Robert Guillaume's Fake Prison Milk Eye

Mario Puzo's Hell's Kitchen is less widely  known than The Godfather. It covers the same terrain in slightly weaker form, with its central character getting whacked off in a Jacuzzi, wherein the novelist allows the dying consciousness its self-depreciating voice, the same as any wise guy. You can see within this narrative that Puzo was a man of Eisenhower lesbian erotica. It wasn't an "identity" back then. More like the ultimate patriarchal fantasy: two pussies and a dick in the middle. I suppose its exposition on what Hell's Kitchen then represented is a complimentary bookend to the 1990 State of Grace, one of the few films in which I do not like Ed Harris' role. The slow motion gun battle in the bar is one of the more idiotic in the annuals of modern film, and a waste of Harris' otherwise extraordinary energy, which I sit here considering, impacted to the point of day long discomfort, an overgrown toenail still waiting to be sawed. The first film in which Harris ever made an impression on me, though it might have been another actor look alike, he was mock fucking his wife in a standing position, virtually having a stroke in order to project restrained violence in intercourse. I've never seen anything like it before or since, but I'd certainly be interested in trying it, my shins raised to the collarbone. Less arthritis pain. I never had sex in affection, only illicit excitement. Whether I'm right or wrong about the scene being one of his earlier roles, after A History of Violence Ed just seemed to explode with a string of great performances. This is why I am suffusing my synapses, attempting to contextualize it, my stepmother once again in hospital, my father exhausted, while my head is doing a little pep rally, cheerleading: die you damn bitch.

Niume cratered, as one might suppose, top heavy as it was with mostly insufferable posts. I am getting weary of the necessity of digital improvisation, all the same, but in not so many hours, I'll rear my head to enter the preliminary stages of my piece for the think tank, though the Russia investigation is steam rolling.

Areas of Divergence

On Milo: I told you so five years ago with Slate's decision to publish Jesse Bering's diffident advocacy for pedophiles. I also told you that Dick Wolf's Law & Order guild writers saw this coming during the peek of Andrew Sullivan's media recognition, but before Milo snatched his alter ego's thunder, and no one listened to me. No conservative editor waded through my anger, acumen, or anything else, to see that I was ahead of this curve, and so, okay, I was ahead, and civilized societies no longer murder their way out of aberrant sexual orientation chemistry, and, outside of Africa and certain other vanishing medieval terrains, the closet is gone, unless Peter Thiel litigates a new cloth out of the old by prohibiting the revelation of sexual orientation. Where does this leave us? 
No where beneficial, but I will say this as a Catholic atheist: Homosexuals cannot be Christians. It is an apostasy. And yes, I believe this. They may be shown mercy, and God is mysterious, but they cannot be followers of Christ if they must live by homoerotic desire. Kristof enjoyed pointing out that biblical text has nothing to say about lesbianism, but this is literalist nonsense. If sodomy is an abomination, under terms of patriarchal dominance in doctrinal law, then two women engaged in coital orgasm through oral stimulation meets the same definition of the term. 
Why does the atheist in me care, particularly if it violates libertarian tenets, at least at first glance? Stability, cohesion, and boundary.
The problem there: the boundary is already shattered, Milo's musing aside. We're headed for very troubled times, very troubled times indeed, and the consequences will be far more significant than a blogging administrator's alarm at what many consider my ridiculous stridency on the issue. Marriage is a sacrament. Same sex activity is hormonal indulgence which contributes nothing to God's grace, but this is where we are headed, Milo's vision a meld to HG Well's secret horror in The Time Machine. Remember? Think about it. I have a previous engagement.

El Nino Effect

"Do you trust me Louis?"-- Augustus Brew, silicon archetype

The abbreviated version of my limited interactions with Cecil Morales can be summarized as follows: I joined his Catholic discussion group on Yahoo, and he then returned the favor by joining Disability Arts, which still hangs like a thumbnail, and then we went to email. I have no reason to believe he wasn't who he claimed to be, that pictures of him rough housing his son weren't a father with his boy, or that he wasn't Argentinean. We talked on telephone. I dangled my cunt like a trollop, and Josie Byzek, as I've written with past scathing bitterness, lashed out at him publicly, for motives I have already surmised: Give me an inch and I talk the length of the turf, I pull on people, and give little thought to telling lesbians wrapped up in the belief in Jesus Christ that they're going to hell. Did I email her that? No, but her insistence on her right to religious communion is blasphemy, and this may have gnawed on her subconscious.

I was paid in full. His insensitivity troubled her, but not I, and what he had wasn't looks. It was intellect, and this is what Miss Byzek disrupted: I could, at one time, talk to Cecil about ideas. I wanted that more than any worries over dangling and impotent cartilage, but what, now, can I do? I look haggard. I'm mentally beaten, struggling with my grandfather's bowel issues, anxiety, agitation, subsistence, and Frank Versante? Frank and I looked the part, but we had no real connection other than prurient groping, which ceased long before his death, almost a year ago. We were always disconnected, never into each other, despite his claims he loved me. That wasn't the case. He was just a dirty old bastard. I punished him, and pushed him. Made him do things, refused to accept that he wanted his helplessness, wanted his infantile indulgence. Now I'm alone, in the middle of the January thaw, fighting panic. I can cave in again, recertify this April, barring any catastrophic changes to HUD's policies, but it is not the unknown elements of the Trump Administration feeding my fear. It is rather the knowledge that I am not going to last another year in this building, and I'm at a loss. Psychiatry will, if it comes to that, merely invalidate me, nothing more. It will not fundamentally alter the livid hatred with which I'm struggling, the consequent difficulty of putting all this aside, focusing on work. I've nothing to offer an attorney, or an attorney's firm, beyond contingency; I cannot expect anything from my family, and even less from digital networks. I can wade my way through welfare intake, just make the call, but I'd drive away another fifty attendants, no matter how hard I try. Some of them may victimize me again, and I already know how much worse it can get. If I wrote these two paragraphs though, I suppose more can be coaxed. The sin, the grave sin in the back of my mind, that charming plan, I fear the suffering it would cause me, so much more suffering for such deplorable acts of impulse which put me in niggerland, which made me a poor old quad the President elect would satirize, a public spectacle of diminution. Pure Genius gets a small bump for giving an ALS sufferer an arc, without examining the moral issues of personal dignity in the face of such debilitation.

Death Knell

"Your mouth is your weapon," a Jamaican named Esmin, long gone

The progressive left does have its own economic mechanism, one of equally limited resource distribution. It is called the grant proposal; this philanthropy is the driving engine of academic studies, and it is also an important part of why Liberty Resources inducts the disabled, and then gets sued and hated by them, people like me, but to broaden the scope, NCIL, of which Liberty is a member, would not exist without two things: Medicaid Waiver resource allocation, and grants awarded by Foundations, or trusts like Pew, which funded me at Matrix, until I turned off the tap. (Yes, I resigned and caused the disenfranchised to lose their income, talk about tough love.) I have written more than dozens of posts about why NCIL's "centers" are a fucked, static little bubbles, destroying as many disabled lives as they empower, but even outside of community integration models, disabled individuals who are matriculated, because they want to help, make promises on which they cannot deliver. Disability In Arts, which now hangs quietly on Yahoo Groups, a fucking disaster, because the real crips could not understand I was after an aesthetic inquiry, and lezzie bitch did her thing, as I've posted in the past, but look at her flatulent happy face, whereas I hide behind a baby picture, because, offered me additional sorry experiences. Another lesbian, who looked like Meat Loaf, worked at a technical school in Maryland, and offered me a class on this very topic, utilizing pop culture, like Star Trek. then she vanished, after I duly printed the syllabus. After pressing her, I discovered her department did not have the money to bankroll the course. Why did she offer it to me then? I cannot pay my bills with a slap on the back to console my intelligence. I went through a similar experience with a PhD in San Francisco with polio. I was going to edit and mentor challenged journalism students. Her grant fell through, but as she had not blindsided me, I stayed with her voluntarily. I inadvertently became terse-- I do not mean uncouth and belligerent, as I am here, just testy, about something, and she, being a Bay area liberal, cut me loose. That was that. She was just "trying to help," and I knew that. I wasn't trying to break up, but I was indigent then, very badly so. It is a travesty that my mother would have to die with an unexpected insurance payout five years or so later, and I utterly failed to get myself out from under this building-- but I can't dwell on that. It wasn't enough of an asset for a commercial lease. I would think, that even though wheelchair users have the shared experience empathy, we could try a little better to stop setting ourselves up for failures like these. Dale doesn't quite fit into this promises promises, as he and I don't know each other, but it came to the same thing, cross purposes. He IM'd about his grant, I IM'd back I'd be willing to explore a job proposal, and if it walks like a duck, it may actually be arsenic destroying Puget Sound's ecosystem. I need work, not giving him a free plug. It is true I've used Australian sources for my past features blowing up attendant care, but that can only be taken so far. My sense is that the Australian IL net is more pervasive than the stateside system in the US, more laissez faire, as is intimated in Muriel's Wedding, but I have little inclination to relocate to England's penal colony, and have little idea what Dale and his peers are complaining about, in terms of quality controls, as it seems.
In light of this, the Chicago attack, which went viral long before I paused to see the news clip in the traditional way, illustrates that the law is often as cock and bull as these failed empowerment attempts. If it had been me, I would have forced that lovely Windy City crew to mortally injure me. To echo Michelle Cottle, out of the old New Republic, before candy ass Hughes bought it, all hate crime statues do is overburden a judiciary that is already overtaxed with addicts eating their own feces.

Karma Buried in Nepal

"This is how the legal system works, so you work within it."-- Marlo Thomas

"We have a few steps."-- Good Karma Cafe

Now that I can join Nick Denton in the legal threats department for the deliberate use of an appalling analogy, and possibly join a Temple University professor with whom I studied Faulkner in earning an FBI file, but what can they threaten me with when my landlord utilized the Department of Health and Human services to suggest Inglis House? Regardless of how pretty the Inglis site looks to the eye, it is comparable to a minimum security prison: I may not have been a troubleshooter there for the better part of two decades, but the facility is the equivalent of an equally minimum security insane asylum, and whatever the sin of spiraling hell, I'm not going, and thus have a constant fingertip on my pulse, but even in small things, my engagement with the literary community has been a whirlwind of bravado as heady as crash landing in Tibet: hauling two flights of stairs in Robin's Book Store to read for the enigmatic Grecian lesbian who was Alexandra Grilikhes. Our association, never fully contextualized, was predicated on a degree of willful blindness. I pretended not to heed the homosexual sirens flashing in my Freudian id, and she pretended I wasn't a disruptive jackass who fit right in with University of Pennsylvania's ratified Ivy League sentiments. There was also my brazen five hour train ride to Pittsburgh, in my wee little manual chair. Immortal words to Harry Calhoun when the car opened at the station, "I have to pee!" He has a small penis, such kind observations after a 72 hour holiday of insanity, inclusive of the lovable loathsome Louis McKee. We talked all the time, Lou and I, me turning green after he won a grant.

Now I have to make do with the minute slights of parking my chafed tail bone outside of ad hoc neo-beatnik locales. What I am trying to say is I'm totally with the psychology of moving on; I'm doing my damnest, but the cyanide capsule of the ADAPT pathology which is Riverside Presbyterian's unique variation of human trafficking is the Battle of Somme on my soul. Erik von Schmetterling's day attendant did not engage in toxic behavior toward me once, or twice, it was persistent, continual, for nearly 8 months; then I challenged him and he threatened, denigrated me, and yes, after everything I've written here about victimization clinging to my flesh like a Zika infection, I am throwing down the gauntlet, unable, like you, to casually barhop in the best areas. If I could stick a pin in a map, if I could get there, I'd be gone by the end of next week, hitching my battery charger to Nebraska if I thought I had the wherewithal.

Lazy Vis-a-Vis a Stuffy Nose, 2, or is it 3?

As proof that I'm capable of changing my mind, at least as it pertains to California as evil empire, I offer Yabberz a qualified endorsement as a community of argument suited to my skeptical temperament. How it helps me with market share depends on how much you like the way Tim Burton put Big Fish and Albert Finney together, but for now, remembering that I cannot debate with users all day, I reply to Mike Horton with a somewhat less pro forma "your welcome," reminding myself not to assume all his users are idiots. I do not really want to post about race relations there, I've taken enough heat here, and my two media threads didn't catch, one was a bubbling pitch and the other was candy man news, but okay (developmental mind roaring faggots). Rejection of gay cultural norms is complex, and most of my life I've feared lesbian predation, which nevertheless didn't protect me from it, and the only reason I got past it: I had no choice, but know it's not for me either, even if a man never loved me. Dragging ass in kitchen for coffee. How am I still functioning?

Travanti Hemlock at the root

"It is therefore no surprise to find that anti-homosexual repression is itself an indirect manifestation--" Homosexual Desire, page 55

I probably take the national prize for online inappropriate behavior, and one year went *off* in email with a sort of loose jointed Briton about trauma conversion. Total stranger, and I'm emailing him about a rather intimate issue of masochism, probably fresh in the aftermath in my tug of war with my former supervisor-mentor, but some years before the half-breed from the inner city violated my personal sanctity, upon which I discovered I couldn't be masochist enough, and fought, but to be entirely honest, there is a part of my psyche, after years of learned devaluation, that could have let this absolutely repugnant female have her way, and destroyed myself in the process, but in coming to terms with it, I'm now beginning to put it away, to stop twisting my head, and the next African American who tries a "Miss Eddy* maneuver isn't going to enjoy the consequences.

Leaving Travanti frozen in the eighties of his prime to be able to watch a relatively contemporary work like C.O.G. bite on the ass from a distance takes courage, in more ways than one: Bochco fed us Frank Furillo as a nearly messianic figure, and this is a grave sin, a set of expectations offered by a fictional character against which we judge the men we think we want, the ones who reject us next to the gluttons we reject. Travanti and Bosson really were sanitized versions of my mother and father. It hurts, surprisingly, and leaves us with residues of what we have to offer, which we do, in reserves, until dementia or what will kill us takes over.

Be prepared for post-menopausal pain. It is something a woman over 50 needs to discuss with potential new boyfriends. I was just getting the hang of sex after my fling with Pat, my ludicrous fling which still has an undercurrent of dread, in my thirties, and then the ball stopped, and if I get into Frank (the ex) and sex I may end up asking a hunter to go retrieve that rifle with scope, but it can never now be the same, an expression of a bond of appreciation, had it been if I had been more resourceful in resilient middle years.

Why did I bother to chastise CrimeMonitor? Because I am a victim, two, three, four times over, and when the account holder actually bothered to pay attention, his subsequent click of "unfollow" was the behavior of a mongrel, another arm chair cosmetic. I at least make an effort to think about what accounts have to offer. He, or she, has earned my contempt.

Pakistan Is A Scorpion

I just had a chat, not so much strange, as disconcerting, with an alleged contractor for the US Marines on Google Plus, and I was polite, but bewildered. I am too soldered up with naive scar tissue to play cyber fantasy games, anymore. I used to, but  got too sucked into it, and cursed myself for logging on to see how Hangout connections worked.

What the fuck am I supposed to say to men younger than I with my drying punta, to take a term from Barry Unsworth, the great mimic? Of whom I was not cognizant of decease, by the way, and thought the novelist still living. 

I miss sex, being a naturalized trollop, I do, but I also know it is too late for me to find liberation with a man, on Viagra or not. My affairs were hurried trysts, without orgasm, frigid woman ripe to get her head twisted by homosexual vultures and straight mentally ill molesters alike. Some of which I've detailed, perhaps not well enough for my viewers to understand the sense of violation these inappropriate behaviors from my clients imposed on me.

He is a Hispanic widower from Ohio on the ground in Syria, and my sympathy, if he wasn't bluffing, walked hand in hand with an interior tantrum: I am fucking bored and don't want to be doing this. Everyone wants a photograph. I directed him to the photo I uploaded on Medium with my Afghan column, an incongruous image placed there because I did not want to run afoul of permissions. 

Since I had lashed out at my former manager the way I did fifteen years ago I assumed it was due to bisexual susceptibility, and challenged myself accordingly, but never went in search of an experiment. The women who actually did hit on me made me feel three things: the mixed race woman who dared to do what she did triggered a need for self-immolation and a homicidal urge to give her a lethal hematoma. This is the reality of state intake systems. Like Cosby's alleged accusers, who couldn't gain traction, I have to live with the knowledge that I could have subjugated myself for the benefit of Miss Eddie's indulgence; she would have died if she had forced her pass much further than she did, and it can always happen again. The only response from the ambulatory world is to go through another 50 minorities with whom I do not wish to engage; we should be able to do better than this, which is why I fight Presby's intimidation tactics so forcefully. Eviction notices are more humane than 22 years of harassing intimidation to pair me with women who exploit me.

The client? Sharon was an amputee. I was tired. It was past ten in the evening. I was at the Darby Project Share in my small manual Quickie in which I wasn't all that maneuverable, supposed to use my skills as an advocate, but people self-involved in mental aberration, I've learned, could care less, and try to take advantage, and that is what Sharon did, whipping out her arm behind my back and running her finger up an erogenous zone. My back flexed involuntarily, but her hit wasn't arousing, and in fact what was being gauged was my susceptibility to collapsing boundaries, much like what Annabella Scoirra faces as the vulnerable therapist against Deborah Unger. Scoirra raises her palm to halt her patient. With Sharon, all I could do was retreat inward because of where I was, and woke with the memory Monday morning, angry. This is what I've been subjected to all my life: finger fucked in the Home of the Merciful Savior, assaulted under my mother's blind shadow. You know the rest, but unlike Chris Cooper, doing the repressed fanatic in American Beauty, chewing cunt isn't on my secret Happy menu. If it was I'd have a few bodies on my belt by now.

Yes, I feel provoked, and shouldn't have responded to the fellow's invitation. My post title comes from Lynn, a reporter I once posted with, echoing what all Americans knew after nine eleven.

Bleeding Ego

"It deserves its own taxonomy of suckitude." Julia Scott, more cutesie than a grandiose spastic

If you put this online you'll regret it immediately, interior conscious intoned. Interior conscious voice was absolutely correct, and the piece isn't kept for it virtual jazz with a composite of a man whose intellectual energy was all but fatal to a precocious disposition embedded in quadriplegia; it isn't kept for the sake of the fact that it serves as a bad apologia for not doing the work toward dissertation, nor for self-pity.

Given that, writers need to know when to throw something out, move on: my animosity toward my philosophy professor was unconscious when I was 21, but age has seasoned an intense dislike: he did sleep with a student, did hurt her, and I did get angry, and it did have repercussions I shall  leave unstated. Some wounds are worth picking; some aren't, and naked bodies horrify me when I am not ready, and when I am, make me laugh callously. Penises seem to convey evolution has a sense of humor (can I hear Richard Dawkins scoff? see how Catholic atheists and Anglican atheists get on? Dawkins and I would come to blows in roughly five minutes on the talk circuit). I keep Discard because I am trying to get at something, and may keep some elements of the meta-autobiography.

There are interesting imperfections and, more simply, just imperfections, and knowing the difference takes seasoning.

The spastic in the story was present in the narrative before my (ahem) nervous breakdown, and I asked myself if I was a latent lesbian like Fern, the Jewish Trotsky who case managed with an iron fist and was driven out by my favorite transsexual. I have known too many faggots for my own good, after all, and I've created bisexual women for my own subversive intentions, so that must mean something, but masochism isn't the same thing as gravitation: breast nipples and and the modesty of the labia do not arouse me. 

However, my now nefarious supervisor was causing me pain, and I kept talking. Real fucking smart solution, and 14 years to even begin to ease my trauma, being disparaged by colleagues, classmates, because two women with cerebral palsy, slighting-touched by it more than some, inflicted so much damage on each other. I miss Linda Dezenski. She was the peer I never had growing up, and needed, and while she and I were screaming at each other on the phone, 14ish years back, "What do you want from me?" She wailed. Enough respect, for a start, for her to admit her liability, make amends for it. If people like her are true believers, that is what you do.

How is this a tutorial on revising and discarding, again? 

Adversary Across The Table

With a supreme act of will springing from the essence of his being, he turned away from his life and the long train of disastrous consequences that had flowed from it." --Richard Wright, Native Son, page 255, 1957 edition

I have held certain cards close to my chest about offering a responsible discussion on race, and after branching out into as many estuaries as there are going back into our seas, I've given up. Fewer black friends than gay ones, yes, but they existed, a blind couple. The wife who thought I was going to suicide over my breakdown at the capable mind games in the hands of my former spastic supervisor, her husband, my neighbor Roger Moore from long ago, sexually attractive paraplegic baller, not many more, leading into the question of why Dr. Ben Carson gained notoriety: because Americans who pay attention to network newscasts which assume a mature audience needn't be coddled like cutting edge medicine, because conjoined twins are still enough of an anomaly to hold our attention, because John Hopkins denotes prestige and Ted Koppel's God complex, and Carson was a minority neurosurgeon in this stratosphere, and yet something cut across the com links and the studio lighting in his emotive force about the Bjani sisters, a viewer could not forget the stress and anguish of "bathroom by committee," and it is that intense emotional investment by which one understands how Carson evolved into the dark horse surprise as 1 in 15.

Do I believe he will succeed Obama? No. Am I aware of the contradiction of respecting his forthrightness juxtaposed against my intolerance? Yes, and I do not intend to resolve it here; in much the same vein that liberal critics plaster Losing Isiah for tasting like tree bark, any critical observations genuinely threaten to veer off the asphalt. People like me give offense, and receive tin ears. We don't even know what having a frank discussion means anymore, except what we internalize when we're in it. Memory seeps like putty after a time, and I seem to recall Richard Corliss making grist about Jessica Lange twenty years ago, but that could not have been possible. The film still was the sociological fodder in its moment, and is, on a certain level, ludicrous. Halle might have been prepping for Cat Woman, and white adoption of black children often leads to depression and mental health disorders.

The film made an imprint, not over its quality, but over its construct and what it straddled, and then gets crucified by superior progressives like Kurchak and lambasted by those like spastic on a rightward drift, who has seen black parents engaged in aggravated assault against their children-- not to excuse my dead mother and her men, but there is still a difference.

Let me switch gears momentarily: I had a traumatic experience in email borne out of desperation and fear and told a former supervisor I thought I had fallen in love with her. On her end she was, or so I speculate, trying to save her marriage by sportscasting to me a little too much. Fifteen years later, I am debating letting a possible occlusion kill me and she wrote herself a demotional grant of some sort and still has a salary. I've put myself on trial, picked pieces apart, and I'll never be entirely repaired, even though I was in a bad space and can't put the onus entirely on her behavior-- but what it did was absolutely shut down LBGT tolerance. I will never knowingly associate with homosexuals again, not after what I put myself through. 

I could, however, sit down with Dr. Carson. The gulf would be there, but both he and I know institutional paradigms to the bean, and I would not assign blame at his door for what happened to me within the community of his ethnicity. This does not mean I'd apologize for the very dark nature of my posts; it does mean I could engage, unless I err that he'd utilize the normal mechanism of recrimination.

All precocious invalids have champions

"The mess has become an old friend."-- a French actress protecting her champion

It is uncanny, when biological rhythms themselves attune to conscious attachment, wake the body without the convenience of the alarm on the device, wakes you in time, despite the familiar eruption of a shameful rectal attack, which is oddly a relief, the battle with control, which is, however, transitioning into what will eventually kill, malady unknown, a sense of vertigo, starting way back at 36, getting significantly worse in the movement past your half century. Through the lens of Simenon, the animosity between the British and the French is utterly comprehensible, because the Franks have this insufferable sensibility of discretion, which would wisely serve us all ably if anyone paid the slightest attention. I don't, having dispensed with it all, but it is spring, I am sick, as usual, having warned myself about the container of almond butter, consumed not from greed. Desire for protein.

Just as Simenon manufactures a homosexual jurist in a dim interior, Maigret rents a room manufactures a faded damsel with broken wings, who thrives only when her spatial relation is rotated away from our fortunately stable sun, and has a love triangle which nearly results in a cop killing. I always try to give Maigret my rapt attention, but why Martinaud had to die for Mrs. Boris--- well being remains slightly puzzling. He was a loan shark of some sort, and the husband, soon to be a pensioner, was no guarantee. She fought Jules past fighting to save the man who valued her honor.

Affairs, much like homosexual secrets, often lead to mayhem as exemplified by the Fletcher case. To an American sensibility, Susan Chrzanowski was a culpable instigator in this locally sensational tragedy, and she paid a price. I could compare Susan to myself, but it is different. A sexually frustrated poet starved for passionate foreplay, setting herself up most of the time, is not the same thing as a presiding judge getting hot and heavy with a malcontent like Michael, who probably did shoot his wife. I base this on the fact that the parents noted Leann hated guns, and I'd never touch one myself, not even for an alpha male too good to be true. (This does not mean I am not joining the Libertarian Party. I am, but guns are dangerous in the immediate process of their utility, and I'm spastic; I'd never touch them.)

Yet we need love affairs. Need them to expose them. I support illicit sexual activity, in other words, without franchising equal treatment for homosexual orientation under the equal protection clause, making my principles rather difficult to defend, but I am going to be dead soon. I've never addressed whether or not I think a lesbian experiment on my part would have led to better sexual satisfaction. I have my reaction to feeling threatened on the one hand, and the passes, Eddie's molestation on the other, and not that it is entirely relevant, but I think not. I am not aroused by breasts, not particularly interested in deltas even of a better class act than mine (my anatomy is non standard) so no, I do not think a domestic arrangement similar to New Mobility's Josie Bysek is something I really desire and am fiercely repressing, despite my latch keys. I cannot stop other women from touching me inappropriately. It angers me, and I understand why those who engage in these sneak attacks are sometimes killed. We'll let Google measure that yardstick of an account in good standing, rolling my eyes.

To clear up any confusion, the company offered me an url for my Google plus account, and indicated I had *good standing". This company wearies, a little.

Extinction to the 10

"I turned to the person next to me and said if this was risk analysis, I would rather drill my eye out with a hand augur." Thomas Peltier

Cindy Boren, despite brand headline dramatization, may be right about the demise of the NFL, and if she is right, I may just save the Blogger technocrats some stress, archive my account, and have myself arrested for intent to commit a hate crime. The prison system could not afford the expenditure, but it amounts to the same thing.

Domestication, coupled with luck of evolutionary design, allowed homo sapiens to succeed to the point of exterminating our own sub species, despite the fact that species alternates make life more interesting, but the death of American football, like the death of Roman Catholicism, like the replacement of a sovereign head of state with an autonomic statutory procedure, spells the beginning of the end-- this is why I am against giving homosexuality equal treatment (I've lost this battle, concede the fact, but plow on, unable to feat a transplant to Uganda.) 

Our own pacification means we lose our adaptive advantage, and don't tell me athletes don't know that performance doesn't take a toll. Everyone knew, even without giving the term "punch drunk" a medical tag replacement like CTE. Love of the game, like anything, is about doing, creating something greater than ourselves, but no, mothers (if she was a mother) like Kelly Clark want to transform humanity into mole rat colonies.

I am going to take a risk, as a socially inappropriate minority, and make a discomfiting assertion. Those of us with developmental issues over-personalize: I still live with my umbilical cord psychic attachment to Jerry McGuire, best damn Shakespearean on the East Coast; I'll never get over the fact that Gail was a better match for the John P. Tassoni who broke my heart, and I will never be able to trust disability activism in the same way because of what Linda Dezenski and Josie Byzek did to me. I'd let it go if either had the courage to publicly address the fact that they crossed the line, but they won't, but there you have it. I speak the language of personal absence, and did not know Kelly Clark was trying to get DIA out of the public domain, at least on the basis of my twitter feed. That said, I was trying to be nice, to take a cue, or two, from her tweets, and expand on them, and yes, feel a trifle, just a trifle, hurt that she either blocked me or closed her account. I was attempting to engage with her, not adopt her; if she was a kid, well, I am not writing to a target YA audience..

This is how we think, people with brain damage. Dispassionate processes are not how we make our approach, and with that said, I wish Kelly the best. If she was a dyke I had no way of knowing, and she did not have to read my links if they violated her sense of propriety. 

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.

Voyage of the Damned

"I'm going to kill that bitch!"-- Joanne Woodward, conventionalized fury

My efforts to work offline are thwarted, not because of turning in to a social media junkie, but because Karina so innocently obliterated my hard copy existence as a writer because I did not rush out of the bathroom naked to throttle the disconcerted dumbass, compounded by the fact that Presby has compounded my social fears to the ninth power, my revision files of all my mania driven poetry are basically gone, and many drafts were worth saving.

I'm starving, sick, back in indigence, and my life has been eradicated. I wanted to rewrite a complicated suburban piece, a poem about my mother's dyke friend, would be lover, and once, my second mom. I was attached to Kathy. I call her Kmac in here as much to shield my psyche from the depth of my intimacy with homosexuals, both unrealized and known alike (I knew Erik was gay when I hung out with him and Jimmi, but his vagina was news to me and when s/him told me, it was a rare instance when I nearly threw up in his face). As ridiculous as it is, I feel betrayed by Kathy Mac, feel that my childhood sanctity was destroyed by her sexual deceptions, and the few times my sister had her over after my mother's death, I made nice about bridging the gap, but knew the gap would remain, a permanent geological chasm. I cannot prove, but believe she had covert terminations, and most of my data has vanished, because I am browbeat by thick set domestics and snake-tongued prevaricating bulls with tits, my favorite fecal pair, Trudy and Debra. 

I am not the only writer and minimal author (barely one, I guess) to lose so much, but I'm not 35 anymore, and my sense of being threatened and continually overwhelmed is a non-stop conveyor belt. I used to love doing what I do, and Presbyterian Homes has been successful at one thing: leaving me in continual fear of my life. I had to leave Diamond Park, but Riverside had made me pay a high price for its eroding stability-- more inner city residents live here now than 20 years ago-- and another move is on we go, round and round.

Evacuation on the wind

"To most observers, my grandfather had been as elated to hear of Japan's decision to surrender as had the next man." John McCain's Faith of My Fathers

Mmm. Reiteration of the fact that I do not submit a great deal of my work to small press journals anymore. I have three pages of contributor copies of small press journals, mostly stashed in my closet shelf with the other journals in which I do not appear. From the time I began my post renovation recovery in 2008, through today, I have written nearly a thousand blog posts, had one non fiction essay accepted in a special Appalachian issue which I need to dig out of kitchen drawer, and fewer friendly rejections than I used to receive. People who do litzines are basically leftists who make fun of creative inanity for the most part. Intimate with the culture, I'm nonetheless no longer a fresh voice,

Like Charles Krauthammer. It may surprise you to learn I do not often agree with political conservatives on much of what they espouse. Homosexuality is more of a moral issue on which I've soured because of my past intimacy with homosexuals and my own insecurity about women who indulge in lewd pleasuring making passes at me. If this ever happens to me again I will attempt to kill the woman who does it, and I'll stand trial claiming self defense-- but I will engage the liberal censure of auto erotic threat postures another day. Trauma doesn't make these issues less complex-- and I cannot deny a voyeuristic examination of gay sexuality. Recovered enough that I can separate curiosity from what would make me happy-- and a happy embattled spastic flea bitten poet-- that is a tall order.

What interests me about the aging, uptight psychiatrist, and the fresher Texan AG is their successful refusal to allow paraplegia to define them. I am interested in the silences, as it is obvious to my viewers that cerebral palsy is still a badge which I assert, though I could be fraudulent. None of you know for sure. The poet Robert Thomas, his wife Cheryl, whom I have psychologically adopted as the female friend I might have had if I did not have to flee for the bus with a thieving Jehovah's Witness who only furthered my convictions about race and black theology, they know. It is interesting that two white moderately progressive writers met me at read promotions, and with knowledge of my intemperate sins between them, one cut me. The other sends me his collections. I occasionally do the same, but, god forbid if I had their telephone number. Cheryl might then buy my former supervisor a decent civilian attorney. I could talk God out of Judgement Day given half the chance. Griot as an insulating shield. Griot as an outcry, a need. 

Perhaps Kathleen Parker's name recognition would not heighten my profile as much as Jennifer Rubin's would, but Jennifer is not yet quite Parker. She's savvier and actually the type of conservative female a better metamorphosis might have molded me into; when Rubin is on she is as sharp as a tack. My foreign policy is more ruthless, more frightening, hopefully not sentiments that would gain Mossad's attention. The state of Israel is a failure and its eventual dissolution is inevitable. More stable powers need to declare certain territories as ungovernable and turn them into protectorates until issues of autonomy can be resolved. This includes Pakistan, North Korea, Israel, Iraq, Yemen, Somalia, Sudan (why does South and North Sudan exist?) Libya, Chad, Haiti, the San Dominican Republic, Syria, unfortunately. We all have lists. 

Cecil Morales and strong impressions

None of Josie's online images look like the woman I've met in her various incarnations, but this image of her is the most unflattering ugly woman gone dyke lotus I could find. This is the mother earth udder who burned me over a trade journalist widower who was such a charming bigot. I am not often kind to myself, but I am more attractive than Josie, and I will not be charged under federal hate crime statues in the event of her death. I'd like to kill her, in my idiomatic class conscious roots, but one lesbian knife in the back isn't worth a contract hit. Nor was Cecil the love of my life. I joined his Catholic group and emailed him later with the thought that I had a yeast infection.

Got his attention, exchange of pictures, numbers. Pragmatic suburbanites to whom I complained about lesbian high crimes said I should have kept the man off my group. Housewives aren't always lacking in wisdom. What Josie disrupted beneath my feet was the shared interests Cecil and I could discuss, that I am starved for, and don't have the courage to keep getting knocked down online in searching for it.

I cannot talk to Frank, but Cecil read me; he was astute, a romantic Argentine who overcame his looks. Josie took this from me, just blew it away, and my hatred, therefore, toward LGBT norms doesn't come unsanctioned. I'm lonely. Burned to the tenth power, and now I'm 52. I don't have many concealed cards left to turn, and when I told Cecil I'd take the train to DC so he could see I was telling the truth, I received the standard internet alarm: he'd call the authorities. I don't want another chance specifically with him. Two caustic tongues in the same room doesn't regenerate moisture, but this is where progressive tolerances have left me, rolling from Jew bitch to dyke, while everyone has a piece in the Mexican's ass. 

Ambulatory men have done bad things to me, but decent ones exist. The husband's I stole taught me that. I've always wanted one for myself; my life will be over soon.

Twilight Spaces

"It lies between the pit of man's fears and the summit of his knowledge."-- Rod Serling

Yes, I know people. Let it all go, and I demean my once fine, if wounded, intelligence, by denigrating self'indulgent bitches. It is over. Miss Eddy was vanquished, and the white mental health amputee Sharon who also thought I was a tasty dyke vibe, I will undoubtedly never see again. I am not one of Hillary Clinton's victims of war rape. For the natives of the Congo who managed to migrate out of that horrific scenario, it is over. Not for me.

Minority attendants have been known to be charged with manslaughter, second degree murder, grand larceny. When I was Ms. Dezenski's happier subordinate, I was indelibly impressed upon by fully paralyzed men with horror stories of their apartments being cleaned out while they were forcibly left stranded. I have written a thousand dollars of articles on the subject. My analytic abilities were no surety. And after what I went through after ten years of defying the model, I live in fear of my life.

When I was 23 years old, fresh in exile, I did not utilize paraprofessionals, and battled through a failed career, a miserable life, a complex sense of threat by Ms. Dezenski which I brought on my own head by letting her sow crab grass onto my impending distress (and this was a friendship how exactly, what the mother fuck am I mourning/hating and nearly powerless to vindicate?) to not utilizing them once again, but my strength is shrinking like Gina Torres parrying with Mads, vibrant actress she is, strength that ebbs out of me, like stool mucus. I left television off to work Friday and forgot the second season premiere. Do I watch it now, sleepy, tinnitus buzzing?

Maybe I will find a way to relocate; maybe I won't. I am 52 and shrinking, and I'd rather be euthanized than be turned into an African American trash talking fuck toy, or worse. Diane Babikian, former coordinator manager at Liberty, when I finally got her on the phone, this before the great 2008 layoff, "said ooooooo no," in relation to my coordinator's lack of professionalism, but she also implied that maybe I misinterpreted Eddy's attempted seduction, as if a woman in her mid-forties can't tell when she is being propositioned. If Chris Christie cannot get out of high school, disability centers run on perpetual elementary instruction. 

Dr. George Cruthers was a quack. He had a school, aptly called George Cruthers. He tortured children with cerebral palsy with corporeal punishment. My method of surviving:  throwing a blue in the face squall which moved my fuck up parents enough to withdraw me after one year. Linda C Dezenski was there for seven. Seven years of a would be cultish-like Ron Hubbard. Fortunately Pennsylvania is clueless when it comes to the creation of infamous repressed homosexuals.

March Winds Slicing Pillow Down

To die cradled in a decentralized exploitation model isn't much of a victory for matriculation, and that is what nigger filth like Miss Eddy forced me to remember-- not that a homoerotic experience would be a dangerous thrill, but that it gets people killed because it is duplicitous, dishonorable. My father let niggers hurt me when I was a child. My father let niggers hurt me because he married a sick and mentally unstable woman who needed to get away from an austere mother. The sick and unstable woman lost his son and managed to rip me out of her womb in grand theater, before she bore my dead brother. I wasn't good enough, so I could eat rust with Abraham Lincoln's burden. A university education didn't change much. Minor miracle that I once had a 3.5 GPA at all, within or without an institution.

Case management has been one continuous line of abuse, and no legal rhetoric, nor anything Liberty Resources represents changes that. The coordinators are mostly unattractive women who need an income and get one by behaving like den mothers, close ranks against the suffering and expulsion they generate, and yet, transvestites like Erik, bull dykes like like Nancy, they treat decentralization like a Biblical commandment. Erik, regardless of my animosity, is dying, and how following black Caribbeans around on a leash is better than centralized nursing care, this is not much of a differential

Sure, vulnerable crunchies like Louise, the online contact who chased me, they have civil service protection. I spent 16 years traumatized by the medical model, another three years patted on the head as an integrated Ridley Township school district token. My mother's lovers liked my tits. I run, dump myself onto Temple's vocational repositories. I sincerely hope my viewers have a more peaceful demise than that which lies in store for me. I cannot close the book on women like Eddy. I'm a quadriplegic over 50. For shit like her, my body, the loneliness in my face, is a banquet of gratuitous indulgence.

I take a risk stating the truth of my psyche: I want Linda Dezenski to suffer brutally for heaping more anguish on my plate than I should have had to bear; it isn't enough for her to die only once, and I'm cognizant enough to see the flag of life long learned masochism in the fact that I keep beating her, mentally, for turning on me, breaking me down because I advertised my personal loyalty as an exclusive commodity. 

The Trader Joe's app is fun. If only it could spit me out a good man, one who cared about me enough for the patience of exploration. Off to the store. Meteorology is calling another storm, swirling us about, morbid cocoons. 

bolero entre aguila o mono

"Huh?+the collective gasp of Tyler Oakley's followers when playful instigators direct them to my Blogger url.

At times Thomas H. Earle earns my clinical, objective, commiseration. If I wasn't going to be engaged in a major legal battle against his interests fairly soon I'd have a bit of bemusement emasculating Mamma's good little boy molded into a compliant pedestrian who owes his current position to a rabid locally recognized, contemporaneous mummy transvestite who had a titanic struggle with a Jewish lesbian named Fern Markowitz and won what can only be a hollow victory, only to step into a pile of dog shit between a mafioso embittered Roman and my titanic battle against a Jewish bully in petticoats, whose center spiraled downward from suburban middlebrow to the inner city shell shock density of North Philadelphia. Everyone gets corrupted, but let's hold the thought. Other things on my schedule.  

Ishiguro's Metabolic Fusion

"People let me tell you about my best friend."-- Harry Nilsson

Clifton Collins is a one armed man in the 09 Sunshine Cleaning because he is supposed to stand out as an expert in the peculiar waste management niche Amy Adams' character Rose finds herself, a kind of modern Virgil and ambiguous scarecrow rolled into one, the Winston of empathy and expertise whose knowledge isn't enough to blunt the folly of American dysfunctional narcissism, as it is embodied in Emily Blunt's Norah. As divergent as they are in their respective use of formats, however, scriptwriter and brilliant novelist, Megan Holley and Kazuo Ishiguro are both saying something about the demands of expertise, efficiency, and the negotiation of personal interaction. The 93 adaptation of The Remains of the Day has a komikaze subtextual ruthlessness, absorbed at a cost difficult to take, that the Anthony Hopkins we see twenty years before in Stevens is shallow, somewhat vapid, salvaged by the colonial mercy of gilded age power embodied by Christopher Reeve.

"And I slammed him, this most famous American in his reverberating helplessness."

We all tend to have innocuous thoughts like these running in our minds, even while reflecting on the aesthetic importance of casting. This supporting role as Congressman Lewis was the best acting Reeve ever did, even if Christine Jeffs as a director leads us to fend for ourselves over why the modern moneyed class would preserve an anachronism like a first rate butler.

My body is not as immobile as Reeve's became, and of course I cannot know how he coped internally with the fact that his body was lifeless. All he had left was the salvage of his mind, for a time. He did not have the luxury of my anonymity to be livid, and used the hope of scientific advance as an escape valve. Ambulation was a loss. Other minds simply cannot conceive bipedal locomotion, and those are the cautionary tales.