AT&T's vibrator exchange

you're too slow-- my plow horse pseudo-husband

My plow horse of an aide, in actuality no match for the dried bramble of my disillusionment, is simply too genteel a minority for my rancor over desire whetted on biological happenstance. He trotted me through my paces today, and at the end of this billing period, my old USB plug in will be discontinued, and I contracted a Galaxy S8 over 30 months, though when I can return to actually being a journalist? It isn't simply a matter of ignited loins; it is an issue of psychic separation. I've grown too close, too dependent, and if I want to dim my heart then I need to split him off and go do my thing. On the basis of my prior dim-wittedness, however, I will continue using my Apple for my hotspot. I'll know more next week about whether my considerable deficits can shoulder two lines. I am assuming, given his followers, that Russ Still is a minor celebrity and I should play the affable savant gratified that he followed me. If I do not misconstrue the matter, thank you for following me, Russ Still, but the dowager is a woman with many hard blows kneaded into her, the woman kicking her ribcage inside begging for one last passionate twirl, while the outer ligaments of her body grow increasingly reluctant to do anything except burrow through six feet of top soil for the rest in peace as a universal Kantian experience. Or in other words, my heart is broken because I have an almost intimate relationship with an African American paraprofessional who has my ass in a sling, but you country singers aren't afraid of cups of hemlock. How I am even writing this much on three hours of sleep Thursday?

Big Box Pits

"we have no housing options at this time" --Pat Toomey's office, my fantasy avenger

One of the most sophisticated of the late Law & Order series, before Jesse Martin left and the fat poster boy for nigger grievances took over, now making his drum roll rapid timing on black-ish, is "Bottomless". Purely as a story, it opens like an exquisite floral bouquet, with an implicit acknowledgement of the fact the we're all expendable on the basis of income, career skill set, and age. It doesn't quite come out and call Walmart a devil, or simplify old school identity politics through Lieu and her retired boss of yesteryear, but it is a rather deft spin on ableism, white privilege, and the truth that one person's pain may initiate an investigation, in this case, grieving Chinese dry cleaners with a dead daughter fresh off her bar exam, with a frivolous lawsuit opening into criminally complicit sex which winds its way back to how deft Beijing is at playing the lack of accountability game, to the point the initial manslaughter is virtually obliterated from view. We're all little drops in the bucket, blanketed over by multi-billion dollar corporations, and I ridicule what, in contemporary terms, is a mortal emotional wound, one which I can no longer quite control (it's hot), with nicotine or fish oil or my usual methods, by tap dancing a mafia godmother game. Psychologically, it no longer is one, but for the fact I soften dissolute menace by putting the people with power on a pack of cards, and trying to hold myself together by rationalizing that I do not want to be placed in a psychiatric facility over ignorant vermin. Fine, but the problem: I've never, ever, gotten a victory for the cruelty I have sustained. Trudy Richardson and Debra Horne will no more than likely get a slap on the wrist for the devastating damage I've been forced to swallow for 32 years with "fraternal corporate" contractors with HUD's localized housing authorities. I've only ever had one of them, but they are all collusionary, and  complicit, with inept federal civil servants. In the end, it is all the same. Politburo or federal civil servant. I cannot sit and cull law firms on my cell when I have a fissure in my chest ready to burst my body and spray the walls with hemoglobin. The day I spoke to the gentleman at Silver & Silver I held the oar steady and just said okay, resigned. He is the one who said "wait," and gave me a referral, but it is too late. I hate Debra. I hate Trudy. And the disability activists. My humanity, at the moment, is too compromised for my grit. I am 56, battling elisions, repetitions, fear of my family, fear I'll never publish a brand article again (ie, people who publish in The Philadelphia Inquirer don't wind up like half-assed idiots on niume, or do they?). I had to reach for William Shatner's name, an actor I've known as Captain Kirk since I was a baby. 


Libertarian writers only hit liberals on the most general terms when it comes to Walmart. They need to take better aim, and have my courage, if not the cliff face on which I am so precariously ready to topple, to illustrate that it is also federalism which leads companies like V Halter to stick its thumb up its ass, as there are no private contractors for naval fleets. Today is my 27th, corrected, anniversary with AT&T, as the grand old utility reminds me. I almost left them in 1999 for unlimited Internet, never howled at them, or complained, and they've rolled over for me like a beached whale. This is my stand in for interpersonal intimacy.

Oden's Hammer, with admissible discrepancies

Part of what I am attempting to do on Disability In Entertainment Arts is utilize my brain damage to my advantage, which is why I convolute so many things together. It doesn't always work, and my short lived protégé Louise Norlie indicated I might be less confusing, and less rushed, but some of my triggers are indicative of trauma no iconic personage can cure, like guilt over my online usage. I need to at the very least, mitigate this. My provider isn't an authoritarian dragoon. I may have had a little trouble mailing my bill in during the era of dial up , for which even I can scarf as a primitive folly, despite not being fully wireless- but I waited a little too patiently for ATT to convert to online billing, and I followed suit. I have been responsible, did everything they every asked of me, including the dreaded credit deposit. (Years ago, and yes, they returned it, but I am lucky I had over 30,000 dollars at my disposal to play these games.) Quelch. Now she is discussing long lost freedom of her personal finances. No one does that, nor do I, up to a point, but I am only attempting to illustrate how far my life imploded thanks to the false assurances of the disability intake model: When I was 23, still a rather fresh inner city body, I was in danger of starving to death, because the SSA field offices, overwhelmed, did not keep tabs on what their verifiable cripple was doing, and arbitrarily suspended my SSI. It points to why, unlike my dying father's sister, I am very very reluctant to depend on state welfare. I got through it then, but being very nearly in the same place, 32 years later, is obscene. I'm fully cognizant that I am less elastic, and yes, part of this falls on my shoulders: I resigned from The Matrix Research Institute like a water logged koosh ball, frightened of my clients, overwhelmed at losing my brother-- hence, "bumping into" my former manager from the center from which Matrix plucked me, this wasn't my best option, confiding in her through posts. My wounds over that permeate this entire account, revealing to me an implosive level of destruction which could, hypothetically, write itself out as a NSA political thriller spiraling into Armageddon.

Ten years ago, getting away from Presby terian Homes, this would have mitigated such terrible scars. [Riverside is the beige white tower if you want to rescue and thereby own my loyalty for life.] Now? I may have a case to sue the corporate office in Spring Mills from here to the center of the earth, but if I perceive an occasional overage as a crime against humanity. I am not really long on holding onto my sanity. My shins are going, but this doesn't mean a paraprofessional represents an optimal solution, you can trust me. I see too many abuses, even under Trudy's duress, using every weapon she can, striking out at me without realization of the consequences, because she is a moron, because Presbyterians hire minorities barely a step ahead of their brutal underclass on which they earn their salary, and there are far too many people like this, as opposed to those of keen acuity damaged by relentless cruelty. I have research to do, and may slow with Blogger for a time. I don't know if the company will allow me to code ads back in. They do not have to. I may, just barely, hold my inner savage in check, but I shall never be entirely free of the belief that people driven to violence have had too much amplified whippings. 

As for Louise, I don't know how she is faring under the Trump Administration. She was a nice girl. Our contact had too much subterfuge.

Anemic Corn Beef

should I stay or should I go

I was trying to study this morning, my little free text on the Medici, and I didn't really succeed at sitting down and taking notes, part age, part I ought to just give up and let Alphabet drill a hole in my skull and plant its microchip, and now part of my left molar is rotting away. We all lose, eventually, but I am not certain why I need to mortify myself to the consistency of ground sand. There is this ontological state, with all my emotional pain, and there is cessation. Part of existence lies in seeking relief from it, and yet most of us do not want to die, until the agony of clinging becomes too much, and I fear my end, this morning, because the wounds tearing at me beneath my breast are like a lash, because I hate black women, black culture, and everything about section 202, the Presbyterian hypocrisy. Engaging in demolition against the property would provide me with a fleeting, transitory glee, masking more pain, that's all, I'd still hate, as an active, living verb, and I'll lose to it; don't we all, not even realizing I was part of a class action suit against ATT for its sales tax. I never signed onto that, and yet liberals insist they know what's best for me, and I am sure team Toomey needs such a snarling animal. I was going to go uptown today, but if I'm chomping at the muzzle without cause?

Imbecile

I figured out why I cannot activate the 5s iPhone replacement, and it may count toward the decline of my emotional well being that I am reluctant to joust my way downtown so that live AT&T agents can help me swap my SIM in the devices. The constant need to impose inconveniences my desire for self-reliance, but the online staff said it was fine, no extra charge; I now avowedly, avowedly hate iPhones. The 5c came back online, but apparently has schizophrenia, so I have to get the exchange wrapped up by tomorrow, and save my contacts, at least. The stress is poison and not in any way the fault of the old giant and I have no idea why I'm posting this, having not gone with my erstwhile libertarian associates to see the debate. I asked Carly's staff how she feels about the ADA. This Jazzy is still killing me, but that is my fault. I haven't been able to will myself to keep my appointment with the ambulatory practice and get in a boxing match with physical therapists who know jack shit about why I'd like to take Zhang Ziyi's example and slaughter them wholesale. Me and my oh so fine Roman temper, but I have at least somewhat snapped back past sheer toxic panic. 

I'm not going to make it. What does it even mean anymore? Stop posting and work? Yes, with tinnitus, precipitous hearing decline, twenty dollars in my checking account, and my terse cadence with African Americans who keep reciting wonderful tales about case managers and attendants, still pitching in my head on technological upgrade anxiety and poverty, or telling Toomey's staff I make Trump a positive boy scout in comparison to my rage, but hey, here's my resume destroy the independent living center system and relocate me to Allentown, yeah?

I know my attitude would improve if I could leave Riverside, and dismantle Presbyterian hypocrisy.

Politics.

No Phone, Next Crisis

My battery on the Apple 5c went fritz. It never stops, does it? I think my time with Liberty on the Rocks is done, not that a beer doesn't ease my ligament pain temporarily, but the wind gets sucked out of me, and if I surrender, this is what will happen: I will get inducted into Inglis House, surrender my bodily functions to minority certified nursing assistants, forced on catheters with plastic pantie underliners, have most of my every hour regulated, drugged eventually if not immediately for aggression. Whatever the renovations to the fortress on Belmont, the sterility of the little grey rooms haven't changed, the helplessly sick just staring at mounted television sets, and this is my indigent aging alternative, since the law forbids that I can put myself to sleep. What would you tell me, stop thinking about it and soldier on, shrinking and feeling discouraged? 

My recent exchange with Swarthmore made me feel trivial, insubstantial, despite the fact that the position was something I once did. What could I have submitted without even so much as a passing familiarity with The Bulletin? I have my mildly political topical op ed, a handful of medical bylines, conceded deflation in my cover letter, and had absolutely no response to guide me on samples, soldier on. I bothered Swarthmore's Human Resources department, and they've flagged me because I want to visit the campus, make contact, create another opportunity, and right now, it's impossible to do, even with a tone deaf refusal to take no for an answer.

I filed a damaged phone claim, have an appointment tomorrow, checked Google, powerless despite the fact I've remained passive with the old telecommunications giant. I suppose we'll see what happens. Cheaper device, cheaper plan. I'm worn out, simply worn out, and know I'm not the only one in a perpetual credit crisis.

Easing the Pedal

This interests me as branch off research, as I'd like to be nice to my ISP. If anyone can muzzle me with a "sorry sister," it would be a provider, but Ma Bell has put up with yours truly dashing about for years, wrenching my hair with dial up. I almost left the old telecom in 98 or 99 but stayed because I was confused about downloading a new service, and then never left. Why?

I'm stodgy, never quite agreed with the government breakup of the utility in the first place, and don't remain convinced that Verizon is a rival-- though Verizon Infinity beat Comcast and made a deal with this Presby owner to wire the building. I am not sure this is capitalism at work either, as opposed to inert municipal socialism (sputtering),

But in fairness to AT&T, we cannot all be online at the same time, and slowdowns are bound to happen. Comcast has been known to boot customers for overages, but AT&T has pretty much always accommodated me. True, I pay a little more than my neighbors, but I've never had much of a problem, and stay offline between 12 and 4 EST if I can help it, and imagine, if I need to parse on cell minutes, customer service will work with me. Is 5G plus the phone enough? No, but I cannot afford going up to 7 or 8, and so behave or once in awhile pay for another gigabyte. I may be mean, but I'm soft on Big Corporate, which may be why I never got fed to Jaws.

[Wry grin fade out.]

Houyhnhnms

...there will be found the future warriors of the faith who will march out one day, burning and slaying in Christ's name, against a heathen Europe sunk in corruption, to see at last, amid the smoking ruins of Rome, a black Pope will sit on the throne of Peter.--Hermann Broch, The Sleepwalkers, p.29

Two pitches in one month, wow, aren't things looking just grand? The failure of my hearing loss article came about because I looked at deafness and chronic conditions as distinct, and then became rapidly confused, and beyond that I am still running a ticker tape, revising the pitch. Tried to behave with the editor as these losses are costly, and I am sulky about that, and have been sulky most of the week as it is the holiday and I'd like to get out and have no plans. Sticky and grumpy and for you, no doubt, your shower is routine. For me it is a damn death dance and I cannot do it today. Dana Byrd wrote me a short personal note on my membership renewal request, thanking me for participating in the Ulysses group last year, as if it was somehow commendable that spastic Italian trolls rubbed shoulders at the intersection of Dublin and Jerusalem. When I last saw her she was impeccable. Member appreciation night. Tight blond bun, blemished slightly by acne, she seemed preoccupied with her own worries, perhaps that her employment wasn't up to scale? Or a lover's rift, and despite the fact that I am on the edge, the brink of true madness, maintaining my membership matters. Next week it shall be renewed, because I believe in the preservation of what we were.

I can barely remember the pleasurable heat of a man's penis inside me. More than likely I will never again have the opportunity for willing and consensual pleasure, and I am angry about that too. But let me qualify: I am mad that Obama essentially changed nothing; I am mad that the tea party essentially changed nothing and in addition, they seem to think behaving like morons is a virtue. I am an American, regardless of my lust for Tuscan soil, but I am tired and have been beaten down by the disabled community in this city, no less, by a landlord that now walks on egg shells with me, by my declining strength, and for the Europeans and others who have viewed my posts, forget the myth of American exceptionalism. It works only for a minority, and of that minority, fewer sustain success through the course of a lifetime. Corporations can be compassionate to loyal cripples, of course, and I blow a kiss to old Ma Bell, but more than likely I will not be blogging after 2014, whether on Google's platform or another. My debt default will hound me to my grave, and no one cares about independent living center collusion, nor what it did to me; this is peanuts in the scales of corruption, and I am sure the feds will get right on it when I get to them; my health and ability will never be the same, however, and in a counter narrative I could just surrender and heed Veronica, find a care facility and then wait in pain because I am still strong willed, not ready to die.

Can't you just live your life? 

The risks involved in taking a leap of faith once again at my age are different than yours, and I'd be alone in taking them. I have very little new manuscripts to submit, and I have to start culling these posts for transformation. I hope that odor is a gasoline discharge wafting in, rather than something in the studio. None of the powers laid a finger on China over Tiananmen but the Alawites need to be scolded into the next century's persecuted minority. I cannot imagine the loyalists around the Assads could not calculate the risks of a mass carnage. I did not know Hafez was guilty of the similar atrocities when I used to read Time's coverage of his rule. I thought in black and white terms. Good guys and bad, but I can envision dying by a police taser, if disease doesn't get me first.