Lethal Injection for Horses

"What?"-- Jason Statham

It is difficult to evaluate Jim Webb as an alternative to Hillary on the basis of his one recent interview with Judy Woodruff. He hasn't been exactly visible, but is a potential candidate who used to have a gravitational pull for me, and he seems to recognize progressives are free-falling out of a helicopter in an ironic, fantastical, denouement. If Mrs. Clinton doesn't run, or in some context loses the primaries in a bloody fight with a dark horse like Webb, the problem becomes obvious, in that, all things being equal, Webb would lose to the Republican nominee, barring something extraordinary, like a Rand Paul Ben Carson ticket, and by Christ wouldn't that be fun! 

Pleased to recapture a cultural reference, I remember Carson doing an interview on his advisory role on the Bijani twins, and he cut an impressive figure. I was going to do a very long apologia for him on his views of homosexuality, and we may return there, to my delicate gay bashing with its hideous implications-- but not today, since I can't handle a battle with the German left and moral umbrage of my minority wardens combined, at least not without becoming a full fledged Libertarian first-- I've flirted, spiritually, with Libertarian philosophy for a long time, and telephoned the party from the ghetto, years back, and argued with the gentleman who answered my call about my terror over guns-- however, if one has to pick a side, I'm leaning heavily, today, towards becoming an operative, without any reason, thus far, to like Carson-- remembering the eclipse of Herman Cain. Even at the price of losing ground, Carson should have explicated his anti-homosexual bluntness, not backpedaled.

The right needs more courage to remain unpleasant; if a neurosurgeon of such skill and compassion can see homosexual activity in a vein so similar to mine, journalists with a platform might want to ask more questions before dismissing us as bizarre.

Jason Statham has the bizarre action thriller humor all to himself, and Crank nearly had me pissing myself with its humorous subversions, including its homage to Jon Voight and Midnight Cowboy. My thought processes need fermentation, however, in my balance between rough draft and polish.

The Doctrine of the Faith

Research, seriously trying to restore my veneer of respectability even if it kills me, which it might, but let's start simply and work our way up, or delve into contact tracing:

1. I basically think homosexual norms are evil
 a. Secular liberalism runs a close second

2. I concede 1 is partly based on Semitic doctrine even as monotheism is increasingly under assault, not without reason

3. But the main justification for 1 is personal experience, much of which, but not all, of course, I detailed in earlier posts.

4. I accept that micro-biology is complicated, but I reject it as an excuse for sexual orgies, and the permissiveness of sexual indulgence.

5. This may seem to contradict my near hatred of socialism and the welfare state, but one thing at a time.

As I need some rest, I'll hold it there, but I think it is time for a new authoritarian society to emerge, globally, and I'll refine these points as we go along.

Famous Anecdotes

There is a vestigial aspect to the 1977 Julia which makes it an interesting study, and fleshes out Lillian Hellman's play a little more. The Children's Hour always confused me, at least as an attack on innuendo, but thrown against the titanic clashes of 20th century Europe perhaps one can wear Lillian's lenses, even about absence-- for absence of presence is something I understand. Of all my name dropping on this account, one thing ties into my waggling: Lack of intimacy. I do not know Jerry all that well, nor Linda, my favorite spastic sociopath. I do know my ex fiance with an exposed familiarity of the uncouth, and thus understand Hellman's inability to let go of the impression made to her heart, but as a bio epic the film doesn't work, and is more reminiscent of overdrawn aristocrats writing each other love notes for lack of any other relief from their body lice. 

Julia was one of the few Jane Fonda vehicles which ever intrigued me. I thought Redgrave might do something interesting against the life long movie star chameleon whose frantic undercurrents drive me up the wall. Jane tries very hard here to use herself as an icon to play a theatrical icon, one who is now basically a footnote-- but it doesn't work, and Vanessa has little to do with the title character except to make her a blue blood willing to sacrifice body parts and personal security for radical egalitarianism-- the very thing I'm now using my pen to fight.

I loved my best friend Susan the way Hellman expresses her love for her early Nazi casualty, not my supervisor. I identified with Linda. If I had to be a woman with spastic cerebral palsy I wanted to make myself over in the image of a prevaricating Jewish fuck who reclines back into herself, a mortally wounded ferret-- but my depressive episode brought about by her betrayal wasn't gay panic. I believed for a long time that this was the case. I did not want to sleep with her then, and don't now, these many years past her divorce--but I did let her cause me a tremendous amount of suffering in my branded, platonic attachments, and this is one of Hellman's motifs-- personal and platonic investments beneath restraint, not so much forcibly repressed, but expected.

At one time, I loved Sue, my ambulatory best friend who had her own ambivalence about her sexual freedom. I kissed her hand too like a devoted litter whelp, when she came back from Alaska with Steve, but there was no sexual arousal involved in my attachment. I contrast this with my present state of being. My only interpersonal intimacy is with my second worst enemy: a broken female physician transvestite who can barely remember its own name while I wait to dance on its grave. Erik lacks the mental capacity to understand that I believe his extermination would be beneficial for the species, and that discussing the hostile environment Linda created for me 13 years ago is no panacea.

Bon Morte

I thought John Barth was dead, and that I had simply missed his obituary in passing, but his jabbing narrative voice is exactly the same as when he was still writing about being middle aged and married to his graduate student wife, only he is 85 or so, and empty as a bramble, or so he says. It turns out Mr. Harper died and I did not know. Typical Philadelphia black man, simple as a mousse, limping down Race Street after some scandal with resident council funds. "You have no choice," this is what he told me around 2010 when Brian got his manual wheelchair caught in the tracks outside my window, the engine flattening the poor traumatic brain injury bastard like a scrap of tin, no choice for me not to participate in Presbyterian Homes religious activities. I never do. I find Ann Beattie's anecdotes cruel and doubt her veracity, and yet her essay didn't-- oh how can I convey this, tired and scuzzy?-- her acerbic sensibility about her social set meshed into my rage, life long, about not being in it too with every franchise author of repute. I am still up, brush burning tail bone, contemplating a complicated essay on systems that I probably cannot do without investigating endless regulations and human processes being overwhelmed by them, the latest VA scandal symptomatic of the fact that civilization is invariably going to collapse if we keep this up. I haven't found my voice for it, as I usually do, however. This may take me some time, and yet my productivity is challenged because my enthusiasm ebbs. I get tired of authors, the industry, the pretensions. A young minority felt touched by the dismay in one of my Linked In posts, and he reached out to me. What the hell could I tell him? That my poverty is an acid vat and he was being kind to an angry fascist, coiled in her bitterness and terror of the swallowing to come?

I told him something in the futile poignancy of his desire to be supportive. It was courteous and emblematic enough of doomed circumstance, while Beattie had cutting edge collegiate sex with an instructor I had to relegate to a cocaine addict who cut me by bragging about his black girlfriend. Like Ann, I have the familiarity of a Chinese outlet when I desire the comfort of fried rice. Recognized it in the success of her reputation, my aggrandized failure.

I am not going to beat Pennsylvania's social services paradigm. If veterans are a vast post service entitlement class constantly straining resources, my vitriol, to use the poet Amy Holman's justified scolding of my uncouth temper many years ago, has to be taken in context. Soldiers serve their countries and become expendable unless they stay in the hierarchy. I lost my caste, basically in 97, and then caught a few minor breaks. Not major or even lucky ones: Mother died and left the kids a lump split by a third, and I made about six months of my entitlement benefits on commission, roughly. Since the tap dried and 50 cents per word went poof, I did not rush to the IRS ever popular kiss and tell rubric. I would have had I become established. I didn't. This is a difficult industry in which to achieve that, and I'm not a novelist. Not a competitive scholar-- not that I fear academic journals; I'm simply not superwoman.

Sneezed, needed a napkin. Even to get away, a little while, away from my antagonism toward Jimmi Shrode, his partner. I used to go to Wildwood, but that was long ago and would now be a logistical inconvenience, much like getting along with fans. Sigh.

Patristical Longitude: Gideon's Millstone

"Why should he not kill her?" -- Harold Frederic, digital location 4198

Did I mention paranoia? I cannot even mourn my friendship and admiration for Linda as it once sustained me, because it still relieves me 14 years onward, the thought of her skull fractured in a manner common to such rage induced by psychical injuries. In a coma, or transition to cadaver, she could never run the disability center! And what an investment of sound and fury this is, the popping champagne corks as I replay my last small happiness in the hope she meets an end appropriate to her ethical lapses. My subconscious warned me in a dream of Jewish demonology long before I ever did any research on Lilith, research for the sake of utilizing the film with cock a doodle Warren Beatty. Co workers had warned me years ago, don't idolize her. Chris Dorner, not definite this listing is him but no relation to the Navy Seal ash mummy poster child-- warned me even before I understood what a POP account was. Did I listen? I told Linda about the dream. I knew this was verge of desperation, chatter typing her about a Shirley Temple baby walking back and forth between us (representing infantilism). So much for work related friendship. My non-fiction editors aren't reading my account. Examiner.com doesn't care even if they are reading this account, since it will be long in the tooth before I see a commission reach PayPal. Red-rimmed eyes inflamed, killing myself for pennies.

Are such pennies better than nothing? We were friends, Linda and I; an assertion against Frank, the ex I did not want, who felt she wasn't really my friend. He is correct in that she was willing to make me expendable: I should not have been such a sycophant to her ego. It wasn't working, no matter how imminent my financial catastrophe, and with my disillusionment, she may have calculated she was doing me a painful favor. There was that bond, however, that neither of us acknowledged

I have to believe that; it wasn't simply her dominance at my expense, nor my genetic predisposition toward a volubility learned at mother's knee. What is still so vexing is the realization that she was my last, and I cannot even grieve for it, because I triggered it myself, imploded in rage and fear at the mere hint of sexual experimentation along those lines. Seven years, that is how long it took me to start writing poetry again, because I did not want to discover that I was obliquely troping the torture of lesbians so that militant LBGT activists could snicker at my repressed homo-eroticism. In certain veins this is farcical, that an eight month discussion in email set the stage to destroy the rest of my life. I would not have gotten undressed with the ugly cop bastard living below me if Linda had not made me feel so sexually insecure, and she used my creative writing to do it. Every time I tried to get back up and go back to work after that, the den mother bitches who want to run my life kept knocking me down.

In 2002 wheelchair users lost unlimited Paratransit; in 2006 I suffered abuse at the hands of choice aides, and was injured during the building renovations that the famous regional homosexuals forced on our shared parent company. One of the guards who witnessed an angry argument I had with Erik, *Miss Hanes*, as she calls herself, walks away from her post every time I roll into the lobby. I believe she has a child out of wedlock. I only spoke to her because I wanted to know if ecigs were worth the money.

"I still smoke." So much for bull dykes with batons, but Miss Hanes is one of those. Most of us have had exposure to black hard asses.

Simon Axler

...the sense she had now when Mr. Carmichael shuffled past, just nodding to her question, with a book beneath his arm, in his yellow slippers, that she was suspected; and that all this desire of hers to give, to help, was vanity. -- Virginia Woolf

To ready a sonorous viola that is an omnipresent suture to a heart of festered scabs, the subtext in many of my biographical posts is about lack of belonging: I did not fight to close the deal for a terminal degree, never found my way through the thicket of becoming an independent scholar, my shoddy case management training has turned me into a wistful exterminator, and I failed to establish myself as a journalist; creative writing can go fuck itself. I still practice it, will continue to do so, but most artistic expression, when you take a step back, is an eddy of vomit, canonical or otherwise. Rereading Les Miserables is an insane idea. I do not even know why it occurs to me to return to Victor Hugo, but perhaps reminding myself about the arc of Jean Valjean is relevant to modern alienation. When I was still under Linda's supervision, then I belonged, and that is where my internal bleeding truly resides; not in my career satisfaction, for I can vouchsafe that disability center employment is Orwellian, but I did what I did for as long as I did for her, not for the most discarded and broken bodies on the face of the earth, not for the dozens of mentally ill who challenged my own health not long after, but for a Jewish woman with a milder case of cerebral palsy whom I defended like a pit bull against all her detractors, then enabled her to become a fatal catalyst, making me a bull dyke in all but name, and I lashed out at her as much. Now I'm your bitch, hissing it out of my countenance violet with fury, stupidly emoting, never able to remove myself from this casualty laden environment. Padre's solution, if it isn't a shell game, is for me to move in with his sister and my demented uncle who paws my breasts when he can get away with it, but Joe is in Alzheimer's land, so I chalk up those behaviors there. If I could graft myself to the Rosenbach, it would be a gently vindicated landing, and they are good, despite that my cleaving to wade through Joyce was wobbly--but negotiating that slope is tricky, not being a nuisance, making myself useful. They fascinate me in many ways, these archivists and patrons, and their secular liberalism is good. Linda's is a psychopathy, much like Edward Snowden's transitory impermanence; his narrative goes deeper than his dissidence, deeper than immediate analysis.

The systems we've created have overtaken us.

The genie I cannot put back in the bottle isn't homoerotic desire: after Ms Dezenski bucked about her orgasms, I asked myself if she was flirting with me, and rolled into the bathroom with a COPD temperature and proceeded to puke. No, what I am going to grieve the rest of my life is the affinity of mutual esteem. I doubt I will ever have it again in another woman to admire or respect. There is an old adage that pontificates we really do things for ourselves. Indirectly, my loyalty to what Linda represented was an internal reward based on belief of derived  power through her leadership. Indeed, I held onto my position at Matrix as long as I did because I wanted to be as strong as I thought she was, and that example mattered more to me than sex.

I still live it, to channel Kevin Whately, but I have to pay the price for that in my hope for more equitable futures. If I lose to savagery, and then face elimination through that, then perhaps all I can hope for is to be my own voice of consolation for the suffering that finds its way to me.

Jim Croce, Canonized

I work so hard on some of these posts, and then I scroll the account every so often and wonder if I should not simply delete, accept that some form of anxiety and early dementia is taking over. Alzheimer's is not yet an affliction, but short term memory blocks started to plague me when Frank and I were current. Growing in concern. Louise is the only online contact who gave me any worthwhile feedback, and Steve Tara interacted and helped me along when I was active on LiveJournal. Why Daniel Schneider invited me to his community is lost on me, and my Russian viewers are a criminal cyber nuisance merely looking for an opportunity to antagonize me with more of the same.

Once I found out Louise was disabled, her backhanded compliment of my published essay diminished, but Steve Tara's interaction was pleasurable, the difference between being being a good lieutenant under an obligation, and a chance meeting of the minds.

I'd enjoy having fun in digs somewhere in Sydney with Steve, but I never wanted to engage Louise once I knew what she had, and understood her lack of sustaining socialization, because the work I did for the supervisor who traumatized me was mentoring. I have had enough of not being able to make my own choices on who I choose to empower. Louise said that if she friended me "you will not talk about me," essentially asking me to honor accepted social manner; what she confided to me is not interesting, but I am willing to violate her trust, or, in a more conscientious fashion, know my own capacity for it. In the usual manner of binary oppositions, I appreciate her outreach, her attempted assistance on a source, and offer her this advice if she is "out there" lurking: Do not invest in safety valves like I did. Find a partner, be wise about your finances, learn how to assert yourself, and stay away from damaged women like me. I am bad news Louise, for a sheltered younger lady like yourself, and do not want people like you looking up to me, and I'll never mention it again unless for reasons unknown it comes up.

This is why I made the interaction cease: the potential to cause her pain, passing it down the food chain. The disabled community itself taught me how to be that vicious, let alone the fabulous homosexuals who familiarized my past, and if I queried those who view this account if you are getting any sense of my strategy, what I am trying to do, or even where I am too obtuse, if you haven't commented in 300 posts to brave the demonic extremism of a damned mind, you aren't about to start now.

Koyaanisqatsi

The biographer therefore must make a choice---to penetrate that private reality and write a book that gives some sense of a life as it was lived, or to write some other sort of book, a commentary from the outside. -- Sheldon M. Novick

The contusion on my mother's profile from the left, just above the socket, during her survival flight from this excuse she married, erroneously, for the sake of her bastard child, was strangely beautiful. I am forgetful of the direction of the flight. She either followed Stuart to the Midwest and fled as fast as she could drive back home, or it was the reverse, and the fact that her little sister married a deputy chief of police whom Stuart feared, this saved my mother's life. Where the rest of us were also leaves me at a loss, but in a haze, perhaps we had left Mary's care to return to my father, for I was in my house when my mother's suffering could be read in her face. I feel guilty that I could not kill Stuart myself, as Nick Nolte did in his flashbacks that led to more sex with Streisand. (I wonder if anyone ever really enjoyed sleeping with her thus rendering her as PG sex kitten, but that Freudian aspect is as dated as Nancy Friday.)

I know I am quadriplegic and that level of expectation is a high water mark, but I did not protect my family, and got drawn into Stuart's predation trying to accept the man, and he was, in the truest sense. a revulsion, having no corresponding value as an alternate to natural harmony.

When I had my first email exchange with Sheldon, my grievance was a living crucifixion (don't believe the process they have posted, zealous Liberty; they will give you an audience but marginalize you with everything they have if you happen to have a Title II case, legitimately, against them, and, as an officer of the court, Tom Earle did not investigate or penalize Linda for what she did to humiliate me in front of my former neighborhood friends from the suburbs), so I caught him off guard, inadvertently, poor Sheldon, and later lost him and Sarah [for those of you keeping score I have had conflicts or frictions with five Jamesians, and was in the wrong twice, but care about the third--I liked the fact that Greg treated my article proposal with respect and my ego is still bruised that such manner, mutual courtesy, is now gone because I was tongue in cheek about spam] from my group. That is old egotistical tyranny. Smile.

The good Doctor Novick suggested I add my spin to the life of Alice. I am sure Strouse handles the job admirably. I am not a scholar of the lives of those who make the western canon, except for Italian modernists, should I live long enough, I might be swayed to caress such ribs as remain intact of Giuseppe. I think, for the prurient scholars who remain fascinated with Henry's penis, an anthropologist in the other department should apply for a grant to unravel the DNA sequence to gain insight into why a drug addict founded American psychology, whether Henry actually did pinch hit over the chamber pot exit, and whether Alice was muted as a lesbian invalid because she wanted to secretly wed a royal like Vincentio and imitated Isabella, dying in stunned silence.

My printer is not yet installed. But you are able to infer I am always behind.

Molten Eggs

"You cannot enforce this deal with him;  he's deranged!"-- Chris Kramer, UFOlogy


The one last observation I have to offer about my curious conflation, for the time being, is that I am more forgiving of Marty's acquired prejudices against Muslims than the scofflaw that surrounded him at Harvard and his resignation from The New Republic over them. I was still very active on the TNR site at the time, and remember much of the salient details of the uproar, but Marty has been formed by his experiences much as I have been formed by mine, and he is as entitled as he is cultured, despite the fact that old age has turned him into a Mario Puzo character (and Michael, you successfully bored me to tears only two paragraphs in, despairing for my non-existent byline, alas!). Bigotry is never the sum total of anyone, even those less erudite and flaming in reaction. My experience with the disabled/LBGT activists has taught me this: betrayal is more important than the principles these activists purportedly stand for, that they have no honor, and that they will subvert anything to their own ends, including the Christian faith, or any doctrine, biological science, for that matter, and their minds are not so stable as the psychiatric shift warrants, and though I can be duped, I shall not reconcile with libertines simply because they wear dress clothes and imitate pedestrian modality. I have been too close, seen too many head games, whether or not they involved me, and hurt too often. Human homosexuality is not moral, nor blessed, nor spiritually sanctioned, virtuous.

It is subversive, psychologically twisted, indulgent, and gratuitous, even if its practitioners are happy, or have an untouchable A list status, or falls into queer genius, but I will deal with cultural and literary contributions at a later date.

Lament as I may that I have no fresh series to attach to, I have found rewards in the dead zone of cancellation, and I am finding The Collector of use, as I have mentioned in previous posts, and I hope someone in the industry one day attempts to reinvigorate it. The UFO episode was a decent bit of gamesmanship, and funny, to boot. I am not quite sure where Cooksey was taking all the threads, all the motifs within the mainframe, but suffice to say, I am mining the episodes that exist, and need to review the pilot once more. Remind me that I cannot wilt with surrender back into the literary journal entirely, but a great deal of that is sheer fatigue. 28 submissions a month on average down to two. Do you see what you are sapping out of me? Stingy lurkers, the lot of you.

A Crack in The Door

Let's talk about my lengthy and long in the making antagonism toward the LBGT community and its advocates, just briefly, despite my subversive, or would be, finger waggle at terms of service guidelines: I do not advocate violence against homosexual orientation in the abstract. Everyone breathe a sigh of relief? Good. Violence against any group en masse is counterproductive, regardless of how fucked up American progressive sanctity has left me, and for the moment, I will tie one hand behind my back and not discuss personal experiences (thank god, mutter the detractors of one really bitter failure of a spastic), but this does not mean I do not intend to generate controversy; I am hanging fire for the sake of being responsible, and gathering data, and some ambivalence in relation to a few things: I use the threat of bisexual experience in my writing, just as the old lady Henry James did in his. I have, in fact, much like James, a bisexual character in one of my very difficult stories, and revealed her to former associate Josie Byzek looking for street cred (waves and says up yours holier than thou backstabbing bitch) and do not know what I am going to do with her and my equally problematic sexual trauma in which she is engaged, and Josie transmitted back that said character read bi.

In terms of my public hostility to Josie, I do not have to keep engaging it. Women burn each other all the time over men, to use the voice of my pragmatic sister, but only in my universe, does this burn come from a woman who is an actively Christian lesbian with multiple sclerosis. Can any able bodied woman imagine the value to me, of a romantic dinner date with an interesting and intelligent man I had managed to land on my own? Josie damaged a prospect for me in an instant, a mere instant, but in terms of the tools with with I have to compete, no well toned calves nor shapely buttocks, the extra time I have to sweat with hose, and shaving, this woman in Lancaster made me pay a high price for my loyalty. I'd love to ask a more pedestrian blogger like Laura Overstreet how I am supposed to keep trusting the disabled community whom have my cognitive capacity, when I have to keep taking blows like this?

Nothing will reconcile me to the American gay community, nothing, even if I was faced with the prospect of appearing on television with Andy Sullivan and had to abide by FCC standards, my civility would be an ice sheet of jagged edges, but when you combine homosexuality with disability civil disobedience, that combination is nearly as fanatic in terms of imposed duress as anything that comes out of the right wing.

Goal accomplished for my character, a as an evolutionary matter, primate homosexuality is here to stay, however. I am not going to stamp it out, put it back in the closet, or stop gay marriage from revolting a succinct minority and making powerful liberals like Kristof weep for joy, as if someone spiced his bland rice with curry. That is what I am not going to do, but I am going to try very very hard to make some of you think about the price tag involved in not being true to ourselves, and examine, much as South Park did, the extra-categorization of hate crime in terms of giving it extra legality, and yes, what I allowed my former supervisor to do to me caused me traumatic doubt, though it did not drive me to seek out a conversion. That I was molested by a mixed race paraprofessional  six years later took care of that. I was victimized, not aroused, and no woman will ever do that to me again. Quadriplegic or not, I will defend myself to the best of my ability. We are going to crack that can of worms, follow that trail of minute waste the poor panicked creatures will leave on your arm, ew boy.

Soloist Rational Phobias

And who, she sometimes secretly asked herself, wasn't stupid?
__Henry James, The Wings of the Dove, kindle location 1476-79

I am debating not watching the presidential debate this evening; nothing Romney could say would reconcile me to him as a scion of a cult which has a dark, unpleasant history, and yet, naming Joseph Smith for what he is hurts the feelings of the true believers, and Barack is not going to do anything I have not seen him do, faltering or not, since his days as upstart. Neither man has a real vision for the country which mitigates my disillusion with American liberty. It does not exist for me, and is slowly ceasing to exist for anyone else.

Again, writers such as David Mitchell were ahead of the curve, and the power is shifting away from national sovereignty to corporate governance. It may not be Google or Amazon, and it certainly will not be Facebook, but I agree with Mitchell's vision that we will cede ourselves to a few global monopolies before we collapse, whether due to an EMP disaster, or coprophagia, my personal favorite, which I see in our last days as a matter of course. Solely as a matter of logic then, I should support gay rights as I once used to. My revulsion changes nothing, and the Obama generation reflects a new reality, and if a rollback is not going to happen, why do I see homophobia as valid? There is no real plausible issue with oral erotic stimulation, or sodomy versus traditional intercourse, not as an abstract matter.

Homosexuality on a conceptually level playing field, is evil for reasons that have nothing to do with conservative religious tenants, because sexual liberalism can create a blinding self indulgence, and the risk of trauma, too prevalent. As an iteration, and continuous retreading, I have not yet compiled my data to really weigh in on the problematic issues surrounding sexual orientation, and I have been in the blogosphere, with my voice hindered due to lack of resources, and a frustration with computer literacy, for two years now, but we'll get there, as long as I can maintain access. I was, after all, traumatized to the point of serious doubt, if not conversion, and the issue is complex, regardless of my recoil. My goal? It may not matter, as my lung function is in significant decline, but I will get through my main points first, on a case by case basis, as my remaining vigor allows.

Biology Fallback

Another item Slate's gay journalists, and William Saletan, enjoy using is the scientific measurement of autoerotic arousal as an indicator of bisexual repression. Here is Bering again:

Research has shown a positive correlation between a man’s loathing of gay men and his own repressed same-sex desires. “Since homosexual behavior violates both their moral code and their sense of identity,” explained the psychologists Donald Mosher and Kevin O’Grady long ago, “homosexual threat is experienced as men become aware at some level of their … arousal to homosexual stimuli. This awareness can be avoided by anger, disgust, and contempt directed against homosexuals, as a means of bolstering hypersexual identity.”

Jesse Bering and the Progressive Left

As a content aggregate, if this is the best way to categorize what Slate Magazine is, an extension of  floundering corporate media enterprise, it likes trends that I do not care for, or, I am not affluent enough to enjoy. Poverty accentuates vulnerability, indeed. Susanna Daniel successfully caught Slate's tempo as a long delayed first time suburban novelist, and I have yet to penetrate the site on the strength of rapidly aging bylines. I do not think its Jewish contributors offer the best philosophical analysis, and their political illuminations are no better, no worse, than David Brooks in his climb through the ranks. Much of its woman's interest coverage is dull, and they virtually ignore the disability activism of which I'm often critical, although their journalists were kind enough to respond when I gave them a capsule of the hostile environment, long in the making, that exists between me and my disability center (the picture of the lovable minority spastic in his chair is so adorable that it only reinforces your perception that my judgment is impaired; am I assessing your sentiment accurately, mmm?) They also enjoy catering to homosexual identity and ceding the field of human pair bonding deconstruction to columnists like Bering.

For anyone who has been following me since I started blogging, whether you've responded or not, whether you are sympathetic or not, I imagine you say to yourself that I cheapen my intellectual capacity through reactionary trash talk. Fair enough, as the charge stands. I could be forgiving of Jimmi Shrode's significant mental, emotional limitations, and for a couple of early years, he was my friend, as was every other named individual I have discussed in my disabled culture past, and, do I actually care about him and Erik as a couple, where Shrode's penis goes? No, but they disgust me. Is that fair? I have written things about myself that might disgust normal comedic and presumably Protestant happy women like Susanna. It may not be fair, but this is what I have to say in response to Bering's censure of homophobia: disgust is not an invalid response to the sheer squalor of the human body, nor is emotional pain in response to sexual exploitation, whether it can be graded as abuse or not. I have been denigrated by whites and blacks alike, hurt in very bad ways by boths straights and gays, and this is why I see progressive sexual equality, and progressive sexual liberalism, as dangerous, at the end of the day, as we keep pushing the boundary. How horrific does the human condition have to become before liberals are willing to recognize that social difference, and sometimes caste, have a legitimate function for cohesion and survival?

Whatsoever we imagine, is Finite. Therefore there is no Idea, or conception of anything we call Infinite. No man can have in his mind an image of infinite magnitude.


Thomas Hobbes, Leviathan