Travanti Hemlock at the root

"It is therefore no surprise to find that anti-homosexual repression is itself an indirect manifestation--" Homosexual Desire, page 55

I probably take the national prize for online inappropriate behavior, and one year went *off* in email with a sort of loose jointed Briton about trauma conversion. Total stranger, and I'm emailing him about a rather intimate issue of masochism, probably fresh in the aftermath in my tug of war with my former supervisor-mentor, but some years before the half-breed from the inner city violated my personal sanctity, upon which I discovered I couldn't be masochist enough, and fought, but to be entirely honest, there is a part of my psyche, after years of learned devaluation, that could have let this absolutely repugnant female have her way, and destroyed myself in the process, but in coming to terms with it, I'm now beginning to put it away, to stop twisting my head, and the next African American who tries a "Miss Eddy* maneuver isn't going to enjoy the consequences.

Leaving Travanti frozen in the eighties of his prime to be able to watch a relatively contemporary work like C.O.G. bite on the ass from a distance takes courage, in more ways than one: Bochco fed us Frank Furillo as a nearly messianic figure, and this is a grave sin, a set of expectations offered by a fictional character against which we judge the men we think we want, the ones who reject us next to the gluttons we reject. Travanti and Bosson really were sanitized versions of my mother and father. It hurts, surprisingly, and leaves us with residues of what we have to offer, which we do, in reserves, until dementia or what will kill us takes over.

Be prepared for post-menopausal pain. It is something a woman over 50 needs to discuss with potential new boyfriends. I was just getting the hang of sex after my fling with Pat, my ludicrous fling which still has an undercurrent of dread, in my thirties, and then the ball stopped, and if I get into Frank (the ex) and sex I may end up asking a hunter to go retrieve that rifle with scope, but it can never now be the same, an expression of a bond of appreciation, had it been if I had been more resourceful in resilient middle years.

Why did I bother to chastise CrimeMonitor? Because I am a victim, two, three, four times over, and when the account holder actually bothered to pay attention, his subsequent click of "unfollow" was the behavior of a mongrel, another arm chair cosmetic. I at least make an effort to think about what accounts have to offer. He, or she, has earned my contempt.

Weekend on the Hill, an address to Fareed Zakaria

Mr. Zakaria, I offer my regrets that your children were harassed over the telephone after your column about self-destructive whites who support Trump was spoofed. Aside from the fact that I've traipsed on the hem of the fourth estate long enough to know that energy flags even with a deadline approaching, and aside from the fact that I've had more articles fall apart than I've had published, you wrote a bad column about a statistical analysis of white suicides for those in my age group, suggesting in your last line that people like me take a reality check, and that "Trump can't fix it, no one can." Exactly what kind of observation is that, even with the acknowledgement that Wapo needs to resolve its revenue generation issues just like the rest of us?

That Donald Trump is where he is at the moment in the run for the White House is a testament to more than a few failures of the previous and current administrations. Afghanistan hasn't been a viable nation state for more than 30 years. Bush and cabal didn't resolve that issue, destroyed Iraq as a buffer zone, and Obama subsequently offers seven years of apologias. Usually, national policy has little effect on my stagnant paralysis as a disabled woman, but the ACA is apparently deciding what kind of healthcare I need for itself without my participation, a cripple who's tragedy amounts to the realization that liberal academics who believed her intelligence would be her economic security were wrong. My career in Philadelphia, brief as it was under vocational interference and afterwards, was basically segregated within the public welfare system. Now it is worse than it was in my twenties, for reasons which have run the gamut through this account purportedly about disability in entertainment, which for the most part it is. The social media mockery to which you were subjected probably has its roots in the fact that your ability to brand your writing is too diaphanous, and yet, like many of your colleagues, you're unionized, salaried, to dish up milkweed as some sort of castigation, then the fact that you were trolled becomes its own establishment media item. That is the nature of the business; readers, however, even if they aren't over-educated with the debt to show for it, know when they're having their chain yanked; if they reacted before thinking it through the behavior was inappropriate, but the sensationalism whose maw you feed rather ineptly at times, puts the blame partly at your door.

I'm going to be blunt: I look like shit, and the last time I had a decent repast twice in the same day is beginning to fade from my memory, and I haven't taken the risk to use my aging bath chair since the building manager telephoned Health and Human Services agents to humiliate me last April, so my personal hygiene is under challenge, and if I am more than likely going to go the same way most section 202 housing residents go I've resolved to take my own life, and I am having a harder time than usual this month. I wanted to, determined to, keep my Amazon Prime membership. Why? Burnished comfort of vanity beyond my means? In a few hours I shall with embarrassment drive to Trader Joe's for a loaf of bread on my laundry money, good as my word when it comes to my visceral hatred of entitlements for what I'm subjecting myself to. I wouldn't have the slightest compunction about becoming a domestic militant, if I could, against housing authorities who've treated me like chunnel since I was a graduate student, and intake systems whose use of assurances rapidly germinate their own criminal liability, but even radical libertarian ranchers occupying federal lands in Oregon relegate morbidly angry quadriplegics to entities like Bellevue, particularly if they're now too old to ride stallions on their own as a good method of leg stretching. Most woman of my age probably swooned over Daniel J. Travanti in his heyday, with his cultured moderated pragmatism. I know I did, fantasized over the man as the perfect televised version of my father whom I'd never marry. Progressive multiculturalism destroyed even the humane standard of decency he represented. If you were as astute an analyst as you should be, allegations of fraudulence wouldn't continue to hound you as they do.