2.1a Babylon

Having defended Manchester by the Sea from prosecutorial castigation such as those pontificated by DA Joseph McBride, I admittedly come close to doing the same thing to Bernie Taupin, Elton's master mechanic, and I am dissatisfied with myself, but in the essential elements, Bernie's flirtation with violence and homo-erotica during  jowly Reginald's peak output, in my amateur connoisseur mode, let's say that's from 72 to 81, as after that Elton falls into diluted self-imitation, lends itself to the extremes of punk, heavy metal, and hip hop, genres into which the dowager rarely treads, and so yes, I am posing a scenario where my hypothetical authority to restrain or even prevent Elton's lifestyle merits the loss of great emotive artistry to prevent this, among other things, and that I actually don't find irrelevant. Reginald's most powerful output may, emphasis on may, have prevented spastic from ending her life as a distraught disabled teenager, but he also fueled my rage, cynicism, and nearly superlative need for heroic passion. The only reason I wasn't a zealot stalking him concert to concert came down to poverty and the regimented life of rehabilitation. The industry now lays laurels at his feet, papering over the price he paid through drugs and a high risk lifestyle, but does it always have to be this way, in order to grasp the brass ring, to paraphrase Eastwood? Why should libertarian acceptance of self-destructive behavior merit concern over such admittedly moral issues?

Shirley

Simon Baker's little escapade with Winona serves as an example of why I do not utilize comedies all that often. I am interviewing a student this afternoon, and if the student doesn't work I talked with another resident's CNA, whose name is, in fact, Shirley (score a double entendre for Hazel, as I did not realize my post title was playing second base) and may simply wind up with her after my viola training with Craigslist.

At this point I anticipate offering the horn of Africa visitation rights while I take a fugue conniption in a sand dune. My mother was, cruelly put, skid marks in a fat lady's underwear, which is why I have not the least idea when it was last I wore panties, as I'm an impaction on a roll, like my ex, Frank, indolent on stained underliners. Taupin, of course, meant "Stinker," to be a subversive celebration of the sixties counter culture, but being the real thing is the source of much of my masochism: if not my father threatening my life, then my landlord always in a state of warfare. Never changes. I could stop writing and simply police my own odor borne clutter and it still would not change. I have a complex and graphic story I am working on still called "The Monsters That Go Bump" where I try to offer my readers a visual of my assault as it happened rather than abstracting it in an essay. I still get heart palpitations when I remember it. I based my main character on a dead social worker, but what I have to take care not to be too blatant about in a blog post I let all hell break loose in this fiction, and the crippled woman, under therapy for it in prison, kills her quite innocent attendant in revenge for the assault.

It is a hard story, one I may never finish and may fain find a publisher for, as I make no apologies for its glittering hatreds. Not that I plan any harm to any paraprofessionals, but I hate them all. Most of them. Hate is the one emotion that streams a constant in my fountain. This one woman who contacted me sounds incredibly devout, so upon turning it over she's a skip, almost an anachronism, much like Shirley Booth, in a dinosaur age.

The Russians Are Coming?

"Lazy days, my razor blade, could use a better edge."-- my favorite switch hitter

This lyricist shaped my childhood, even my pleasures in subversive tendencies. I spent my adolescence and my adulthood chasing after satiation of my Elton John adulation, in the Kantian timbre with the rest of you, solely in this one instance, and I've always been disappointed. Never a concert, not even when Elton was at the art museum (it was horrible for me, wading on three wheels amid all those bodies) and in 17 years of pixels, it never occurs to me that Taupin would have an email link for slavers to dash down a rabbit hole.

My aunt wants me to accept my life at Riverside as the best I am going to be able to do, at this point, given my age, and the shared genetics of spangled Italian colons; it is not ideal but for the most part I am left alone and do as I please. True and not, but I now understand she is frightened Richie and his wife Adele are going to put her in a facility. I am weighing how to address him on these matters, because I see both sides of the argument, with her voice ringing in my ears about my independence, my ass nearly fell off my shower stool twenty minutes later, and I've not had my rinse, such as it is, because I hauled myself back into the Quickie with one arm, chair nearly inverted on a 45 degree angle.

A bad transfer isn't the end of the world, and I know how to handle my laterals, but Marie doesn't realize if I stay with Presby Presby will one day move against me. I'm vulnerable, and that vulnerability is contingent on slapstick artists like Timothy Artis. I am angry at him because I have hated his stringy ass for a number of years, but here we are, my life overwhelmed until I find a new stringy ass. He won't be coming back. In my discussions with Trudy, with my implied racism, I said his mind operated on "horse and buggy time."

For what these jobs entail, he is not the worst slovenly minority to have. Women are afraid of me. Tim wasn't, and knew better, did his work and stayed off the fucking cell, but he has jeopardized my safety, once seriously, by not showing up. It doesn't get better for people like me, with no money, in HUD's nigger enclave.

This is a literary life, c'est pas?