The DeVito Douglas partnership is for the most part so orchestrated that it conventionalizes itself, but both DeVito and the ancient crones which comprise the make up of the Southern European Aunts Network know what they're talking about when the masquerade of gas feels like a nose dive in a healthy systolic rate. A moment's peace, deflation, and then all the sudden savage invective decibels against minority building managers gently recoils into its daily knot in the stomach.
What is it exactly that spastic wants in terms of her housing and isn't getting? Every large storied building has tenant issues, private or under housing authority contract. Spastic wants a ground level writing studio where she can be left alone as much as humanely possible, ten thousand leagues away from Presbyterian hypocrisy, which doesn't mean Catholic Social Services is off the hook. Blunt and charming nuns ask me if I have my nursing home facility lined up, which is why I am always screaming with Michael C. Hall's hysteria, even if I'm not the gay mortician, in the pit of my stomach.
Perhaps faux fighting President Clinton is a serenade toward an epitaph. His wife is twenty years plus my senior on blood thinning medication with a deer in the headlights astonished look at the country's anger. Would she really be a competent commander in chief? Mozzarella salad in wait, in the genius of Italian gastronomic comfort.
To my Muscovites: I miss being able to make fun of Russian cultural inadequacy. Do come back soon.
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