Remonstrate on, Alex Keating

"You will also die lonely and alone instead of being surrounded by children and grandchildren who love you."-- Marc Thiessen, worthy of emulation more frequently than not.

Discombobulated. It isn’t one of those words to be touted in relation to pride over one’s range of vocabulary, but it’s syllable bumbling is sometimes best suited in description when you give up on those technological extensions that raise human to cyborg debates on popular science venues. I traded in my old Kindle Paperwhite some scant days before my 57^th birthday, and thought Amazon, in consideration of the hundreds of dollars I spent on my original models, would simply ship out the upgrade. Why do we have to keep paying, again and again, particularly if we’re part of the entitlement class, which in the States, is bundled into the capital acquisitions pyramid? After sorting out that I had to indeed buy my new model, the tracking software places it as on its way from a major sorting center in Newark. Meanwhile my left hemisphere might be under vivisection. Kindles are vital tools when mobility is compromised, transforms into a research extension for those of us who wanted career to surmount family, to transform career into family, and then wind up with poverty’s sterility on display. The smoothness we see in The Good Wife is still fictive in this regard, the mere cookie cutter adaptations of Michael J. Fox in his cashmere long coat as an emblem of his popularity, likability, yes, these things are important, even if the hygiene self-pity issues are left to his memoir writing upon receipt of his diagnosis. You put it out there in brazen fashion, but not too brazen, the tremors, the noveau riche sensibility not so far removed from how success in Hollywood translates the power of recognition. Writers take a somewhat different track, but we are all gunning for the same thing, break ranks, then get subsumed by process law, process crimes. This is the complaint these days, that the process is more important than the individual. Marie Callender is only a simulation of evocative conceits we harbor about the culinary comforts of southern hospitality.

Their branded pot pies are tolerable, nothing to wax ecstatic over in the convenient eclipse of their mass manufacture. My oeuvre, creatively, or journalistic, may not be important in comparison to those who've accelerated into the classics, but it is important to me, the preservation, even if the aging Beats assembled in Pittsburgh were anti-climatic, mostly rude, drunk, later memorialized by my most obsessed over professor, as he felt bad, it was actually the journey itself which is surprisingly a highlight of my burgeoned adulthood subconsciously more and more in alignment with Alex Keating's valiant attempt to put the bit on then the over reach of 40 something boomers. Five hours on Amtrak over verdant hillsides, Hershey, Jonestown, meeting Louis McKee. As both of us were Philly poets, he and I talked about mundane things working class born and bred discuss, bills, grants, the living dead of loneliness in my head, my cousin has a penchant for these playful images designed to milk out the last drop of a smile.

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.