Waltz in the Right Wing

Ah, disaffection! Back in the day when Warren Commission "single bullet theory" Arlen was alive, missing his memory, this guy was American brand right wing. Toomey doesn't know the spastic dowager blog, of course not. Too busy with his stature, but I make Toomey look like Eisenhower. Stark and bitter laugh Jim Brady would not find *classy,* to channel Judy Woodruff. I pasted everything Toomey's staff considers sniveling grievance in his content window to save time, knowing as a federal legislator there isn't much, as a former businessman, Toomey can do for my urban spiritual malaise, but change of habitat urgency breeds strange bedfellows, even if a fascist takeover of the US government has been done. It is already here.

I fantasize about becoming a political operative for our seductive libertarians like Rand Paul. The Fourth Estate is hotter and heavier in its fascination with libertarian streaks than the average citizen,  (only the faintest familiarity with Burke's political philosophy) I suspect. Political journalists hold their breath, waiting for an ideological schism within the nominating ranks every election cycle, and every election cycle to my less than engaged political conscience, libertarians fold. No drama, no surge of excitement about hard liners who will make the trains run on time. It gives me a nearly youthful nearly orgasmic rush, despotism! Women never admit this is our true path to power, through the penises to which they lay claim.

Last time, I was flattered, astonished, tickled, when a Toomey staffer telephoned me. It led to Tim's departure, the nearly 70 year old dope fiend who initiated all of this stress and more games with homosexual psychosis, reigniting my death to blondes sentiments. This time I'll probably receive a form letter telling me to comply with HUD regulations.

Julien's Father

Which one is worse, do you think, binary homosexual viciousness or a failed writer baring her fangs at vanity editors? Should we start a pool? Or ask why it is that I'm a failure and Jim Lehrer has affable Texas laurels on which his pending obituary will ride? It is a rhetorical question, attitudinal perhaps, but let me throw out a challenge flag: If progressive's are hell bent on riding to the rescue of Janay Palmer, why did she marry Rice after he dragged her unconscious body out of the elevator? She certainly wears the weariness of a defeated captive in Howard's photo. I never took my abusers back, even if bad judgment lead me to them initially. 

One understands the impetus of Jim's self-depreciation, and the JFK assassination affected him deeply, and led to political novels which I've yet to read. He survived a heart attack, and has exchanged final wishes with MacNeil, and in its over 40 year old history, what has PBS changed? It is as undeniably partisan as Fox, though with a more loquacious undertone.

I reek of perspiration. Marie does not want to rent her row home to blacks despite the fact that her grandson by marriage vandalized the property like one, and yet she wants me to rehire Timothy Artis, because I am a crippled white. I am supposed to be the bloody sainted progressive, blinded by the virtues of equality. Yes, prejudices have generational stratification, and the white Karina really didn't treat me any better than the black women before her, or the homosexual Jesse Staub evasively lying to me to get out from under the evidence of poverty on my life, but if it was my house, would I categorically red line it? Despite the caustic saline oozing out of my chest, I'd like to think I'm still not capable of that type of blanket condemnation. I am not hiring Tim back. He is a boozing addict with a record for possession who is nearly 70 and an infantile communist; dialing his number in the event of an emergency is no guarantee of anything either-- though by a miracle he saved Joey when I was evacuating the second floor to come back to the fifth, where I've been harassed into terror by my minority captors for 28 years now. Fucking charmed life.

Cosmetics

Though I am only chipping away at my antipodean retrenchment toward progressive horizontal planes that Yahoo correspondents whip up like fruit salad, and in fact wasn't going to post at all, since my cunt feels like it's being eaten alive in a granary silo, due to dryness, lack of healthy sexual activity--most of the men who weren't sexually assaulting me like pavement dung were otherwise impotent--I never had a very active sex life to begin with-- and when the bottle blond I hired hugged me and we both exclaimed "go girl," I wasn't sexually aroused and repressing it, merely relieved that I found a nice white twit in her thirties who feels compassion for my cash payment--when I move she suggested maybe she'd live with me, and it is possibly doable, with enough space for her young middle-aged sex life, her dirty finger nails and her enjoyment of trying to *glam me up,* like Susie back in the day (and did the former Susan Davison formerly my best friend have kids? Sue, I am old and in pain and miss you and the intimacy we had, you out there?) Ellen Page is impossibly shallow and narcissistic, which is why I oppose homosexual equality in the first place. There is no such thing as equality between heterosexual and homosexual and metrosexual latent eunuchs. Marriage, as such, is the invention of the city state, which eventually evolved into empires, then modern nations. 

Monogamy, in humans, is a haphazard affair, necessary for the welfare of children. Like my former instructor, Jerry, I am diffident about marriage as a civilly regulated sanction, and I don't give a fuck that the LBGT mob unleashed by Andy Sullivan of whom I was once, briefly, an admirer, which is why the pompous Oxford twerk sent me a screen shot of the Amtrak building outside my window, I don't care that ferocious queers wants this legally regulated bond for themselves. Fuck LBGT activists. You want a piece of me, that's fine. I've suffered more than you and I'll kick you to the curb regardless of potential ostracism. There is no such thing as equality between people. Jesse Staub dicked with me and he was one of yours. He did not have to lie to me because he was conflicted about the condition of my unit, but he did, and caused me additional weeks of unnecessary stress. But that has nothing to do with Kathleen Kane being a good liberal unwilling to defend traditional marriage in Pennsylvania for when Staub meets his significant other. It doesn't cost anything, this monogamy for homosexuals, and in fact, creates new and unending venues for post nuptial litigation. Lawyers need to maintain the fact that their expertise is essential. If Charlie Rose gave me a corner the next time he had Andy on air, if I did not have such first hand experience with how deadly AIDS is, I'd eat Andy's ass for breakfast. I'd make headlines alright. I wouldn't have a damn thing to lose. 

Arcs of Recreation

Become a Chimp Guardian-- a primatology motto

Gertrude Lintz is a period figure footnote, and the film based on her captive apes plays itself out like a comical footnote. Alan Cummings might as well have written a skit about getting his balls twisted, given his hyper manic throw away as the assistant. So much video footage is a form of trivial pursuit, and then there are auteurs, like Thomas McCarthy, whose work is so much more; then there is my annoying identification with Massa, the dead Massa, the movie puppet Massa who was evidently not Massa but another lowland gorilla who died in a circus, an attractive anadiplosis; not quite what I'm after.

Do socialites still exist? Our ape cousins only rate slightly higher on the commiseration scale than we do ourselves. They aren't quite human, and I was not entirely unmoved by Jane Goodall's life death and empathy in chimpanzee groups documentaries, but how often do we need to see agitated juveniles act out? Bush hunters poach them or slaughter them for food, and Europeans are still engaged in a jazz quartet with Darwin. Twinge with rebuff.

My post student interlude with Tom Reid was an important lull in my life, because Tom and I had shared sensibility and education in common, and maybe this is what my heart thought it might have relocated in fag boy Jesse, why his lurch off behavior hurts a little more. Marie said I would have made a pass at him, but I do not do forced conversions.

It did matter however, the hope of new relation, discovery of the other. He made me realize the extraordinary weight of the loneliness I carry, with his Google plus hockey mask image, and my Andrew Sullivan screen shot of the darkly overcast Amazon tower. Amy Purdy is the next generation; Sarah Kaufman's writing is of a caliber I once believed myself capable. I cannot enter into what resilience this young woman needed to come back from the devastation of meningitis, but the abyss she confronted, for me, is coming down to a stark choice: endure constraint and more indignity, or convince Final Exit to help me euthanize myself. 

Former Flotus

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

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

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

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

Beholden

It is sooooooo good to hear from you!!!-- my stressed out arson detective cousin, bit of a corn puff I was once almost tempted to an incestuous dalliance with when we were packing beers in the  backyard, but this was long ago, far away, and he looked a little like Stallone crossed with Tom Selleck

I tweeted trove's reposting (and how the reprint market will actually function in search engine digital space hints at bizarre absurdity) of Daniel D'Addario's Salon piece on Scarlett Johansson because D'Addario uses the industry tropes I am only just learning, and disparaging, without much thought applied to it, not on his part. Nope. I am the one struggling with what kind of comparative language we're dealing with, how impermanent it might or might not be when it is entirely dependent on how we interpret visual cues received through camera lenses. Do any of us really keep up with all these figures? Why they're in, or out? I simply don't see the beauty in Johansson that D'Addario references as an afterthought. Not even in Lost in Translation's opening shot. Pink panties?  We use underwear to cover, and thus repress, sexual and rectal function in the major orifices where humans still have significant hair coverage in abundance, and to me, Scarlett is Caucasian in color with somewhat African-like facial features. An oddity, this without any real knowledge of her genealogy. To me it is the character that holds interest, whether it be Amanda Plumber trying to hold a B-lead without being fatal to her range (her appearance in Hannibal expected, and, for once, a bit of a cliche), or Patrick Stewart's melt in my mouth virility. But let me not start foaming at the mouth.

I am a bit unwell, and had no intention of launching into this right now, but, like Proust, I'll die with pen in hand. As I had previously predicted, I did feel it, this Jesse my newly failed hire bailing on me. We had a fairy spastic argument, at least once removed. He is annoyed that I challenged his credibility. I realize many of us have shaky security in these times, but I'll be honest with my viewers. My mind doesn't work like that. I have had far too many coincidences with domestic custodians to believe that a guy who lives with a drag queen on South Street interviews with me for over an hour and then has to fly off the fucking handle cause of his mother. He said "It has nothing to do with you."

I hear this as if it's some kind of fungible containment field from ambulatory people who only want to help. It isn't that I think Jesse lied outright, but his mother's need enabled him to renege on me because he had his doubts, which is fine. I am angry, however, and I've often had to sublimate a great deal of that anger in dealing with assistance. I do not know if I can trust him in the future; I have no idea what I'm doing next, either. Letting him go isn't entirely curative, whether or not his mother emergency was genuine: he would not speak to me when I called, which for me rouses suspicion. He didn't need to go into intimate deals simply to speak to me-- and for me this is a signature way of telling me he wrote me off. Instead, he might have told me he didn't want the work in the first place.

Queer Eye Decoder, Doris Lives!

“All I ever wanted in my life was to get married, have kids, keep house and cook, and even though I did all these things, I still ended up in Hollywood.”-- the grand diva of more idyllic days

Only bits and pieces of Pillow Talk can be visualized, the confetti of its time. It may be a stretch, the notion that Rock Hudson was taking a mild enmity-riddled jab at la grand dandy in that scene with Doris, their little coffee klatsch, and then the staid post-Commissioner wasting away before our eyes at a Hollywood press conference. This was the Hudson I knew, the one trying to be the daddy wise ass. Even in death, in the grip of the worst disease to pass from bush hunters to queers, Hudson was reluctant to deconstruct himself along Clifton Webb's lines. Webb was the studio caricature of  Oscar Wilde, Proust, Henry James, their social milieu, but Hudson was the more clever chameleon, *the gay bachelor,* wasting away in public, exciting plague memories, mob panic, quarantine. We haven't  removed ourselves so far away from that vociferous social fear. We'd all love to believe otherwise, taking yet a new set of faggots on good faith (sigh).

I'm getting too old for volleys, and this bores you (or bores me), my adult settings that have taken only a few truly graphic turns, and most of those in a spittoon around a graphic temper which isn't really genocidal. I mean, come on. Caliban is only playfully demonic.

My back up kicked in, the Haitian at my adopted franchise, and I am supposed to meet with an Italian CNA the afternoon of 4/11. Female. You'd think it would please me, but it does not, 95% of my mind has already rejected her without a real interview so much as a confessional stress complaint over my decoupling with Jesse. 

I am slightly too overwhelmed to make our rendezvous; this post has nothing to do with it. Power chairs need to be charged, writing, reading, or throwing a load of laundry in the machine, teaching the cleaning lady about the Paperwhite, and the miraculous ability to utilize Amazon's book loan while some senile fucker sets off the fire alarm. I cannot fight Presby solely on the basis of my own legal acumen. Yet this doesn't seem to stop me.

I'll admit privatization causes mobility impaired individuals as much grief as the state system. Within plateaus of stability, I've failed. Sometimes the solutions simply aren't there.