The British Left of The One-Armed Man

 "When they live like that, they die like that."-- Liev Schreiber, season one apologia

Theodore Johnson is elevated into the documentary examination of how parapsychology informs on his low-burn serial murders not for the murders themselves, but because of his successful manipulation of Britain’s criminal justice system in relation to them. It is difficult to gage at this juncture whether the eleven years he received for the murder of his first wife Yvonne wasn’t an equitable balance against the loss of life, as there is no reason why a husband cannot be abused in the face of domestic discord with suicidal ideation. In this criminal defendant’s case it’s borderline as to whether mitigating circumstances applied, but to all accounts, Theodore served his full term for manslaughter before he once again married a second Yvonne, produced a daughter, and then strangled her mother. He got out on early release again because of the daughter, with a less than scrutinized stipulation that he was not to engage in relations with the opposite sex from the wagging paternalism of Europe and the United Kingdom’s belief in rehabilitation. Canada and Britain both seem to have excessively brutal murders from their emigrant populations, whether they’re Indian, Asian, Iranian (at least two of these were particularly savage), or as in this case, Jamaican. Retired DCI Colin Sutton, with traditional Anglo-Saxon shrewdness, may delineate the investigation and mechanisms for British and American audiences alike, but he and other documentary analysts, including psychologist Linda Papadopoulos, fail to ever mention geographical displacement or immigration policy. Why not? Is this somehow a liberal taboo, particularly as it relates to the European forge in the creation of Jamaica today? Although film critics assert that Marlon Brando’s neo-imperialist movie Burn is hot to trot about the domino effect regarding incursions into Vietnam, it reads far more closely about British guilt over hanging Paul Bogle for killing civilized Caucasians, and of course, no judge today is that self-conscious as it relates to clemency for indigenous individuals in this age of technocratic supremacy, but the case that being too lenient with the descendants of human trafficking is as harsh as being too authoritarian can be made, and it cost Angela Best her life, because apparently, the only humans who still know how to draw lines in the sand are Nigerian extremists, but let’s not forget Johnson himself; it’s theorized that his last suicide attempt, throwing himself in front of a train, was germane, setting himself up as the nebulous figure which drove David Janssen and his pursuer through every episode of The Fugitive, but this is one amputee not slated for the release of the disabled on compassionate grounds.

Green Room Dialogues Toward Cultural Relevance

But there are questions about Foster, now, that any reasonable person-- much less any reasonable employer-- should want to have answered.-- The Ringer, in a voluble chorus against a franchise over-valuing marketing skills against trauma we never used to discuss.

Ross Douthat’s appearance on Rose was the first that I became aware of him as a vivacious, enthusiastic analyst with an optimistic outlook. The link I selected for my viewers to stream is arbitrary as opposed to the actual segment with its few sentences I recall, the show where Ross deconstructs Harvard as a pulsating progressive mass with a model libertarian overlay. It was not so much what Ross said during the interview, as much as his engagement with his answer. It caught my attention, and that was it. It was not enough for me to rush to Amazon to purchase his book, or resubscribe to The New York Times. I am more interested in The Wall Street Journal at present, but that his tweet about Michel Houelleberg's byline, his underwhelming column about the ruling elite of yesteryear, his brazen assertion on Twitter about membership within that elite not being all that privileged as it’s cracked up to be, led me to do some background research on his biography. Ross Douthat and Niall Ferguson, in combination, with a little Sullivan in the mix, as you gasp that my virulence against homosexual identity momentarily makes allowances for this argument, represents a reasonable approximation of a writer’s life I thought I could sustain. All of them have scheduled appearances on television, and this is something I’ve no idea how to do, nor have the work product to make the effort feasible. Is this an agent’s responsibility? A publicist’s? Arcane details within the supposition that knowledge acquisition on camera doesn’t lend itself easily to mnemonic retention. I have been on television, purely for gawker purposes, but never as an analyst with access, to serve as a conduit, or to engage as an equal. Krauthammer, although he is no longer around to ask, presumably needed assistance in his daily living activities and was still able to manage. I no longer know now if the biggest joke is that which I have played on myself. Still, one receives the sense that Houelleberg is disingenuous in his appreciation of our Trump transformation. The president has thoroughly exhausted me and everyone else, and under Douthat’s playful assertion that we’re living a libertarian West Wing in realtime these days, I rather interjected that it is unfair that I can barely keep myself afloat within the labyrinth of a punitive public housing system while he almost had his career handed to him on a silver platter. This is not the “fusion” I envisioned in being able to go toe to toe with someone like Kathleen Parker. This is why I created this account in the first place, to reach across the divide, whether to a conventional moderate such as Parker, or Ross as her slightly more contrarian alter ego. The opposition to his Wasp nostalgia on social media was misguided, although that opposition to his prominence is the only battlefield Ross engages for his salary, but that doesn’t mean he defined his parameters all too clearly: JFK certainly emulated what being part and parcel of American royalty entails. His Catholicism was virtually an afterthought, and Truman, as the heir to Roosevelt’s deified mantle, didn’t ascend upwards in national politics with a silver spoon in his mouth, and the historical lens through which we view LBJ isn’t necessarily urbane, polished. Johnson was a local color Texan who played the ends against the means, cementing the Medicare disaster we live with today.

Brute Cojones

Anthony Quinn had been an overly familiar figure for a long time by the time I came to know his face, and it is an insult that he was cast for Zorba the Greek, whatever argument you want to feed me about bankability, or whether or not he passes for Mediterranean, with Spanish blood running in his veins. Man from Del Rio translates as follows: peasants want the good life just like anyone else. It is an early version of his mentally disabled boxer in Requiem, except that in Rio he is allowed his heritage, and sexually kept in his caste, learning lessons about the battle scars of dueling contests. The dowager is not quite sold on Quinn who taught himself how to be a gunfighter who escapes the vortex of destruction, but when you look at his casting, it may make you wonder: he played a founding Arabic tribal leader (against O'Toole), a fascist, a CIA administrator, various godfathers, the scapegoat Colonel in Lost Command, and exactly who-the fuck buys Quinn as a hardened French officer who prevailed over the Vietnamese?

It is a business, I know, but it doesn't mean I am to be denied the pleasure of a certain degree of annoyance. I also hated him as the mayor of Axis collapsed Italy after Mussolini, not that he didn't fit the role. Zingaretti might have given Quinn a blood transfusion during the older actor's end of life respiratory failure. Where is the substance in celebrity? Why is the Screen Actors and Screen Writers Guild so powerful? And why do I enjoy an abstract straight to syndication thriller like The Marseille Contract of 74? I like this transitional movie for its veracity in the realization that scores need to be settled outside of legal frameworks. Quinn and Caine are intermediary figures here, certainly not the black irony of Hannibal Lector, for this is Jeffrey Dahmer territory, now an inside joke on HuffPost Live, our relationship to the worst aspects of our own predation (why not feed people like Dahmer to lions?)

The Marseille Contract is mostly chic brutality-- not entirely-- Quinn is now the old man who is supposed to diddle his dick under a desk--and there is actually a transference. The star on the rise, as represented by Michael Caine, nothing special in his Cockney blood, but Hollywood now controls who exactly is a pedigree, transfers to Quinn's Old Bull a sense of how to be cool, with the requisite distance to drop James Mason like a rack of seasoned ribs to be smoked. Violence is an argument, despite my predicament, my scars inflicted from it, and my likely probability of collapsing under pressure to it, in its fatalistic, reverberating consequences. How Presby has treated me is also a force of argument. A simple eviction notice is more straightforward, hence what do these HUD protections amount to? Look at how fearful I am of their next move, how much pressure I'm putting on myself to say I want no more.

This isn't about housekeeping. I never denied I need assistance, but a Medicaid paraprofessional and a good domestic aren't one and the same. There may be more about Del Rio later. It is a marque role for a player already seasoned by 58.

Extermination Empathy Breathers

Another nearly xenophobic station signal I receive, WTVE, from Wilmington, just another ghetto striven enclave of row homes, is a retro-throwback broadcast, playing 1960 Japanese analog series I evidently should not have viewed as a child in the assassination rife year of 1968. The B grade tenor of the works falls into the category of fascination with vomit while alienated by Huffington Post Live's millennial chatter, however relevant to those spaces in films we do not see, jump cutting the pace of ennui. The station also airs stomach churning veterinary surgeries, and in one episode, a brawny gator farmer rushed an alligator with a colon blockage into surgery, and the veterinarian euthanized the reptile on the table after dumping its fecal waste it a pan.

How much did this cost the farmer? Wouldn't it have been more humane to shoot the creature and freeze it, ensuring death? We all have affinities, and without truly intending to disparage the farmer, there is going a bridge too far. Gators and crocodiles lay lots of egg clutches, easily replenished, and going through all that evasive butchery for a primitive fresh water predator seems beyond the pall, while we have a fairly affluent dentist behaving like a fugitive. If there is anything on the face of this earth that makes existence an irreparable folly, it is an animal surgeon dumping fecal blockage and then destroying what he couldn't save, much as what we did to ourselves years ago. 

I mourn Cecil, and hope his brother managed to defy the odds, as his tracker asserts, but this isn't really the point. The point is we're asinine stewards unable to manage our own innate impetus. I do not know what doctors told my parents in 1963. I know the story, as in countless other disability tales, I was supposed to die, and African Americans seem predisposed to help me right along with that, intimidating me back into being exploited for their economic benefit, while I lie struggling with withdrawal, losing to years of psychic pain, and no one will do for me what in animal medicine is standard.

I have to endure literal crippling agony, persecuted by motherfucking assholes who can't get better jobs. Zoologists dart and track and study. Industrial farmers engage in wholesale slaughter to keep chronic impoverished failures like me alive, and, in the conservative codex, I am one of those women without children whose fury Walter Palmer is attempting to evade.

But turning Palmer into an effigy isn't going to solve a fundamental exigency. The only thing left to poach when habitat is gone and magnificent stalkers like Cecil are confined into domesticated paradigms for which they were not evolved, are humans, already preying on ourselves. I just can't see my way to optimism of any sort. If I did not mention that kimmy my foster rescue isn't a royal pain in the ass, now might be the time, weary with the responsibility of pet rearing. One I let her go, it is probably over, the degree to which my lifespan might be considerably brutalized by that point.

Perhaps the meritocracy will surprise me, and rescue the manufactured urban spastic racist gradually decelerating, but I'll never be the same as I once was on the ascent.

Vesla's Diary

"Belligerence" and "contempt" are two of these codes. "Belligerence" refers to taunting, challenging remarks designed to provoke another person.-- When Men Batter Women:

Both the dichotomy and the correlation between helplessness and violence is interesting, and in the now wearying inundation of the European procedural, Unni Lindell exposes a standard conceit in the mystery narrative: the disturbed imbecile whom most people would suspect committed the crime, but whose secret, once released, offers up the truth.

In Unni's story, The Mourning Cloak (I cannot read Norwegian)  a distinct minority may not see the actions of the antagonist as villainous. The system failed her, and she was unable to shed the baggage of her tormented injury-- yet by the same token, Esther's death was grotesque, the opening murder on whom Vesla's vengeance was enacted. What is deserving here? You have a rape, and an assertion of bulling dominance which destroyed something fundamental, and then you have the repercussions of what Vesla's pain did to the boy Markus whose mother she killed, married and separated from the rapist whose emotional fragmentation would always be with him. Drugs and counseling would not necessarily heal it, and Steiner's fidelity to Vesla is sinister in its simplicity, the helpless waif who couldn't support himself without the aging father. The savant, shorn of the social corrections applied in a sweet and poignant arc in Nancy Oliver's Lars and the Real Girl, frightens people. Because the impairments are so elemental, our willingness to dispense with consideration of others so frank, that even in constraint, buffeted to one small domain, wives and mothers want us to go away, and the Canadian left scolds aggressive wheelchair users: "Issuing threats with medical equipment isn't the way to channel anger." One of my member's stories from my group, Disability Arts, who didn't understand why we were all arguing with each other, who didn't understand that I was chasing after an esoteric and ambitious thesis, because once upon a time, coincidence led a leftist Shakespearean to investigate the rather storied studio apartments renovated by a Roman invalid's father, and the invalid wasn't cognizant enough to realize she'd never get over that event, the following chance conservation, her fucking naive attachment to him she fought not so valiantly, tears flowing as if to nourish the miraculous springs of Lourdes?

What can you offer in comparative self-hating tendencies, hmm? 

Degrés de barbarie

Timothy Taylor does not address the empirical quagmire of what actually constitutes poverty on the basis of geography. In my fight with Presby, for instance, I may achieve the unthinkable and make myself homeless, and if that happens, then what happens to me is not a cardboard box in Fairmount Park-- I am physically incapable of surviving on the street. What happens is I shift into the margins where I lose what I'm fighting for by fighting the system in the first place: my self-determination in my last few viable years. Yet, even hurling myself into the bottom of the abyss in Eastern Pennsylvania, I cannot enter into the unimaginable bestial behavior of Lisa Coleman and her former partner, impatient as I may be with children. Murdering enemies is one thing. We all understand revenge motives, but the relentless torture of other human beings, sans Ariel Castro, or other gruesome domestic instances, is beyond me, even if the social safety net has done a significant degree of damage to my well being. Yet it happens in this country over and over again, the sordid shame on the social fringes: the scandal of Danieal that made Philadelphia a confirmed national stigma.

Fences have eroded. After 9/11, I had rather diminutive views of the sterility within the Arabic world of what led to the creation of Isis, but not anymore, not for all the vigor in the united alliance between Obama and Cameron, Isis beheadings of hostages is a form of extreme bombastic hyperbole, one beneath contempt, from the same old playbook, regardless of Ali's ruthless battle prowess, but it is, nonetheless, an argument against liberalism, a facade of contraction, which, even if victorious in some of its aims, is as corrupted by material greed as any other ethnic adhesion.

Coleman's brutality, however, is not. It is not even innate to primate aggression. Great apes occasionally engage in infanticide for evolutionary reasons, but they lack our cognitive capacity for such an extraordinary ability to degrade our own kind in such a fashion. It is beyond disgust. 

Any given Sunday

"The last five essays of writing and difference might be incomprehensible." -- Alan Bass

Me: "She might have been killed.
Frank: "So what?" in reference to Janay Rice, in an afternoon four way argument between me, my dying aunt and her internal adenocarcinoma rotting, and Karina! who telephoned me after being out of town.

Like any failed little boy, Frank defends Ray Rice, and like any fully unrealized woman, I indict Janay for her complicity, and meanwhile, I'll never be able to enjoy football again as a way to communicate with my father. Trouble, these days, trying not to hate my 80 year old parent for my brutalized childhood, but Janay's voice, in this latest national argument we're having about being black, being barbaric, can only be heard once removed: She apologized for her part in an argument where she wound up very much like the canine victims of the Shining Path. She then married her fiance despite the fact that he was charged with aggravated assault, and is now defended by minority proxies on twitter who plead with us about how hard it is to leave abusers. My problem with this is Janay had more privilege than most to decouple herself from her baller. You might ask, given that I'm losing my battle against near absolute indigence within the inexorable grind of the welfare state, if I would have walked out on the rare commodity of the professional athlete, and my answer is yes. I've been incarcerated most of my life, charged with no crime, brutalized by now obsolete orthopedic procedures, sexually assaulted at least four times, also a victim of an aggravated assault, distressed because all ableism now feels like an aggravated assault, and TMZ advocates for the brutalized female far more effectively through the acquisition of security feed better than I can ask anyone reading me to lend me a hand in my last productive years. Yet I keep talking to my ex, who would have strangled his first wife to death, because I don't have a girlfriend to speak to anymore, barring Karina, the dense nice New Church woman. She loves me, she said the last time we parted, prostituting herself for nearly 300 dollars she was neither worth, nor I able to afford, and I am not even in the lesbian slot that oral sex on pussy "feels right" to pull the vapid dialogue from Chasing Amy. Poor Marie now wants to play the pimp for her hospice care.

Of the essence

Yet even at that late stage, there was a level of our society which managed to live as if nothing much was happening--nothing irreparable. -- The Memoirs of a Survivor, almost half way through.

I forced myself to stay up yesterday to watch Mizumono, only to discover WCAU, the local NBC affiliate, had a rain delay for a Phillies Dodgers game. Piping mad, as I might have rested earlier, been ready to drive out sooner. Jugular piercing, gut thrust, and now Abigail Hobbs must truly be dying, I would have rather seen it full screen. The Swedenborgian I hired got lost earlier in the week, Thursday, trying to find her way back to my building, and I have been plagued with significant bowel evacuation ever since. She was on Bainbridge when she pinged like the fourth time to inform me she got called in for a death watch. I have not quite let her go, and it actually matters little, whether she turns her cell back on and I kindly tell her, with little perturbation as possible, that it isn't working, as powerless as I am, struggling with near cold turkey because I am trying to stretch.

Enough cash on hand to roll to bodega later to mitigate my withdrawal, hoping to have enough time to dash to Joe's as well, surrounded by utter silence, not a friend in the world, a former neighbor from Page Street told me "marriage does not complete you," and there is certainly enough evidence for that, Jace not unique with his impulse control issues, only recognized within the industry.

Loneliness isn't a salve either, despite my activities, even my exasperation with people: On my very first day as Jerry's student, I thundered at him in modulated deference, "Newspapers don't publish good poetry," and he bitch slapped back, "Newspapers publish perfectly good poetry."

33 years later, post his myocardial infarction, my major depressive episode burn injuries, I am still right. He's not. Newspapers publish typical American double entendres of the sort which can't take risks in the public square, like the rough and passionate sex an R rating gets away with suggesting every so often. David Slade must be hot.

Rosemary's Thistle

#3:  Soon-Yi was Woody and Mia’s adopted daughter. False. Soon-Yi was the adopted daughter of Mia Farrow and André Previn. Her full name was Soon-Yi Farrow Previn. -- Robert B. Weide

---------
What authenticates The Burrowers isn't Petty's underlying condemnation of what forged the last, now doddering, superpower. Any polemic in narrative can do that; it is his real appreciation for hands on tactile sensation. The soil, and foolish human primates roaming about on it until they forget themselves and become carcasses. Ulee's Gold, more than a decade older with subtly different aims, nonetheless has a similar physicality. The curious thing about Peter Fonda's poignant swan song, I might add, is, despite my displeasure with Easy Rider as a self-conscious farce, it provides Ulee with a textually richer undercurrent that would have been lacking otherwise. Derivative pleasures like this become somewhat complicated, always improving on older origin concepts.

To indulge my underlying misogyny, my loathing for Jane Fonda, which is visceral, doesn't spill over to Peter. He is quieter, less of a chameleon flitting across the screen, to quote from Jane's daughter with the delightful cruelty of an accurate observation (and yes, I give Jane credit for giving Charlie Rose this gem), and I'm more in sympathy with his center of gravity. Ulee's Gold was my life with my mother and her raucous lovers. The film gives viewers a sense of resolution: Ulee relents, realizing his son and daughter-in-law aren't beyond reform. This is a gravely wounded family, but one that doesn't quite break once the avarice of the white punks is harnessed and contained. The industry has to be placated, but we all know that addiction doesn't work that way. My dead brother can't be walled off in my bereavement as a monster. Yet he was indifferent to any number of things: the shame he brought to my family, committing felony rape, infecting himself with AIDS, not because he had any experience with sodomizing men, but because he blithely used dirty needles. The end of his life in 1995 was agonizing. "We had a brother who was a bit of a shyster." This is how my sister summed up little Nicky for my ex, the Nicky who passed HIV onto his girlfriend without my mother deigning to interfere. She was afraid of possible litigation.

The engine of the freight train has been idling on track a quarter mile off from my window since Thursday morning, giving me palpitations. I'd do anything to get out of Riverside, anything, except there is little use in exploring other public housing options within the city. I already know I couldn't expect to find creative and safe solutions networking online, so I research Woody and Mia, condemning sexual liberalism. What no one is willing to say directly is the price Allen made Mia Farrow and her children pay for his trophy happiness with Soon-Yi. He sounds like John Updike's failed little boy with his thumb stuck up his ass. I do not know if Dylan's memory of molestation is true or false, but that she did not like Woody's thumb in her mouth, that felt real to me. My stepfather sneak fondled my breasts that way.

I started writing my own piece on the scandal. Because of Roman Polanski, what I relearn reviewing his mastery of repression, of what he intimates about sadism. More than that; yet as to Farrow herself, I never saw myself as a fan, not in terms of her performances. The poem never leaves me, the one in my head with wombs and spawn, the World Trade Center, the Empire State building, through her eyes. A few years ago, I caught the revision of the piece in hand, then lost it with the Vista driver crash. I have to redo all that research once again as well. Hypothetically, if I get it published, tweet her a link, how would I react if she thanked me for the tribute?

I'm unsure. If Woody had done to me what he did to her, he'd be dead; I'd be a cause celebre in prison, so in terms of being aggrieved, I have picked a side. That does not necessarily mean, as a disability journalist, I need access to her. I am not Orth, the Vanity Fair journalist who reignited old rivalries.

Would a mutual interaction be beneficial? Ambivalent about that, what she's like beneath the pixie damsel of Roman's coaxing, or Allen's irony.

Novel Outlines

"Is is is she okay?"-- a daughter whose nerves falter at the prospect of second degree murder.

Well, if loons and lesbians read my posts and see prime rib dollar signs, then I have to work harder. I don't have anything against those designated mentally ill in and of themselves. I don't even have much of an objection against those who think I'd be better off if I went back to therapy and played the pharmaceutical cocktail game in order to grin and bear it so sensitive minorities stop directing my url to hate crime notification units. I am doing what I am doing as a critique of identity politics and labels and fences, and the end result, as an informal tabulation, is a fellow resident unwittingly links me up with a Project Share user, my half brother and former university jilter insinuate that I am bipolar like my mother, the dyke cripples think I am dying to explore bi-nervous issues because letting my guard down with a former supervisor sent me along that prickly path. An indicator of what revelation amounts to at the end of the day.

For the most part, we neglect relatives of spree murders like Dorner. We more easily empathize with individuals like his captain, whose daughter Dorner killed to spread the suffering around. This isn't equivalent to the collateral damage of an insurgency, which is the distinction I was trying to make at one point, although many of you didn't like the fact that a self-proclaimed bigot could identify with a black Navy Seal who broke ranks with police collusion in a choice display of suicide by cop. A bit too dark, even if I am so severely jaded by ADAPT politics in turn. I am not Dorner to this extent: going after the relatives of those who screwed you over triggers the wrong calculus, and I prefer to bust the system by which we do this to ourselves, not engage in target practice on the pretty and happily oblivious.

I love my father, but happily avoided the fact of his serial domestic abuse. It was easy to blame my mother for her unceasing provocation, and to hate Louise for being the worst invalid of a stepmother imaginable. A visualized best seller in the over extended frantic need for money, but it is never so easy to get from your conceptual starting point to marketable product, absorbing it because we have to. All I ever wanted was my father to be Bill Bixby and love me, a prince among men, but how far do we go to save people from themselves? I am analogous to my mother's sister in this regard, sparing nothing to keep my ninety year old grandmother alive. Neither I nor my sister can stop the spigot of my father's rage, however, all but a sterile inheritance. Pause for the dynamic BBC upgrade of Sherlock, the most witty program about at the moment.

Implausibles

In the 2003 CI episode Suite Sorrow, Hal Linden plays an in the closet socialite who manipulates his daughter into matricide, to then unwittingly trigger his own death in a foiled entrapment that Vincent D'Onofrio's Goren misjudges. I do not know about the sandwiched convolutions from which we have to infer the multiple points in fifty minutes of narrative. This is a continuing problem with the limitations of the format for Dick Wolf's now foundering formula. I believe there may have been a death by injection trial on which it might be based, but I cannot remember enough data for search to lead the way, and I could be wrong anyway because this high powered real life balding husband fell under suspicion when I read Time Magazine regularly, but despite the artifice of the teleplay, inclusive of having Erbe's Detective Eames vindicate what we must feel about such family dysfunction in the last concluding seconds of the episode, such stories reflect back upon the ubiquitous nature of domestic violence in the United States. I happen to be bold enough to feel that this undercuts the progressive argument about homosexuality and marriage. Heterosexual marriages fail often enough as it is, especially when celebrity is involved, or, as in the case of my mother and father, you mix a significant mental illness with an Italian temper. My step-mother, who in no way functions as such, has fared little better. My dad may not have an arrest record to match that of the typical serial wife beater, but he is one none the less, a fact I usually obliterate in my conflicted feelings for him. Progressives are absolutely correct to say that no fault divorce laws weakened the once historic economic power of marriage, but the continuing tent expansion will make it all but meaningless, in the end.

Frank, my ex, made a bad bargain thinking I could have been a good wife for him. He tried to strangle the first. This is Latino trash pillow talk for you, but had I gone through with the wedding, settling for him, as some women interest columnists suggest, I could conceivably have a jacket with an attempted murder charge, and that is both a facetious and accurate statement, one and the same. Having seen the gay lifestyle up close, swimming against the tide as I may be, things are going to get much messier for family law adjudicators, I don't give a flying fuck how pedestrian a media bouncer like Andrew Sullivan with his HIV status and his faith, and his articles that analyze and out the troubled Prince Benedict 16, wants to be. To push identity to these kind of extremes is bad for the human animal. I have been through too much trying to help the disadvantaged, I have seen too much; we're dooming ourselves.