Feline Neutering

The Wings of the Dove is perverse because it is a great novel.-- Dr. Carrol Cox, blinded with age

News items such as this allow me to understand death threats to those involved in animal husbandry, like the breeder in the article. I have a soft spot for shepherds, and despite my education and intelligence, it is difficult for me not to feel that this bastard should have been shot himself; it points to my dim view of omnivorous primates. Love the cats, but the nagging, hate the cats, aerial check on inner animal cruelty repression when mother wants to be left alone: my dead Joey, I ran into him by accident, layered onto the guilt of losing him due to urinary tract blockage, most he ever received was a bop on the nose when he broke a light bulb.

I found this article searching for a news item on the suicide death of an electrician in a domestic dispute who was a friend to my cousin, who is an arson squad investigator. Marie told me about it in order to lash out at me. She can't handle her sons. She can't handle me, nor the fact that her brother, with his MRSA, his dementia, should be living in Presby, or something similar, more than I.

This has taken me a few angry days. Kimmy woke me at 11:30 this morning to outrageous gas pains, but I maintained control, not always so lucky. I sent Billy an email with quotidian sentiments for his friend, even while realizing I do not give a flying fuck about him, his sick wife, (not entirely accurate, and more an indication of my frustration, always trying to rebuild my own social set with suitable candidates and feeling rebuffed here, subtly) his fucked up mother's screeching voice in my head, her denial about her situation, her eldest son's cold reality check about getting her placed in a facility, where confidence reigns that my aunt, shrieking like a fury, could find Kasem. 

All that I've endured, and an electrician with two children blows his brains out. Domestic discord. Read Madame Mauves. James had a discordant middle age note or two. What does family mean anymore if we're all eschewing obligation that normally come with familial ties? I lied to him about not telling my audience, but being darker than he knows? That's a race to the bottom of the glass.

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?

Former Flotus

There ought certainly to be some bound beyond which the cult of favorite authors should not be suffered to go.-- William Dean Howells, American aesthete

Grumbling, spending money on juice. Basically a joke, but I have to do what I can. Between blu and the aero my physiology is barely manageable; in 2015 I will probably fracture and return to real cigarettes, barring a minor miracle of discretionary income. I wanted to be important in what I did with my life and to love as well and fully as I could with this Borgia temperament. Jesse got it; he knew me less than 40 minutes but understood. That I want to be on my own; that a lifelong battle in public housing has destroyed the best part of my vibrancy. I suppose it is just as well, these dashed hopes wrangling around once again. I am torn between hating gay lesbian transgenders and realizing how starved, utterly starved, I am for my own set. Jesse represented that.

I am going to give my notice to Presby soon. I'd rather-- but pause on the realization that as a practical matter the state would incarcerate me, rather than leave me incapacitated on the street. But I have reached the end of my tether, and something has to give. I've let the Pennsylvania *safety net* promulgate my quadriplegia into an American sanctioned life long hate crime. Two weeks, this is all I am giving myself before I terrorize sweet caramel Trudy with her meritorious pretense. She modulates her voice to take the accent out of it, but I am not fooled. So, this may be the beginning of a lengthy goodbye. My cousin is amusing, over the top with his assurances. "I'm there for you."

Fucking crock. Marie says jump and he grabs a tape measure. He is lying. Not that I mind. Marie didn't quite pulp her Billy into a sissy-- but he isn't ready to let me move in with him, his spouse. No one is there for me when it comes to leaving this urban nigger shanty.

Malls and Mood Rings

Real bone ash is chemically inert and free of organic matters. -- Axner Pottery Supply

Ted Danson never quite made it to the top of the A list, unless Cheers at its peek is equivalent to Clark Gable not giving a damn as Dixie smoldered. Our favorite libertarian bar tender is now just a familiar face who can graft into series as filler. The two greatest romances of my network epoch were Steve Austin and Lindsay uniting the orthopedic ward cheering our first tacky cyborg lovers, though how that would actually work at face value raises interesting issues. Would it have been piston oil coitus?

The other was Ted Danson and Shelley Long. I was as invested in that chemistry as the rest of you, hooting and swooning and wondering if I'd survive or die gladly with that kind of Yankee bronco fuck, but the man could never propel himself aloft toward deification after the series ended, perhaps because his character's feather weight gravity in Cousins couldn't ground the actor into really challenging roles. The Canadian birthday cake pastoral suited the plane on which his ambition hovered, betrayals and regroupings playing themselves out in Vancouver's postcard version of an American metropolis, indulgent, pretty to look at, generating nausea up digestion.

Two interesting moments within the episode arcs: Rossellini with her lip bleeding when the couple consummated their revenge. It was not an authentic sexual expression it itself, but catches something about seven year itches which hits the right note, and made me chuckle at my escapades, and Petersen in the doorway afterward, with his beer. He hits weird notes as an actor in forgettable ensembles, cutting his dialogue in key moments, imprinting memory. Danson transplants him in this remake, only to replace Petersen as CSI's driving force. One with diminished stature the other only gained as the deaf forensics expert.

I pity Gallagher's daughter. Eight years old, and her affluent well educated mother has her diagnosed because her tantrums are *violent rages*.  Do any of us ever stop to wonder whether or not a species should trust its own efficacy to reprogram itself? I had a few bitter altercations with my mother. We served to trigger each other. But my developmental physiology mimics emotional fluxes that in my mother were dangerous, and thus made me overwrought. This poor kid already has life long inadequacy grilled right into her psyche; here's hoping mom gets payback. Parents are well meaning enemies, but often can't envision long term consequences.

No two trajectories of every emotional aberration are the same, and as someone who was branded from the moment I was bundled into an incubator, I do not have to imagine the stigma the Gallagher's institutional paradigm inflicts on their eleven year old girl, their alarm at her volleys. I have not experienced them, but I spent a lifetime coping with them, in autistic deaf dumb and blind children, in my own institutional youth grafting, let alone my dead career. This professor's clutch on the throttle may harm as much as mitigate her child's behavior. My mother's censure and judgment did as much to me, especially when she was under her own psychiatric treatment, waltzed into Shriner's to push my buttons, among other items on the lengthy laundry list we accrue into maturity.

Hegel in Vancouver

"Married men and married women can only be close friends in large crowds."-- Ted Danson, has been heart candy.

Aunt Marie fell earlier in the week, broke her wrist. I did not tell her ancient cunning "I told you so," but I told her over the summer to begin the process of case managing her decline. She claimed she wasn't ready. Now that she is in pain with a joint fracture which will not heal properly, she is "ready to throw everything to PCA," and mildly incensed me by saying she doesn't know how I do it with one hand. She is old and in excruciating pain, but Jesus H Fucking Christ I need a new set of colorful expletives. I considered poon in the sense Ellroy uses it, but as slang it is more rancid and degenerative than I care to be. Barriers need not be built so thick. 

I spent the early years of my childhood shuttled from row home to row home to row home, yellowed with cellophane lamp shades and plastic upholstery, Marie's included, on my knees on her kitchen linoleum as a monkey child screaming at her Rottweiler, thinking it was going to eat me, which led Uncle Richie to yell at me for frightening the damn dog, the tumors in his chest floating into place with T-1 switches, then I lived with her prior to my entry into the steaming dung of North Philadelphia, but the bigotry rolls like kidney stones from colon polyps.

Any time blacks start something between Temple University and Drexel, it becomes an international incident, but drive byes in Kensington, robberies in West Philly, these are slasher lede segments for the local broadcasts (Fox still sleeps with Coppola's opera; as a local network they believe traditional mafia is still relevant). I have been dealing with the guilt terror in that street thief's face, even if the kid has a defense to play, for 27 years now. It is the face of every black man who cannot matriculate into a professional niche within the business class. It is the face that destroyed whatever liberal creed I had twisted in my vaginal mucous when I migrated back, the face that angrily moved me rightward, the face that allows me to lose intimidation if I set out to teach Spike Lee something about humility.

Of the 600k minorities who legally reside in this large but dilapidated urban grid, two thirds of their children are texting me in face time audio urging me to "get mommy out of the toilet." My restraint has been admirable; it shall not last. In studio when I feel the need I toss the 5c in my canvas and hook it where I can access it. That alone helps me relax, but having matured from a vigorous 30 something into a bitter hag sow on Internet screens, sexting Jobs rib cage is beyond my day dreams.