Antenna

"You think I'm having fun?"-- Cate Blanchett

My aunt called me Tuesday afternoon from the hospital where she took my father's brother because she is angry at my father because I inadvertently revealed something my sister told me which my father wanted kept quiet. My care giver is a momma's boy, Marie wants to be paid attention to, and now I have to be the rock of Gibraltar despite the fact I believe my father's brother should cease medical treatment and be given palliative care, and I'd gladly stick Galahad on a pike and inform JEVS that I make Bill Cosby's bigot from 1969 look like Caesar, and made all of my second pitch since this catastrophe and incapacitation began, killing my building manager in a quantum of neuron estuaries, an arrow through the neck, impairing her vocal chords, her blood gurgling up through her tongue, high hate for a rather characterless chocolate woman allegedly afflicted with lupus. She looks like an afflicted from lupus, with her owl's black rimmed glasses, fearing me like the devil's spawn. Erik, the transsexual, is afflicted with symptoms similar to lupus, and I missed all the fun when he lit his face on fire in the last days of winter 2019 with a tobacco cigarette. I had nothing to do with it, but you can feel free to envision the relish of enmity.
I never set out to be an ambitious journalist writing for The National Review like David French, here exposing the fissures between libertarians and traditional conservatives that the once living Charles Krauthammer expounded on with a rhetorical shrug
 

A fragile nation suffers from deep partisan polarization, mistrust of institutions, and a media in crisis . . . And you throw that garbage hot take into the stew? Have you no decency, sir? At long last, have you no decency?

— David French (@DavidAFrench) March 25, 2019

I just turned to the profession to make a living. I know NRO doesn't accept freelance queries. I know they have internships. All I'd like to know is how do I send them a fucking resume? I did ask them, without the gerund as adjective.

By The Untenable Sword

"That was hard enough to figure out in the seventies."-- Andrew Sullivan

I cannot deny my friend Alan his humanity, for he was my friend for over three decades, if I can, at the very least, extol him for constancy. Some aspects of our relationship weren’t particularly healthy, like our stoned failure to engage in coitus before he sorted out his orientation issues. (There must be a happy queer somewhere who enjoyed fat ugly boy’s well-endowed penis, and I have to assert, had the weed not been so potent, my long time collegiate loser buddy by default might have given the dowager a fulfilling climax despite zero chemistry between us, human sexuality being the morass that it is.)

What I’m attempting to clarify is I cannot excise Alan as I have had to excise Josie and the failed transhissexual on the eighth floor with his insufferable partner, and this is a crucible in my rejection of Sullivan’s culture. I have the rather erroneous temptation to justify my hostility in philosophical thesis form, as if a right-wing paper creates a solution to the amorphous totality of the culture wars. This isn’t how it works. Alan certainly isn’t going to care if I classify his illicit adventures feeding his anxiety about contracting AIDS on the scold worthy shelf about personal responsibility and not engaging in high risk trysts in the parks he frequented for a wanker; neither does Karl Schmid, the local ABC video journalist. Various media outlets reported Schmid received an outpouring of support when he announced his 10 year HIV positive status. I am not readily trampling on the left to moderate gravitation towards feel the love when the LBGT community asserts this identity pride in the face of such a lethal virus, but ye doves are apparently cooing over high risk sexual practices which led to AIDS trans-spotting from the African bush outward. The only "outpouring" my little brother Nicholas received as a troubled addict dying from AIDS in 1995 came from his parents, and my brother's memory, too, deserves opprobrium for knowingly passing the disease onto his girl, hence, I concede troubled heterosexuals can be just as culpable as a purportedly smart man like Andy, not smart enough to constrain his behavior which led to his contraction. You might argue that Sullivan, being of my generation, had medical ignorance as an excuse. The son of my father didn't (and yes, that is mio padre). Neither does Schmid, so what exactly are you supporting him for? Owning up? I doubt any of us will be cleaning his rectum if or when the virus beats his anti-viral cocktail.

If you suspect what's really eating me is the betrayal I received for my tolerance, I will not deny that is part and parcel of the package, and I too, made risky sexual judgments, but not as risky as those in parts of the homosexual community. I do not know if Alan evaded HIV. For his sake I hope so, as dealing with my depressed virulence cost him emotionally, but it certainly seems to me he didn't care enough about health and well being to stop. "The body has some resistance," he told me, still telephone active. This guy tried an Episcopalian seminary after embroiling neighbor state New Jersey in a shameful disgrace far less entertaining than Sandford's. Yes, rolling back sexual liberty might help us live longer, despite libertarian allowances for self-destructive behavior. Gender fluidly doesn't have to result in a grand devil's bargain.

.

Back Up Parentis with Titus

Do you ever have anything positive to say?-- my better weekend aide

The only thing Bosch brings to the table as a procedural, in my estimation, is hard luck forming its central character as a stickler with his own honor code, (something with which I identify) but the second season opened with something which threads through the history of civilization: using human frailty as a form of masking. The first thing this wizened detective does after a six month suspension for flipping a pissant captain, fraudulent as that felt, is expose a suspect as not his father with emphysema in a wheelchair on oxygen. Chair gets violently thrown, (not that this doesn't happen to actual users) suspect flees, and our star of course lassos him in. Hugo makes the same distinctions in The Hunchback of Notre Dame, when the unfortunate poet Pierre Gringoire gets corralled by beggars of a 15^th(?) century Paris in upheaval. They only pretend to be lame and crippled. The gruesome operatives of Slumdog Millionaire, if you recall, take no chances with such fakery, and blind destitute street kids to beg for what must be an unstable currency. Although I can feel Jason Dorwart’s raised eyebrows behind me, nothing has truly changed in the world. Why do I assert this? Because Erik von Schmetterling, for all his transsexual ADAPT zealotry of yesteryear, is senile, his troops dying in Riverside Presbyterian’s lobby, while I’m literally quaking myself to death in an incompetent mechanic’s contraption because I can no longer pivot to take a damn dump in the toilet and the medical professionals around me are going berserk bilking Medicare without doing a damn thing to restore my function, and a west African minority has me running around doing her job because she’s too tired. So I have to criss cross center city buying supplies I cannot afford. I can, conceivably, explore suing Mr Wheelchair for product liability, but by the time that needle moves a stroke will have probably hit me, my body actually fighting the disposable adult wear for hours until discharge necessarily takes place, in pain regardless of her masks and gloves and her physically brutal ignorance. I allowed Dana to see too much of this, my racial hostility. It preys a little because she is morally decent, but her provider, TLC, is “cheap immigrant labor,” once removed. Karina is little better, white as she may be. I wasn’t planning on a yodel about entitlement metastasis this morning, however, but since I’m here, from what I am able to observe, millennials and the adolescents coming up behind them may well end up living in much more poorer standards than those I’ve had; I just have to find the right entryway to broach the topic without causing undo friction to my family in their hardships, but it does alarm me. Karina is 38 and she has an adrift life. At that age, I was earning between 250 and 400 on commissioned articles, working, in other words. Nevertheless, let me uplift my percussion with an upbeat rhythm, as transitory as social media can be, I was heartened by Svetlana's discovery of my account, dare I consider her a spiritual sister in arms!

The Melnick Revolt Trigger

"There are dark forces at work here." Ian Anthony Dale

To deal a straight material hand this morning, lets revert back to anti-depressants, and assume, amid all the marvelous psychiatric diagnostic classifications available, that a turn of the century adjustment disorder graduated into traumatic stress, triggered deliberately by minorities trained to cordon off geriatric dementia, again, not the best environment to throw in formerly matriculated spastics burdened with quadriplegia. If I go on with this language, a medical textbook recruiter might take another look at my Linked profile, however ambivalent a disability journalist might be in that regard. Anti-depressants are used for more than serotonin regulation, and my skepticism about them doesn't apply to all treatment regimes, but when my mother's sister could talk over my head and exclaim, "that's better," when I was on that turn of the century script, for whom did the better refer? Not being able bodied, the drugs impaired physical ability to function, and cured nothing, however much my dead ex pig of almost husband observed, before he died, that I was getting worse. Frank did not move in here with his commanding army officer, whom he hated (yes, hated, I know, but he is dead and I won't get into it), but I am asked, by society, to grin and bear it every time a facetious transsexual, with whom I go way back, sits outside, its cognitive awareness diminished, smoking a cigarette, knowing what I know, the law letting him off, but not letting me off, why exactly? Because I am angry at how often corruption has destroyed my intellectual potential, and just like other Americans, I need a change of environment, and cannot effect it. Regardless of my condition, regardless of dimming economic prospects, regardless of Google's loving playfulness juxtaposed by its power, which I have nothing against, but have derived little trickle down benefit as a result (what possible use is Ad Words to me if all I am doing is paying into the company's services, again, this was me lacking the confidence not to purchase the campaign), I should be able to relocate, as a citizen of this ferrous republic, and cannot do it without facing what most consider irrational risk. I don't eschew Google's corporate muscle; its progressive proselytizing, that is another matter.

Enter in Danielle Melnick, making use of her ability to be Jack McCoy's intellectual equal, not always adversarial, in Dick Wolf's transformation of American crime dramas, or as the leader of the community Grimes managed to wreak havoc upon, perhaps inadvertently. That was as far as my local affiliate took me into The Walking Dead, but it was enough, as no one can withstand that much hell, that often. In Salvation, she is a stand in for what was expected to be the epitome of sexual equality. As Wiki indicates that the limited summer series was under development in 13, I doubt those who took it off the drawing board anticipated Trump, so in this slow burning coup in a complex asteroid disaster tale, one can infer that Melnick's very brief cameo, dying in a planned televised speech, was the industry's platitudes for girls, as "President McKenzie" was poisoned to death. Boys will be boys, in the grand scheme of things.


Fish oil, as my naturally occurring mood stabilizer of choice, seems to work as long as the continence issues can be managed. The dowager can feel, and function, on 2400 milliliters daily, taken with an actual fish diet. Again, this is expensive, but on limited evidence, seems to be more than a placebo effect. I only feel better, as of this writing, because I'm stocked, saturated myself with salmon, and hoping, fingers crossed, that I can make it to the Libertarian block party later today. If I do not take a bus, maybe I can spring the taxi. But I wish some of you could see the sum total. It is bad enough, being what I am. What Philadelphia has perpetrated on me, because I wanted independence, has been just short of too excruciating. Everyone needs a support system. A 56 year old shouldn't have to grope in the dark, treading in place solely due to inertia of the paradigms long set into place for relegation.

Delayed Pleasantries with Alphabet Subsidies, and Other Quandaries

...this can be achieved only by "carving out" a certain constellation of phenomena.-- Levi-Strauss, Structural Anthropology, p. 285

Having been tested for diabetes a number of times since my burn accident, which occurred during Brenda Williams brief tenure, before the RICHARDSON WARS (and I'm still here, barely, smile), and Williams too, just as Trudy, and Trudy's Gerber foods mentality, cited me for non-compliance, but she was kicked to curb for trying to go after every resident with strict compliance, and I mean strict. The PHA regulatory handbook is probably similar to the nefarious SSA POMs, and you'd be surprised what you'd learn reading the SSA POMs,. It is like a perverse variation of The Empire Strikes Back, the *business* of Social Security, its schemers, petty prison terms, but I have been tested, and told I am not diabetic. Granted that, in recent years, I have catered to cheap snacks and bakery since the 7 Eleven franchise opened. (I took many months become a frequent flyer, as I preferred a bodega further off, but 24 hour service and proximity and vaping supply transformed me into a power chair inconvenience). I am living currently on barely two meals a day, mostly bulk grains and potatoes and legumes, and moved a stool so large Tuesday evening I in fact cannot change the litter until I am sure not to clog, and remain fairly confident my bowel shall kill me before COPD suffocates me to death. Large evacuations indicate diabetes. Perhaps coffee masks it. I've cut down on fish oil, but for my petite stature what impaction does to me is stupendous, now and again.
 My problem with KDP is my uncertainty over formatting, and depending on how much of my output I apportion to being an independent, I have to learn, but I am a writer, journo, small j momentarily hopefully not forever but at my age I am not bucking hot zones. Perhaps there is a story there; what I am not is a designer, and I hope I can link my content page to my text. I really don't know how to do some of these things, and thus far, I have one Amazon guide. We'll see. In my early kindle years the amount of digital dreck worried me, and I do not wish to do that to myself, whatever my kinks, my flaws. I have them, including telling Amazon I wasn't going to buy anymore books due to a seller's delay with Levi-Strauss, and what a feeble threat, as I'm killing myself today to hang onto Prime. I keep grinding away at the conceit, the intellectual pretension, of changing the world through narrative skills, just as The Raw and The Cooked joined into the intellectual ferment of its time, difficult and giddy as an anthropological study as it is. I once believed I had Strauss's acumen, his ability, to invest in such important theses, so I am as egotistical as Roth, on a certain level. I wonder what you think, but then, I assume I already know, even if I cannot say what a detrimental impact my wounded voice has had, I really don't know, but yes, I have crossed lines decency prohibits, and in that, the dying hermaphrodite has gotten the message to engage as little as possible with me. I am working, however, whatever the odds against me, what else can I do? If it takes me until August to hire an attorney, then it takes me until August. And, if I bridle it and repeat like a chant, Google is not the enemy, it is no more than a tertiary issue: I cannot afford pay to play Ad Sense fees, certainly not in July, with a meager effort to put something in my stomach.

Dung, Bitches, Nouveau Princesses

"this far, and no farther,"--Peter Falk

No one of us, whatever the nexus of our identity we shed to be American, is a monolithic block, and in my eruptions on this account about so called activists, that can be seen in the lack of unity between us. I cannot tell you exactly what the rift between Erik & Jimmi and Josie Byzek was, but it was a rift over how "extreme" Pennsylvania ADAPT should or shouldn't be, and Erik, when the hermaphroditic freak was more lucid, removed Fern Markowitz as Liberty's executive director. Josie and Erik and Jimmi and Fern are all part of the LBGTQ block. There is no love lost between them, and Fern Markowitz, in addition, is a Jewish lesbian, just as Linda Dezenski is a Jewish princess, on the lower end of the scale. Where I entered into it, regardless of my fatal attempt to be close to my overly esteemed peer, is Linda used me in a power struggle to get Fern to violate Pennsylvania state hiring guidelines to hire Jimmi for a job Linda offered me which, after my logistics combat at Matrix, would have been next to impossible for me to do. Linda won the battle but lost the war. Jimmi quit, Erik had who knows how many strokes and cardiovascular issues, and I grew too angry to care, and this is the end product of all that, but I was incredibly naive, to lick my wounds by then grafting onto a Christian lesbian who'd humiliate me in public, bouncing online from one failed disability project after another.
It is of only mild curiosity that Josie's twitter account under her own identity seems null and void. I hesitate to attribute it to my rancor. I haven't harassed her on social media, as, whatever my challenge to her role as caretaker extraordinaire, New Mobility is an undeniably progressive platform whose contributors say the same thing over and over with iterative nausea. Perhaps it has something to do with her run for the school board, but you'll notice, whatever her prominence as a champion for the marginalized, neither she nor partner Virginia foster disabled children. If I were Singh Lion, which I'm certainly not, I'd wonder about this curious trifecta of two women with a significant background in case management rearing Asian children of third world ethnicity, particularly when Josie is so impaired by MS. For the being of the welfare class, Josie is fairly solicitous of those in her care. I will not go so far as to impugn her nurturing impulses. My quarrel with her is commiseration doesn't resolve resource distribution, but she never applies herself to that, like the cost of battling over PVS cases, like Schiavo and Bobby Brown, and how this ties in with my ambivalence toward Roth's barrier breaking exposes is somewhat complex. FYI, I've read a number of Jewish novelists, like Chaim Potok, some Saul Bellow, and I've dipped into a little of everything (so how could I have drifted so rightward?) But however cemented his legacy may be, and I do recognize it, Philip Roth is an egotistical prick. I know the movies better than the novels, and concessions to some of his starkest feints have to be granted, but Goodbye Columbus succeeded in making me antagonistic to all of its character types, Ali MacGraw in particular, portrays her coming of age as an expression of masochistic coitus. I am a great deal like Richard Benjamin on screen. This is why he stays with me despite the blithe inattentiveness to his interpretations of Roth in my past, but even as a pursuer progressive of almost 50 years ago, Neil Klugman is a contraction in terms, as are Roth's vigorous sexual expositions. It never occurs to Roth not to allow his men to be vulnerable to sexual entrapment, not to be afraid of knocking up daddy's little girl by not chasing her in daddy's house, like a hound dog. He is vacuous himself, but wants a monogamous commitment, to which Brenda, the perpetual, debutante, seems incapable. The film had its moments, and our urban life used to feel relatively secure where a boy could look up a girl and then show up, talk her home, but there is nothing here to celebrate in Roth's own hypocrisy, a surreptitious man cave, with its lack of respect, leaving me without even the proverbial suitcase to lug back to the depot in the era without stroll carts. 

The bitch is back

stone cold sober as a matter of fact

Teetering on the edge of a precipice doesn't stop incidental commands from firing along the neural network on which our minds are, if only that, a conceptual extension. An entreaty to Vast Drive about my block on twitter led to an interesting revelation: I am considered a pornographer. I have battled the establishment in a myriad of ways, and because  I launch into vulgar tirades, I get a label like that, pornography. Weary sigh, need to revise, as if it matters on the close of 1500 posts, reading too much into social media actions, as well. Henry Miller's nihilist rant was ruled not obscene, and I'm a pornographer. Uh huh. Vast Drive didn't block me for my politics, but because their social media manager solicited web porn, otherwise indifferently. I've been graphic, sometimes effectively, sometimes too rushed, but I am not selling "the fuck of the century," in the immortal words of Michael Douglas feint riding Sharon Stone. When Basic Instinct went to DVD, I was still imposing myself on Jimmi Shode and Erik, and you cannot see them, their thick porcine and ghoulishly androgynous human forms, not very nearly approximated on Modern Family. Jimmi is just fat, an ugly flat nose, beady insecure eyes. He pushes back against management by writing defiant nonsense on memos. I, on the other hand, have actual tort against Presby, they know it, and its getting ugly.

The Gladhandler (pseudonym because his cerebral palsy limits him) used to be one of our lambs. Parceled out between us, Erik, corrupt self-hating trans, Linda the Jewish denier prevaricator, me, Debbie. He asked me to give his aide a cigarette. He has no other existence. Who am I to judge? It isn't that I condemn limited functioning invalids, but even Sean Penn made his mentally retarded father dynamic. Gladhandler isn't, he's a dog on a leash.

You'll have to kill me first.

How Trudy Richardson Made Me A Racist

I got it done, and this is why I'll go to prison if necessary:

1. Do you deny or affirm that Diamond Park was under Presby's corporate management from 1986 through August 1994 when I was a tenant there?

2. Do you deny or affirm that Ellen Hovey was the supervisory agent for both the Diamond Park and Riverside buildings until her retirement prior to 2005?

3. Do you deny or affirm that Mrs. Phillips was a tenant at Diamond Park during my eight year residence?

4. Do you deny or affirm that on my second to last day at work for Liberty Resources in February 1993, Brandon Phillips had full access to Diamond Park, with no security, and targeted me for a home invasion, where upon, he was arrested, serving two years for aggravated assault, attempting to strangle me to death?

5. Do you deny or affirm that Terri Way was manager of Diamond Park at the time of my assault, and that she prevaricated with my trauma to dissuade me from litigating Presby for gross negligence? That she deceived me into moving into Riverside's hostile environment as a section 202 unit?

6. Do you deny or affirm that through 2005, I was under constant duress from Riverside's senior community?

7. Do you deny or affirm that I sought, and received the intervention of a disability attorney for blatant abuse of authority in forcing me to pay for dining services I did not want in the first place and being banned from the community room?

8. Do you deny or affirm that after being molested by a paraprofessional, you deliberately intimidated me with a minority assessment team? This after nine months of waiting for a new power chair, that you made the following observations: 1. that "it was taking a long time" for my power chair to be delivered? 2. That you "violated my privacy"?

9. Do you deny or affirm that Debra Horne offered me housekeeping assistance during that violation of privacy? That this in kind support never materialized?

10. Do you deny or affirm that one of the assessment team males told me to call Liberty Resources without the realization that I have contractual breach of contract and ethical issues with the CIL, which you yourself witnessed in Brian Coleman's behavior? 

11. Do you deny or affirm that Erik Von Schmetterling and partner Jimmi Shrode were investigated for said issues in 10 above, before Schmetterling's health broke, and these two serve as a constant reminder of my lack of economic security, and that this is therefore not an optimal environment for me emotionally?

12. Do you deny or affirm that aside from the molestation, three paraprofessionals attempted 
a) to steal my article commission paychecks, swindled me out of three hundred dollars, and tried to steal my assets after my mother's death in 2005, and that I told my bankruptcy attorney, who said the paraprofessional from Germantown was engaging in illegal behavior opening my mail to look for a will?

13. Do you deny or affirm that this is the system you are trying to force me to return to through attacking me with Health and Human Services agents in 2014, and that once again, your then supervisory agent Ken Cantrell engaged in sexually intimidating behavior with these agents, preventing me from dressing?


14. At what point in our conversation about Erik's attendant harassing me did you receive permission to threaten me through my terminally ill emergency contact? This is the only open ended question I will ask, and in view of the fact that you are an ignorant hate crime who feels section 202 is a police state, I hereby refuse to recognize your authority until I receive punitive damages for the significant liabilities I have on your employer, yourself, and Debra Horne.

The Destruction of Pompe, Interdicted Sclerosis

"We thought we could change the world."-- Mario Vargas Llosa, post goat mortem

During the 2016 primary season, I tried to build a case, perhaps somewhat unsuccessfully, that Trump's hostility toward Serge Kovaleski, driven by his media antagonism, if we tally the number of fake news tweets into his presidency, did the collective social conscience a favor. That the president then flipped a coin in his first address to Congress to usher in Megan Crowley as a time honored, privileged, diminutive token doesn't contravene his credibility so much as expose a divided American psyche, and I'd say the ratio is at least 1 in 50 on the conservative side. For every extraordinarily privileged persons like Megan, or fully matriculated individuals like Governor Abbott, there are then ten marginalized wheelchair residents in a public housing facility with zoophytic lives, attributable to how badly Medicaid Waiver systems are administered. Though budget allocation is a factor, the number of dollars spent on regulating the poor to death isn't the only problem. Socialized medicine is a regulatory nightmare that hasn't changed in the 35 years in which I began making my living at it, unless the change is that of even more stricture through centralization, and this represents the failure of inclusion since Helen Keller became the apostle of being in the world despite the severity of her deprivation. My life was in jeopardy from 10/17 through 3/18 only to be placed in jeopardy once back in the system by a provider's attendants being a no show, which goes to the heart of why I took myself off of waiver services in 07. At this level of poverty in the Philadelphia region, the digital economy has a subzero impact. Case managers are like Bill Murray repeating Groundhog's Day with no outlet to wake up, and it represents Erik's failure beyond his current end of life mental decline. He forced this section 202 housing contractor to "renovate" the building, putting every single resident in here through unimaginable hell for well over a year, only to have the city's housing authority strike back by prohibiting disabled tenant access to senior living facilities unless they meet the age requirement, and ADAPT's defiance against medical model authority has also cratered in IL, since they now have nursing coordinators, and if we have a class of 30 autistic students blowing bubbles in a park, this is featured in a local news segment like a Gnostic gospel for savants, taking victories in the acknowledgement of our still precious limitations. If you'd like an example of how my pessimism could be assuaged, the Amazon series Britannia, though it vibes like Masterpiece theatre on steroids, presents its maimed with a live and let live aspect. There are no phalanx of visiting nurses doing absolutely nothing, certainly not with effective treatments, simply adaptation and aid by and whom is at hand. In the life of Emperor Claudius, which coincides briefly with the harsh rabbinical life of Jesus, there were no overzealous fathers who created found wealth for 24 hour nursing care, no persistent vegetative states used for dramatic purposes to portend malignancy. You were butchered, or tortured, wounded, survived or not. This is more beneficial for bipedal primates than blood thinners allowing a 94 year old to catapult into thinking her care givers and relatives are demons boring holes in her skull. If some of you would like me to cease hating the devoid lives of so many invalids I've lived through in this bariatric driven Commonwealth, stop elevating Megan for her stoic coping, and for those of developmental birth who can, let us hope too, like the slim minority of paraplegics and amputees in the mainstream, that we can earn establishment prominence. That's real inclusion, not government contracts with religious organizations and state civil servant intake that can't tall it's asshole from its dung heap.

Humanist Bound

I figure, if I am getting blocked without being able to pinpoint either the user or the rationale, it must be because I put too much heart in saying "look, here is the end of the road!" I have little to no idea how Carson will change section 202 policies by the beginning of April, but by any reasonable standard, I am non-complaint, and my interior is not orderly, nor clean. Eight year old carpet needs section replacement, etcetera, yet shame is the least of my concerns, as I sat here attempting a minor note of eloquence to Sheldon Novick, his a learned mind of wonderfully constructed explanations of our best achievements. Henry James as a collector of social culture. Legal theory that turned constitutional law into the progressive victory whose zenith culminated, and started its process of erosion, under Lyndon Johnson, and I, in my worst moments, the stoking troll with charcoal eyes whose rage, when she is really tired, really tired, is beyond reason in its destructive cruelty. His social media metrics are sterile, Sheldon's, though I alternate with my distance of address from him, one one formal, "Dr Novick," which feels pretentious. He is neither colleague nor instructor, we are not socially familiar, and my numbers, not huge by any margin, yet more dynamic than his, My private message failed because the Toshiba cursor bounces and I lost the window. Sheldon would not care and I'll try another day. He's been extremely generous with me, and I feel traces of guilt. How can I froth with genocidal pathology and appreciate his scholarly arguments in the same brain mind dualism? There are ways to defend libertarian freedom and deplore Donald Trump simultaneously. I'm getting there but I'm not superhuman, and if I give this building manager her victory, go out into a cruel world into an environment where many people my age are strapped, I at the very least, need a destination. At the same time, I am too overwrought. But I am not doing what I plan to because of libertarian theory. Last time I checked, we all live once, and I need to get the fuck out of here, and the wreckage of my past in the gait of Jimmi Shrode's indignation, his partner's virtually zombie dead body with catheter tubes. Erik is a literal figure out of Shakespeare's supernatural.

Another One Bites The Dust

"She needed to be more liberal."-- Theodore Dreiser

I should be quiet when I get like this, knowing it is too late baby, whether I run or not, whether I cancel my Prime Membership or bite the bullet, whether I voluntarily throw myself back into Pennsylvania's mental health system, or not. I know that system well, and know it will not help me. Pacify me? That depends. Help me? No. Therapy cannot circumvent permanent destitution. Therapy, at least in Southern PA, is a secularized New Testament. Forgive. Think of what it would do for you. Declare bankruptcy. This is what I got from an intake counselor circa 2K during my nervous breakdown after I flipped on Linda, who is evidently her same pussycat self, from what I can gather. Linda's casualties sit on one end, and the eel in her sneakers and overcoat jumped ship on a railroad grant. Perhaps I am making things impossibly difficult deliberately, breaking myself faster than Presbyterian Homes would do it for me. When I told NYT on twitter that I am a genocide survivor it was not exaggeration. Section 202 takes broken people in and breaks them further. I have seen black schizophrenics fracture the faces of their grandchildren, rolling back to my unit, face the color of a turnip, screaming for police. I cannot forget that afternoon. I ran from my own mother's insanity to something much worse, whiplash upon whiplash upon whiplash, I purchased the Gladhandler a candy bar.
Who is he? No one, a simple cripple, 70 years old. Follows Erik like a fucking puppy. Sourced me, however, for AccessLife, so I am kind, even if I upload the cart and dump my bleeding scars on a tacit, naive simple bastard who never got laid. He loves his nigger dependence. Wince. Go ahead. Now I'll shut up. Jerry always hated that imperative command. I may just vaguely recall George Michael. I said, oh, must be AIDS. To my regular viewers (do I have any?) I need not continue in that vein. I'll lie down an hour. Pout about losing Mhz on WYBE.

Super Id on the Periphery

"I never molested Dylan."-- Woody Allen, not dispositive, but given the benefit of the doubt by the Grahams, before or after Bezos ate them

Spastic is fully cognizant of the fact that even "established" writers get rejected, but at my age, similar to Kathleen Parker, I should be able to shoot out of the park at a better rate, and why can't I? The after effect of miscreant disability activists. I know British and Canadian cripland occasionally deign to pat attention to me, and I'm going to be blunt: November 1999 was the last time I transmitted an email to the formerly named Linda C. Richman, now Dezenski. I cannot remember every word of that last transmission, but I did tell her I'd like to kill her, and I was never more serious in my life, though the last time I spoke to her, diminished to an ineffectual turnip, my psyche might have been shrink wrapped by a witch doctor. Five years later I would be molested again by a bovine mulatto who makes me look pretty, at least next to Scarlett Johansson. Allen, it seems, knows what to do with this woman so difficult to cast, and then, two years after that molestation, thanks to ADAPT holding HUD at gunpoint, which included the now infantile transsexual, Erik von Schmetterling, whose female nigger nanny, name unknown, received the strident assertion, after Erik saw my finger-- for the uninitiated, the middle finger is an obscene gesture in the States-- "I'd break his neck if I could, he's lucky I can't."

The renovation to the building in 07 took I do not know how many years off my life, and the Quickie decided to expire; for very nearly 13 months, I could not write, barely do anything; Trudy Richardson sees her opportunity, and attacks. On her side of it, I had been missing pisses, until Frank mentioned urinals, which still aren't perfect-- but Richardson's attacks don't seem to do anything but justify my temper to strike her down-- which once again begs the question: If a disabled woman doesn't want to comply, why not evict, whether or not the self-same woman recertifies? I hate a building manager beyond what her character is worth. At least Linda was a worthwhile adversary, a role model I looked up to. I don't quite elevate Richardson, much as Rhys Meyers elevates Johansson in Match Point (05). My only major complaint with Woody's arc is that Woody makes Johansson a little too complicit in her own spiral. I actively pursued married men, and did so before the Internet. How did I manage that? An independent press trade secret. Minorities like Trudy are pests to me, like the mice all my dead males make short work of. Kimmy toys with them, but if they escape her they tend to vanish.

In a longer, more objective post, I want to eviscerate what Jimmi and Erik actually achieved. Very little. Diamond Park, at least, was designed for wheelchair access. Riverside is just a senior living facility with basically stupid, mentally ill, and chronic tenant refuse better off being recycled by predators much sooner than they are. Even with all PHA subjected Riverside's tenants to, in other words, these studios are not user friendly to affective quadriplegics. No small feat, then, that I could once subsidize myself to the tune of three thousand dollars, to then being reduced to scrambling for pennies. I cannot afford to go insane. My Commonwealth made a huge investment in my intelligence quotient. But I am being outpaced by automated upload.

Rhys Meyers made a decent Dracula. One that fucked like a perv, but since we're talking about humanity being afraid of its own atavistic tendencies, it is a soft critique. In this end of life arc by a tarnished genius, the intensity Rhys-Meyers displays, setting him apart even after he solves his problem-- though it is unclear if he'll evade the law forever, is the same intensity which emanates me, apart. I've paid all my life.

The upside of facetious

I sometimes lose track, due to seasonal changes, of the additional torments impaction inflicts, and feel easier now. Wednesday morning I thought my symptoms were indicative of stroke, when they were actually reduced diet binding to phlegm, perhaps reduced mammary tissue resiliency. I've lost weight, but not like a happier exercise infomercial. I do not know why I pay any attention to the Social Security Administration. It auto-mailed me me to review my benefit statement approximately 14 days ago. I ignored the prompt, and I'm wasting my usage on mild ire. With that Medicare deductible removed, my monthly budget would be less strenuous, despite the age and condition of the Jazzy. I have not yet acted, mainly because by eight thirty am night owls feather the nest, but I may act in any case, and live my narrowing quality time as I please, eschewing the single payer option, according to my beliefs.

I'm more libertarian than I realized, but we'll leave that for later. I believe I intend to open and monetize a Niume account Friday evening. I will not write "death to faggots," or discuss my pain at independent living centers-- but for some reason, I need to be just as much an esoteric wonk, and shift from deadly tyrannical quadriplegic to archaeologist, of a sort. I'll just give it a try, we'll see. If I fail or get booted, we've been there before. Not the end of the world, nor does this account necessarily have to cease, though rousing Google's ire and living to tell about it is no small feat. But this is the thing: I've exhausted most of what can be asserted about broken bodies and aesthetics. The rest is nuance. Nothing wrong with that, but after 8 years, and behaving like a mini-Idi, perhaps I can take another tack.

For the record, I hate those whom I've felt betrayed by, and when I told Von Schmetterling's caretaker that I'd take him out, during Indian Summer, I was fairly dispassionate. I know all that such an action would achieve is exactly what the building manager desires, my incarceration, as in not her problem any longer, but unipolar activists need to learn that they hurt others unfairly, and Erik's battle with the government nearly took my life, just as Linda Dezenski's mind games with me online did 17 years ago, which is what makes Turkey Day an uneasy time of year: major depressive episode here, a deceased mother there, an intra building renovation that killed its tenants, but hey, what's not to forgive, yah? Oh, yes, Sean Malone had me clapping, in vigorous is he fucking married fashion (I will not write fucking at Niume, maybe they will let me type coitus or what) and he had me clapping just until his conclusion, which asserts expected courtesies, but let me chew on it.⧬

Essence of a Pornographic Interlude

I've always been something of a political animal in my work, and surmise now that this should have led me towards a journalistic concentration earlier than it did, but this was the fault of my iconic sensual needs focusing on instructors, culminating in my cleaving to rock star professor, which Jerry would have had directed elsewhere for a considerable sum. It isn't just that I nearly hate the old man now for hormonal intellectual overkill for which I was at fault. He warned me more than once, and I rankle over that as well, that he was astute enough to read my future anguish in the making. We'll never see each other again, he and I, but if we did, even if our aging appearance shocked each other, I'd have to struggle with a violent impulse to rage at him furiously, then to fall at his feet in florid pink stricken grief. He and John Tassoni, I have to admit, have the ability to trigger me to that level of provocation.

I've fought it all my life, and in biological dissolution that intensity may lift to expose my vanquished identity, the ultimate facade, as it were, but there it is. Conversely, if McGuire had slept with me, he would have been diminished, perhaps even relegated to stepfather pond scum. This relates to picking up my battlements and returning to pitching. My failure with Jeffrey Tucker's baby led to a small retreat: I did not procrastinate. I researched, and I still fell splat on my face, motivated but bit by digression, unwittingly arguing with Niall. If I had communicated this problem to Jeffrey beforehand I'm not sure my topic could have been saved, but I'm still sulking. I know I've been better than that, but my confidence took a hit; perhaps I'll never recalibrate.

I've picked myself up, but cannot fail the next time I get a green light, emerging, but busying myself with literary journal culture which I now find wearisome. Liberals think I'm still with the left when they access my creative output. Hardliners like Toomey mistrust me, and Tony's CFO jumped ship after telling me what a great humanist his boss is, but I do not take Murphy's bailout personally. On the commercial level, I am one of Puzo's soldiers, who will die for her Don, and most women of child rearing age rightly see this as a threat to domestic tranquility. In the right conditions, going down like a good soldier fulfills me because I couldn't find the thunder in the other to live for, and told Erik's passive caretaker, during Indian summer, that I'd break her transsexual's neck, after giving Erik the finger. His nanny was terribly pained; I have not seen Erik or Jimmi or their servile lout Chris since, more overjoyed than remorseful. Resolved to enter a poetry contest at the last minute even though I cannot afford it, then I have to get back on the circuit, and fight to rematriculate. I was not engaging in hyperbole when I tweeted to the President Elect I wanted an appointment to the National Council on Disability. Some of you get payback.

Let me add one thing about Tony Stiles. He may or may not understand me, and he and I may not always agree with each other, but my loyalty to the man is unswerving, because he found me and linked to me of his own accord. I prefer radio as my medium, and need a new system, and then would love to hear his show, promote him when he's right. That is as close as I get to fundamental ideology.

And if I'm having bodily wound sex with Ken Wahl in my head, to resurrect my full throttle, as long as it doesn't take water in the bow, hey.

Tireless Mantra

I want my viewers to understand something about my animus over Riverside Presbyterian, even before Trudy Richardson was hired to continue where her predecessor Brenda Williams left off: I never wanted to live here. That simple. Terri Way, who was employed by Presby for Diamond Park in 1993, dissuaded me from suing her employer for negligence after I was attacked by Brandon Phillips. I shudder writing his name, but his grandmother lived on the third floor, and when he couldn't steal from her one fine morning, he knocked on my door. Count that as twice in my life I survived what I wasn't supposed to. Him, and my premature breech birth.
The lawyers among you would say okay, Terri Way played me, I gave in and and followed her here, get over it, as everyone says, it is one of the more torpid section 202 units around, in a near center city location; but let's review:
1. A homosexual advocate couple, so called, engaged in collusion which ended my career and forced me into federal default. I have to see them daily in addition to their aide's uncouth and recent toxic behavior.
2. Trudy Richardson has objectified me three times, once in 2007, and then with Ken Cantrell and Health and Human Services, after I have been systemically abused by minority attendants-- I cannot keep suppressing I let the corporation off in 1993 and allowed the first Riverside manager I moved in under to exploit me as a case manager. Disabled or ambulatory, it may read like David Bowie's Soho during a restless post-war period, but wouldn't you find this level of duress a bit much? 32 years with one rental agent because I wanted to be independent, in a fatal mistake of exposure to catastrophic effects of urban violence. Look at what I have to reduce myself to now to get out from under. Perhaps an opening swan dirge.

Workplace Grievance Assailants

"I almost stabbed the masseuse." --  LaPaglia, Australian usurper 

Satoshi Uematsu is not such an anomaly as mothers with children would like to believe, which is why they should pay attention to the lessons Fuminori has to teach, but more than that; the mentally ill mirror the times around them, as LaPaglia himself may remember from one of his signature dialogues on schizophrenics.

The #knifeattack in Japan was at disability center no surprise: all hate us

— Joanne M Marinelli (@Jozannyme) July 25, 2016

Uematsu may be a rarity in terms of unrest on Japanese soil itself, but his aggression reflects what happens in institutional paradigms. Decentralized or not, ugly situations occur, cut across cultural differences, cut across ethnicity. Mammals seem basically programmed to take advantage of injury, illness, weakness, or other forms of distress. We accept it, even practice it, if the Danes are any indication, when we pretend to absent the human animal from land mass ecosystems, something almost impossible in the 21st century. When it comes to ourselves, that is another matter entirely. While a complex series like The Churchmen is not immune to conflicts of doctrine juxtaposed against material violence, within the seminary itself we do not see knife fights, but HMS as it existed in the 70's under Dr. Chance, who had his own deity complex issues despite his attempt to dissuade second generation Romans against aggressive surgeries, was home to violence with blades in recreation rooms. This writer lived with what the good orthopedist's business represented for three years, before Shriner's took over and destroyed my body for another surgeon's career. Only the records of Home of the Merciful Savior exist, but as bad as it was, next to this the home, with its dark granite facing, was club med. Chance had a private residence across the walk, and it was like his private fiefdom. LRI is in some ways fundamentally worse, as the collusion and fraud of Erik von Schmetterling, Cassie James, and Linda Anthony represent. I shouldn't have to live with it, harassed by a so called assistant whose uncouth behavior makes Joe  Caesar's progenitor.

What's in a Resource?

"Do you know what you're hoping for?"-- Diana Ross, crossing over

While I am waiting for the overdose of my aging Nsaids to kick in so I can try to lie down without duly landing on the carpet, which I'm vacating shortly, let me post a little more about Liberty. All I ever did there, before I went to Irv's deceased research institute, was take a nursing home resident in a body brace to a luncheon I was directed to organize. That is about it. The woman died shortly thereafter, and the rest of the time, I visited nursing home residents, or subjected minority public housing cripples to the same level of objectification Liberty's coordinators inflicted on me between 99 and 08, aside from the charming psychic warfare going on between Linda and I. The center is always writing grants, empowerment projects, but their staff has little to no enforcement power. At its essence, independent living centers are rehabilitation and mobility medicine at cut rate prices, micro managed by either optimistic or cynical lieutenants like myself. My former peer counselor, Laverne King, was terminated for being a power wheelchair user placed in exactly the same predicament Linda tried to place me: She lied about an onsite visit to a consumer who's residence was inaccessible. She should not have lied, but I am now uncertain about Bob Michael's rather swift termination of her livelihood. The more sentient Erik von Schmettering, the once upon a time dubious ally from whom I sought relief, in much the same way as Celine screamed for relief in his work, would say the CIL I knew in 89 has *changed,* but that isn't really the truth. They just encroached upon state vocational services. Aside from what happened to me, why am I so angry then, why am I still so emotionally vested in the institutional cruelty the paradigm represents? I've already discussed their utter lack of accountability. Indeed, even in my recent conflict with Erik's squat and pudgy attendant, Erik whimpered "Chris didn't do anything to you," even though Chris was doing something, objectifying me down to tits and puss. 

I'm angry because I know they need to be stopped, before they actually do drive a quadriplegic with my potential to suicide. In my story with the center, lies the reflection of hundreds of failures, cripples burned across the country, with morally superior case managers hiding behind the shields of their processes. I am not the only victim, though allowing my over-identification with psychopathology supervisor has its own unique signature. If either Linda, the CSPPPD aunt, or the community advocate, had truly respected me, they would not have played mind games with me. Both of them. They could have spared me a conference, asked me where I wanted to go after I washed out under Richard Baron. I know the eggs in one basket approach leads to ooze and broken cartons, but it isn't as if a 37 year old who was under a misapprehension about teaching could suddenly wait tables, or go into ballet, and as I've written before, the Painted Bride theatrical performer and I didn't mesh. I satirize art therapy with as much irony as AS Byatt, who does do things differently.

None of you want the burden we represent once we lose the shelter of family, in my case, never that healthy to begin with, and yet, we're supposed to grin, bear it, in a happy bauble of subsistence. I truly say, echoing my brutal poppa's drunken reflections on the tragedy of his children, that you should let us die in selective reduction, or at birth. Far less cruel, more merciful than life by statutory regulation, all but meaningless.  I never wanted to live like this. I wanted the same freedom I think you have, on the other side of the glass. I still didn't stay down Saturday evening, true, but what moved the needle was knowledge. It would have been an excessive way to expire.

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.

Gonzo, sans Hunter

I could be running the rent downstairs in my bare feet and my stained beige skirt, in violation of the dress code. I could be going to bed, having sucked two Vuse cartridges back into my system, and instead, I am just the dago who keeps getting kicked. Liberty Resources wasted no time soliciting a law firm to threaten me, this after years of institutional abuse, breach of contract, toxic environment at their hands, and I? What am I going to do? Probably get arrested after the holiday, going to jail to experience even worse instances of being the prime mud crab in the dish. Oh, no one cares, when it's me, what I've been through, no one, not that I haven't tried a wee little, politicians notwithstanding, legal aid, ACLU. The only thing anyone sees is how angry I am, and so they get the Presbyterian Corporation, with its financial collusion with the Department of Housing and Urban Development, to back down, as I weaken, and weaken, urinating with increasingly diffident aim into a broken disposable urinal, even without the attendant, still getting abused by an attendant, and so this is what I do, martyr myself on an obstinacy only as obdurate as blood pressure allows in a 53 year old woman with strange accretions of psoriasis under her thighs, but hey, this is the oxygen of social media, and a great piece of trash for Nick if he wants it, perhaps an item for Tony Stiles to air as well.

There is a little thrill all the same, one defiant spastic greasy and weirdly drying matron, spiraling down against the system which invariably crushes us all. There is no Grisham crusader here willing to sit and take my whole story, point by point, just the blood in my face, the social fear at my rage, absent the reconciliation barbecue with the vindicated client, wounded, but at peace. I have no idea what that is, as it involves going through more than you care to stand. I told the lawyer I'd use the press. And so I shall. Let it play.

In Place of Scurrilous Venom

In reaction to any questionable statement or activity, social media users can create huge waves of outrage within just a few hours. These so-called online firestorms pose new challenges for marketing communications.

I signed up for twitter shortly after the intrepid Kathleen Parker syndicated one of her columns about signing up for it. There is no question as to its utility as an aggregate, no question as to its marketing value, nor its power for social agitation, though if I asked my followers to put an uncouth nigger aide who has been giving me my latest set of housing problems in his place, non-interference then suddenly becomes an issue of proactive removal: no, I'm not asking for that, I made a scene, and the misogynist ape filth wilted like a toddler. I'm still placing the finishing touches on putting his underclass balls in a very overclass vise, but this is where I'm at now, just under the half way mark to 60.

In the historical timeline, twitter governance seems to float on an uneasy median of contradiction, with special rules for obscenity, brands, proportionality of the ratio between following and followers, which, under some bizarre rationale, can be "bought". What is that, a status and prestige issue of some sort? Or tweets get promoted, for a fee. All this hardware, all this wireless technology, and all it comes down to is whose hustle supersedes, even if, for a time, this includes the unexpected combat between digital executives and a resurgent medieval code of conduct (ISIS), with both corrupted by liquidity.

As with much of the old guard giving way, even though I'm an unquestionably active presence on the micro blogger, landing ineffectual, sometimes excessive blows, I have no desire to follow 100k in accounts to get 75k in return, and remain diffident about platforms and coding tools: I just read what I read in people: Melissa is a less aggrandized version of Soon-yi and Woody Allen, her partner Mike nothing more than a baboon whose gravitations are led by his penis for Asian pussy, something which has been playing out between Caucasian men and Asian women since Japan was opened at a bayonet's receiving end. I may have curbed my acerbic starkness, parred it down, but at heart, I basically view Mr. Stiles' tweets on human trafficking as little more than a facade. I haven't been particularly supercilious about it due to his staying power, and of course, modern slavery isn't dungeons and dragons, but as African Americans in North Philadelphia answer their own sense of worth with either fatalism or brutality, like Erik's aide harassing me in public space (I wonder if my family would put up with living with corrupt homosexuals who destroyed careers, only to have to deal with this belligerence, no less), how can I give a fuck about social media's victim badges, when I cannot close the door on my own?