something in the wind that knows my name-- karen carpenter
I do not want my readers to infer I had an adversarial relationship with Terri Way during her three year employment with Presby. I didn't. We weren't exactly friends, but friendly, in contrast to relations with Trudy Richardson, who trills like a capon with a broken neck, frantically running around the chicken coup, cunning, but vapid, nonetheless morally despicable. Terri was more astute, more adept, and while I am not going to say she was traumatized by the fact that I was attacked by the grandson of a monosyllabic woman of Martin Luther King's era, she was impacted, and transferred out of Diamond Park in 1993, due to how bad it was. Both of us working, I treated her to a beer off City Line while we were both on the clock, regretted it, leaning toward the florid, even back then. I saw her on television for a Blue Cross Blue Shield commercial with Dick Vermeil, subsequent to her departure. That was that, but I let the girl hoodwink me. I know adjudicating Presby for negligence after I was assaulted, while not a mental health panacea, would have given me justice . Tenants of rapes sue their rental agents in civil courts and usually get awarded settlements. What have I gotten? Blatant and hostile discrimination, attacked relentlessly since Trudy was hired, and ableism wonders why it fears my livid bulimic anger, however much caught in a time capsule, like Ryan O'Neal.
O'Neal hasn't responded to my inquiries about The Driver. No reason why he should, and he may not have even seen them. I also promised to go through proper channels, and had best get to his publicist before the embittered actor up and croaks, but if he knew where my analysis of his work with Walter Hill was going, he'd probably be perplexed. Hill was simply positing western values in the burgeoning analogue age of the Me decade, and if references I've read hold, O'Neal wasn't the first casting choice, and yet, this enigmatic fable, distributed in the dawn of Jimmy Carter's measly leadership, is a rebuke to boomers, just as Bryan Fuller rebukes the passive indifference of Muth's generation. Dead Like Me, though it is the most intriguing free broadcast available to me, has its own time capsule quality, endearing, but flawed. Aside from its latter day production problems, one of the reasons Showtime may have cancelled it was its occasional weightiness on modern alienation. It takes a certain amount of bravado, which Mandy Patinkin has in his scene boiling penne, to invite your superior to dinner, and have the gesture all but vanish in a vacuum. Like Muth's Georgia, the only mitigating social extensions I ever had were from my career, and those were wrenched from me. Spending some of my money on the Rosenbach made me feel like an appendage. I grafted more cheaply onto local libertarians and like that better, which illustrates brawn and pretensions mix with volatility, but it's not enough.
When I give my notice to Riverside, I'm rolling away. I'm not coming back, even at the cost of abandoning kimmy, my library, my soiled linens. It will not change my indifference to domestic cleanliness, nor my aging limits, my unfairness to my father. I'll regret it, and maybe I am damning myself, but Richardson's evil is too much for me to carry without it becoming a criminal liability. I have no supports I can count on, and know better than to expect intervention. I'd in fact be astonished, but once I'm on the bus, I'm not turning around.
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