oh, Holley writes a fine article, and the unfortunate young man wanted to live and beat PVS. Comparatively, I've never had it that tough, but comparatively doesn't matter, My father says go to Inglis or stay where I am; his sister screams at me to stay where I am, but I cannot. I can't.

I can't even carry what I have to carry with the institutional abuse, the domestic abuse, I cannot resign myself to staying with Riverside Presbyterian watching a transsexual freak degrade into minimal awareness, letting urban disability centers get away with their cavalier cruelty. I can't. I fucking cannot. I let Presby off the legal hook when the Phillips boy hurt me, and Presby has done nothing but threaten me since. I do not know what kind of justice that is. I cannot do it, complying and drugging myself happy to forget a savage medical model life. Acceptance?

I'll show this city acceptance before it does me in.

White Chocolate

I am not sure why I responded to Jennifer's post. Read it once, trying to make sense of it, skimmed it again, and then responded with macro view impatience about our inability to be ruthless and efficient enough, but if we were that we would not have put Bales in prison, nor castigated servicemen who spoke out loud what we all believe, but remains a breach of manner to say: American and European lives are more valuable than certain Arabic African and some Asian groups. And Google would have banned me long ago for demonic ferocity, although there is a difference in the imagining of mobile savagery and the actual ability of my transfer skills, and I haven't attempted to strangle kimmy for being a stubborn female. The minute I sit up I am subjected to relentless head buts from this relegated feline whose litter could not be saved, and as such I am posting without freshly brewed Italian roast, always unwise, even if kimmy doesn't let up, leaping and dancing, chewing plastic because she wants greens, until, resolute, I sit still.

Islamic State is hard enough, which makes them both admirable and dishonorable. They killed the press on our home turf. I stayed my hand on Foley for being a fool, going into the chaos of Syrian fractures, but killing journalists on the home front, then going after the Jews who remained on European soil, remained French-- there is no honor in this kind of attack, even if Islamic State would argue they are doing what WW2 Zionists did. The Zionists in the aftermath of the Third Reich had a reasonably zealous agenda in the face of a mechanized banal slaughter humans had never seen before, lacking the technical capacity. I don't think recreating a modern Israeli state worked, but comprehend it as a mission statement.

Extremists want a Caliphate? Afghanistan is already a prime example of homo sapiens devolution.

Karina pinged to ask how I was; you could wag a finger: See, you fired her and said she was stupid and she has remained kind. Yes, but I gave her about 300 I wouldn't have given a person of color. The kindness I miss is my childhood physical therapy aide. Mary Anne. She let me sleep over, taught me about scoliosis, which she had, not visibly, and prepared me for confirmation, an innocent attachment to a child vanquished by tunnel visions of loss too difficult to absorb. I don't know what went through her head day after day, watching me tortured in leg braces, locked into a standing table, mailing letters with Eisenhower's bust as an imprint on ten cent stamps. Lesbianism wasn't even a concept, though she was a Catholic woman of the 70's, floral blouses and an auburn beatles bob for a hairstyle. 

I need my coffee now.

Grendel's Ram in Contention

"The old ram stands down looking over rockslides, stupidly."-- John Gardner, Grendel, p2

What Jennifer argues in her latest Right Turn entry, whose headline was changed, I believe, from the more inflammatory "France goes to war," to the lower decibel of "fallout," since Hollande is a Socialist in the tradition of Mitterrand, and no doubt had the Foreign Secretary call the Grahams who remain on staff with a scold, is that the neocon response to bin Laden's "great blow" was the right tack, despite the fact that thirteen years in Kabul seems to have simply degraded the Taliban into more traditional narco terrorists with whom the CIA loves to waltz, which is not very hawkish. I do not necessarily disagree with Jennifer or The Post on Obama's retrenchment after Bush Administration debacles. My argument is that delicacy to Islamic sensitivity, and Western effeminate dress after centuries of civilizing the natives at the point of a bayonet, is not going to pacify hardliners who supersede Hammurabi, who purportedly was source text for Mosaic law. 

I am always against bad process, and the invasion of Iraq in 2003 should have led to George W Bush's impeachment, regardless of how well or how badly the Pentagon handled the draw down under our sadly failed Harvard Law president. We cannot occupy multiple fronts indefinitely, even if we are the strongest nuclear power. Americans were once and briefly united after the 9/11 attacks, and if you want tradition, well, successful war presidents unite the country. Congress should have declared war on Al Qaeda. The UN Security Council should have made a deal with the major powers, dissolved Pakistan, Afghanistan, Sudan, Yemen, Somalia. set up zones of occupation, and if those with the tactical force had the guts to do that, whatever the price of going that route, we would not be watching North Africa and the Far East join the long standing enemies of Israel in an implosion. 

This all started in 79 with Khomeini and his Iranian revolution. The Ayatollah broadcast his Persian call to arms from Paris, and world leaders held their dicks in their hands, to channel old man Morgan, while the fanatical Imam toppled the Shah. Jimmy might have saved the fellow citizens he served some dignity by exporting Billy Carter as an American radical. The Saudis did the same thing prior to Osama's rise in prominence and bear some of the blame for contemporary tremors.

Jennifer cites John Yoo, attempting to rehabilitate a rationalizing legal hardliner, by having him universalize NATO's Article 5. I doubt this makes Hollande happy. I watched extensive press coverage of the neutralization of the Kouachi brothers and their associate, and then Hollande's entry and subsequent gathering of ministers in the Presidential Palace. The informality of the European bureaucrat anesthetizes sensibility, and briefly entertained the idea of sending Marine Le Pen my resume. Perhaps I should do it on a lark. Why didn't Turkish authorities detain Boumeddiene? The corruption of ionized interests will always be with us, but this too, smells of bad faith.

In essence, Jennifer's urgency for the Obama Administration to reignite Bush's battle lines is misguided, because war takes commitment, national unity. We lost that after Truman fired MacArthur.

The Cyril Cusack Glib Reassurance

AS Byatt, in her essay about Browning, struggles to capture something about his miasmal wit, which is nearly epic in invective rage without ranting. Keats may anticipate flash fictions and our like of pastels, dying young enough not to wither, but the author of Possession nails the difficulty with Browning. He felt poetry could still argue metaphysics, ideas, striding right along with the reductive nature of positivism, making a careful rereading of R et B move slowly. He is one of the few historical poets I respond to on my own, innately drawn to his voice, without faking it due to the fact poets are supposed to appreciate all poetry-- and because I am tired I will dispense with this simply: fuck that.

Most poetry should be scorned, and if anything has surprised me about late last century poets like my mentor Jerry, it is his ossification into place. What he did in workshop to me had a far more threatening hedonism to it then what I chased down on Google and then contacted him, kicking and screaming-- I told myself not to trust me because I knew I'd burst into tears. In 2002 I cried over Tassoni for two days; in 2007 Frank the ex did not know it, but the remainder of his cognitive function was in danger and my countenance was flushed in pain not because I did not fool around with the bastard back when but because I failed the standards of my best professor and I knew I'd beat myself, and did, and no longer respect his poetry as much as I used to; he ossified. This disappoints me here on my nigger welfare scum sucking throne, cappish?

Commercially or classically, the razor edge of nihilism is comforting, and with spymaster Le Carre, it is a brutally commercialized cynicism that says the same thing as Mitchell really: we'll always find ways to cannibalize each other for our own meat, and we encapsulate this like a warm blanket. The 2010 Canadian Altitude, which reversed my expectations about formula because it had interesting cinematography, almost uses a stem cell approach when dealing with the envelopment of loss. Andrews is almost playing billiards with the narrative of our imprints enveloping us a certain way due to seemingly random tragedy. Every action leads to reaction, one we may not know, but Le Carre overwhelms his characters. Burton through indignation, Guinness, as Smiley, through monastic castration, Fiennes through martyrdom, smiting consciences-- his plots superb and his characters well drawn, many of his endings, are, however, infuriating and deflationary, and yet they console, as much as Browning's palette of metaphysical contests.

Libiamo ne' lieti calici

The chic reminiscence of Jeffrey Eugenides perfectly captures the life I tore myself away from in Ridley Park. Beneath the surface the film is about a world of European affluence devoid of multicultural dynamism, and his characters are as familiar to me as the back of my hand, now that I'm only a piece of indigent driftwood an imposition on minorities who spray an aerosol when I throw my sister's maternity jumper on to stroll down to check the mail. In theory, I could just give my notice and deposit myself at father's. sister's doorstep. Padre is living off soup. My sister's children are stricken, due to her middle child narcissism? 

You have to understand, my father's sperm, in numerical order, produced a male firstborn which my mother miscarried, then me, then Michelle, who was an unfortunate, minimally aware mentally retarded being who might have been better off left to wolves, so when Stephanie appeared, my poor parents must have sent Pope Paul a hefty tithe, and it was with Stephanie's birth we became suburban, climbed the fucking ladder until my mother got divorced and spiraled out of control. I love her, or did, but that emotion is twisted into a great deal of hate, Eugenides' send up was what I could observe and never enter. Prom? What was a fucking prom? A corsage? What was that?

Getting stoned, that I knew something about, but it never-- I never got high-- drunk, yes, but drugs simply made me darker. Anyone who knew me then would be shocked at seeing my face, just as Debbie Russell, spastic co-worker, was in 07 before she was laid off. Tell myself positive things? With what? Pretend I still have prospects and can argue with members of legacy media and their bylines? I tell myself not to take it so hard when security guards, who themselves cannot garnish too much for sitting on their asses in a building such as this, treat me like a pariah, but it hurts, only parking a moment to convey something to Joseph Delesio, who was on my case management docket all those years ago when I was a consultant for seven dollars an hour, believing I was on my way.

Should I get into an altercation with poorly paid black females and use racial epithets, proceed to actual incarceration? What the state would actually do to me in that event I am unsure of. What difference does it make? 

LeVar Burton's Home Remedy For the Exsanguination of Diane Keaton

"The only thing I can say is there is a hell of a lot more Arabians than there is Jews." Billy Carter

The Family Stone might in some ways be a capitulation to Keaton's character in Looking For Mr. Goodbar, offered as a fumigating afterthought, missing the first 40 minutes or so of the classic dark side of liberal promiscuity. Thursday morning futilely challenging creditors who assuredly know, barring a miracle, the Treasury Department will soon garnish my entitlement. What would they do, my account holders, if the minority bitches get what they want and make me a new old home for cripples problem? Thus it is to be boxed in, seething with a detonator's destruction. I hate Keaton, always have, with her toothy minuets of peevish dismay, with Berenger aptly encapsulating the macho fag, since he later plays a genocidal racist against Winger in Betrayal, or whatever it was, the end of Goodbar was nonetheless a shock. Not graphic, but a shock. Feminist Liberal Self-Sacrifice in big capitals, my body is still adjusting to the Aero's demise. "Give it time," I coax myself, the correspondences are obvious. The deaf kids of Keaton's teacher, the deaf gay couple in the latter film whom Parker zings in much more polite reactive fashion than you'd get from me.

My mother passed away quite suddenly in 2005, which is when I accidentally lit my hair on fire, and my then support coordinator, Ann Piccinotti, sent me a voodoo priestess from Germantown. "I took care of a Jewish woman who said let me give you my money." This is what I had to deal with, in the middle of bankruptcy, my parent's funeral, I had to fend off an African with gaping teeth in head scarfs who thought she could siphon me. Progressive disability activists call this "mutual respect". I call it Spencer's cash register, though even if I still had some of my assets, I wouldn't fund him. not that I am above seeing that the far right generates cash flows. Most American neo-Nazis are, for evident reasons of non-adaptation, welfare recipients. My smirk is one thing. Calling for body armor then charging into battle against the infidel motherfucker is another matter.

I remembered my spin off pitch from the Cosby scandal, and need to put it in my file. Joan might be useful for this, although I wonder if we're all learning more about the strange aspects of black libido than we really wish to know. I'm still angry about the rapacious ghetto woman violating the sanctity of my grief. I got rid of her with a future truth, that Liberty Resources would no longer be my provider. Imagine how deep my impulses must run for a stocking to fill with ignots, sweet to crack a skull. I may be better tuned over the weekend, awaiting deliveries.  

Pretty Prince and Everyman

Brief hope that Extreme Measures would have been a fresh confirmation of catastrophic cynicism, but the Wiki entry retraces the end of the movie, so tonight's viewing would be a rerun, a surgeon like Steel fairly interchangeable with Gene Hackman's zealous Napoleonic tyrant. Studio executives funnel these narratives for a reason, and that is to illustrate that those in an obsessive chase for veracity, as per Grant's progressive underdog, also make civilized society pay a price. The American meme insists upon illustrating a contest of diametric oppositions: Grant, with his modal privileges, engaging in noblesse oblige, convinced of intrinsic interpersonal dignity, contends against Hackman, who here commercializes Richard Nixon's Main Street authoritarianism imposed on the expendable losses in the world of commerce toward an ultimately utilitarian outcome. In the hands of the British, in the Pinewood tradition, the audience gets its toes curdled when conspiracy triumphs,as when the EMS driver steals medical credentials in The Great Pretender-- in the background, French tongues cluck with reminders that we're all complicit, tu merci tres bien!

Benefits of France 24

The shortwave WYBE feed Crime Scene Cleaner has an uppity nuanced humor, perhaps playing against Dick Wolf, and if not, certainly toying with class consciousness that still exists on the continent against the German working class in a contemporary urban mode, and yet, there is something fragile in Germany's shallow laughter at itself, not that Pegida is truly anything to worry about. Pegida is a kind of icing over a stalemate of egalitarian deceit.

If I had actually grown up Roman, as opposed to American, I would have been taught by grandmother Lillian to sit on a balcony, watching pedestrians on scooters, with quiet acceptance, but then again, I would not have survived my birth in the Italy of Fellini's Dolce Vita, and my inner voice is telling me my life is finished, I waited too long, and regardless of what I do, Pennsylvania's ineptitude has essentially made me grist for the mill. My poet friend, over 17 years now he has absorbed my accordion rhythms with Cisco panache, hard to believe-- and he might even point out I did not have to remind him how long we've applauded each other, he was nice enough to send me an email, and in my response, for once, I kept a lid on it, but I need to move on now before it becomes impossible, and it very nearly already is. I cannot go back into a home; I can't, but I cannot be like Frank, or Sherry and have my life dictated by low skill labor which borders criminality. And in those microcosms of self-interest, our relevance is increasingly precarious, unless we're engineers with a complex grasp, or microbiologists airily tweaking  millions of years of evolution.

Mass extinction is one thing, a monkey aware that the caboose is hurling toward disastrous consequences is another. I am hoping that by February if I pull hard on the creative community I can find temporary housing of some sort.

The Russian Tundra

At this point I should have compared the breaker of the law which makes such a fuss over a little spilled blood, with a poet or a stage performer."--Vladimir Nabokov, Despair

I am not well liked in The Washington Post comment section either, and perhaps set religious correspondent Michelle Boorstein back on her heels. Michelle wrote a laconic feature about Christian LBGT celibacy, and my skill at finding an impromptu thesis suddenly came back to me, but the fact remains no matter how clever I am advocating for a new century form of sexual repression, my hatred of homosexual practices invariably leads in one direction, which isn't particularly moral, nor practical. Something I've skirted around before.

Had the repugnant sloth from Unlimited Staffing been critically injured after that exploratory fondling, hurting the predator might have been justified, but it would have added even more trauma to be absorbed; progressives can wince all they please, but an unpleasant reality of attendant care culture is the attendee is often exploited by minorities for economic gain. One in three of every African American women who had to deal with my interior conditions asked me for money. I have stories that make the biracial bovine opportunist seem mild, which points to what liberals dislike about conservative reaction. President Nixon's observations about Jewish disloyalty is a monolithic oversimplification-- but anyone who has experienced Jewish prevarication can also see the late president's prejudices as formed by experience, and my experience with African American norms over the course of 29 years is one of significant disillusionment.

Would my posts offend minority journalists if I had a credible platform? I can assume it more than likely, but black dysfunction is akin to a virus, and it infects those who might otherwise have the best of intentions. Tolerance is not a panacea for women screaming behind a wheelchair to amuse themselves watching a spastic jump, or being shillyshallyed by this Haitian or that bank guard when looking for a housekeeper. Activists preach a gospel and treat community integration models like the ten commandments, and even when journalists write about the salient details, details which might belie the over reach of the rhetoric, conscientious readers can be left floundering. 

In Liza Johnson's understated 2011 independent, Return, the veteran deceleration is familiar, but Cardellini is briefly contrasted against an extra, an older minority woman, which speaks volumes about black authoritarianism constraining white suffering. The black clerical worker adheres to the procedure, and Cardellini is off in her own head, realizing, of a sudden, that she is alive on tour, not in her struggle with matriculation. I too want to put in my papers with the dead space of this city, bouncing off the offense of socially inappropriate nihilism formed in the caldron of corrupted pagans.

Now that I've imported my half brother to Twitter, I see family shrinkage growing even more equi-distant from emotional stigmata. Benny dodges my ferocity with the soft bruising of socially ambiguous caste.

Rapport

Just orating to orate, off any semblance of a construct, I spoke to Karina, and insulted the woman, but she shall be returning, once, to fix whatever the fuck she did with my contributor copies, and after that? I am nearly at the end of my rope, and may need to take a few weeks off to throw all of my remaining energy into relocating, with my declining health being what it is. 

Before the seasonal festivities, Uber astonished me by affirming they can drive a power chair user, although my interior red flag said "This, I have to see..." If Karina can assist me with packing and an Uber driver can pick me up, all I would need is a destination, a breathing hole on the Siberian tundra, buying one of Gerard's watches, in the carcass of his lions.

He is like a Jamesian type, Depardieu, a musketeer with no king, grabbing at the scruff of the beast for being senile, alluding to my problems with little Vincento, always the most difficult, if most Egyptian, of my felines. Eleven, thin, gaunt, leaving surprises for this terse unhappy woman you read who needs a change in order simply not to die; kimmy, to drive the wedge further, has a fascination with the dung bags I put in the trash. I'm going to let them go soon, the children, because if I really want to leave niggerland (with its Korean influx), Vinne will have to be euthanized sooner than Oliver was.

Mio padre, serial abuser, is hovering over my stepmother, a wasted carcass herself with the rheumatoid arthritis leading into leukemia. She's dying. Father beats her as he raised his hand to my mother, and yet the eighty year old man clothes himself in the mortality of my mother's nursing school associate, Louise. My father shall lose his third and very crippled wife who thinks her very crippled stepdaughter should be put away, just as he lost his son, crying in my mother's arms. He didn't want Nicky to die' he didn't want Nicky to die, and Nicky died, wasted husk of pestilence, and Louise shall die as well. She has always been sickly, and I wonder if she ever cared for patients at all, with her red crumbled knuckles, repulsive lizard of a woman. My aunt Marie is smoking again and if she must she must but cost the state a fortune for her cancer. 

I don't deny. I'm simply caught, like the virile Gerard in his prime, between the frigid and the fulsome, screwed over by both. I'll too exclaim "Fuck your Schubert!" Forced to surrender without knowing how.

Adaptation Deficit

The Aero is not a perfect cessation crutch, but my physiology is now in serious trouble with Woodleaf's holiday announcement. E cigarettes are unreliable. Plastic tubes are not. I am not going to take the time right now to surf for a replacement, but if you have any recommendations, I utilize the vapor.

The Henry James List is free

I left the elist, finally; they are moving to Facebook anyway and now only have Casey's silliness in the absence of my tendency to be disruptive. Casey Abel has a nearly photographic memory of James, but treats his data like a game of trivial pursuit, annoying everyone until the new (2012?) crop of non-academics inveighed.

Sometimes things need to reach a conclusion, however. I haven't been booted by Wapo yet despite their skittishness with any citation of Asian abortion rates, but I am not after acrimony with the grand dame. I started the Bernstein Woodward 4 dollar memoir of Watergate, and cannot see how Nixon would have fundamentally destroyed the republic by becoming dictator; my oversimplification, I suppose.

Limits

The Able Act is an expansion of the SSA work incentive known as PASS; this is what today's crop of otherwise brainless assholes are excited about; just as the ADA was grandfathered into federal statue on the basis of the 504 Rehabilitation Act, the Able Act would simply expand the tent to the mentally retarded who can be bridled, like a mule, to engage in simple slave labor tasks. Not necessarily a bad idea. Idiots become senior citizens if they live long enough-- my scorn, as usual, goes to the progressives who think all this layering achieves anything at all. You are shielded from the veneer of bad case managing and its bigotry. The Levy brothers of Beacon do not see it. Offering me inclusion on Writersblock was kind, and even discriminating, since my foul language and blatant prejudices have their ups and downs, but that kindness is not analogous to repairing a foul and evil system. You do not see how Trudy Richardson and Debra Horne treat me for my non-compliance; the fact that I dehumanize them makes my readers uncomfortable, and a part of my imagination enjoys their denigration. The only one who understood that was Erik, the dying transsexual. He told me to tell Debra to "go fuck herself" quote unquote, on a bad post stroke evening when I still leaned on a dialogue with the devil for lack of any other outlet. Some years back, but after my molestation in 2006.

For whatever stupendous reason, I was going to tweet about my bad transfer to bath chair on New Years Day. Why, I have no idea. Nicotine cramps impair my interior transfer balance. Swiveling back to power chair is more difficult than pivoting out, but finally, after two hours of trying to plant my soles, I did nit fall only because my left arm held my weight long enough for my right elbow to wedge my right buttock in. No tweet soliciting advice, no guard seeing me as a naked brick bat, no cop. It was close, but why tweet it? Even as most of us carry digital reality even moments before dying, why am I now so much engaged with 160 character affectation when it is too late for me? When urban ineptitude destroyed everything for me, even as I function on superhuman antipodes.

I had forgotten about gimpgirl. She bores me, and my caustic sensibility offends her no doubt, despite the fact she retweeted my snip about the ACLU on speed dial-- but again, no one from the online disabled community interacts with me-- why? Because I have crucified CILS as segregated bullshit? Relentlessly embarrassed Linda Dezenski? Disengaged from a midget like Louise with a bad attitude even though I held my frustration in? Disability activists are strident, unipolar, and evidently cowards. If they were truly in control of their IL centers, I would not have emerged from being lied to for four years, humiliated by suburban classmates, and none of you have anything to say. If I am so wrong, so warped, as cripples, you should. I'm going to shut Liberty Resources down, even if I have to go to prison, and I mean it. The last of my assets mull Ritter's bimbo.