Grieving for Harambe

"I think it's about finding a place to live," Michael C. Clark, my dead academic advisor running a more harried composition course

Beating someone to death is something, an action, in the abstract, of which I believe I'm capable, whether or not I share Depp's cunning at being able to overcome lesser strength and other limitations. I have little to no idea why Depp is on my mind. It is not Secret Window, which I did not like anymore the second time than I did the first. It may be Donnie Brasco, and his latter day Victorian detective in the Hughes brothers From Hell, certainly one of my favorite derivatives. I like things that show me how far I could never go, or believe I could never go, but I never entered into Johnny as a sex idol. For me that was Elton John, the most notorious British fag, and I no longer enter into his piano and Taupin's lyrics with the same sense of masochistic inducement. My grade school teacher Neil Montgomery hooked me onto Elton John, and I queasily regret it, having to peer into revelations not necessarily easy to confront. 21 Jump Street had status, that I know via reputation, but Depp came to me through Tim Burton, as opposed to music, or an aura of a cult icon. Where Ben Landis is on that scale his fans know better than I.

I tweet to Ben and to some degree Nate and Ali like regular people not to show how cool I am, but because how am I supposed to feign being fazed? If I was 15 years younger Nate Maingard might have needed to flee me with an ANC bribe, not to scare the rainbow candy musician, as we know age and youthful beauty rarely collide in triumph, but Landis, to his credit, has me thinking about personalization, in light of his recent queries about abuse. My three recent tweets to Will about Trump and the Russia hack, to my mind, weren't indicative of personal feeling, which cannot be said for Poets & Writers.

I telephoned them, late, after I hesitated to transfer and then beat the anxiety to transfer, and barely heard the editor's name. I left my number with a bit of kimmy's bristling and bushy tail, intending to duke it out. Just as I asked on Gawker, why does this matter? To the extent I have a reputation at all, and I did, it is in spite of PW, not because of them. Yet I supported them for years, and cannot explain to those of you who don't know it what it is like for a majority of people from your own class to turn on you, get you booted, but the circulation department still wants your fucking subscription. What happened to me on Speakeasy is a reflection of what ambulatory society does to quadriplegics and those with Downs, with MR. Poets & Writers was a predominate voice in my life before they were Poets & Writers. Before I collapse in the exhaustion of age, there will be a score to settle.