French Cuisine

"I read your blog,"--Riverside's pork style fairy

I did not goad Jimmi when he actually spoke to me a few days prior. I made an observation to an ever case managed former consumer about my enemy status with the developmental faggot and dying husband, and since I made the observation, I let the potential fight slide. Jimmi is weak, goading him can be amusing, and my balls are going to get me killed, but if he chooses to wade into the disjunctive link between his beliefs, his corruption, and my hatred of ADAPT, he isn't any worse for wear. Insurrectionists haven't yet found the appeal within my interior Joan d'Arc. More to the point, Mr. Shrode refuses to understand that state and federal employment guidelines exist for a reason, and the disability team of my era broke those rules with impunity, destroying my career, and I have to see him and Erik daily. How would you live with something like that? I doubt many of you would find it tolerable.

There is an antipathy to Jean Luc-Bideau with his grandfatherly bulbous nose, and there is also animosity toward Baiot-- the black French actor who in The Churchmen of course has to be a gay seminarian. Bideau has too much of Flaubert's Tostes ruralism about him with that turkey gobble neck of his, and Baiot I've seen around and never liked, too much simper, but other than the jump cut erotic scene between Baiot and the other working class family boy coping with his spiritual calling, I've reluctantly allowed myself to be entangled with WYBE's run of the series, mindful that this is France2's spin on the Vatican, their Pope a bit clueless and modeled on whom, precisely? 


It is a better series about Catholicism than anything produced in the States, as is typically the case, and if I was a God fearing Catholic atheist I'd laugh at the irony. I'm reluctant to go forward with Six Feet Under because of its simulated sexual intimacy between Michael C Hall and a gay black partner, and here comes charging out of Paris, with its aggravating double standards, a second decade series about faith and coitus in the real world, and a gay French African, with impulse control issues, climbing the stairway to heaven The French have had an occasional battle with Italy over the Papacy, so its voice is not to be engaged with too much skepticism in its muted but still relevant battle with Protestant Germany, but this is France, and my patience with sniping remonstrance begins to take its toll. Flaubert, Proust, Dumas, no wonder they hated Dumas, even Stendhal. Simenon too, the rich and heavy cream, over-indulged steady diet, wreaks havoc with the blood sugar.

My Aunt Cecily was more chill about homosexuals in the priesthood, my grandmother's half sister. She enjoyed the impersonal circumspect tone, trying to be the grand lady in the know, except during an episode where my mother had a short-lived relationship with a Jamaican. It was repugnant, simply too much for the old woman. Yours truly was mercifully absent.

If I wind up giving my landlord notice in a fit of hysteria, I cannot rescind it and change my mind out of fear. I can't survive on the street and yet the torsion on my leash is at a breaking point. My stepmother is in a home, and after she married my father she wanted me put away, which ignited the war of the Cinderella's in the family until my sister changed her mind about her loyalties. 

I need to get the fuck out of this building so badly I'm likely to wind up in prison, while my father the bullshit artist will assure me on a monitored line that he'll bail me out in the next couple of weeks.  

Faith is as fragile as our loss of muscle tone.

I am on down time out of weariness more than overages. Next week, with provider forbearance.