This time, I only missed 36 minutes

If only I could do something important, like bake a souffle, or pick out a tie. --Audrey Hepburn, Wait Until Dark

What I wanted to dismantle this morning, and possibly rectify, is my diffident sensibilities toward MeToo, Nick Gillespie, and his associate editor Elizabeth Nolan Brown. I got into an argument with her about date rape, and although I am capable of respecting Nick and his intelligence, and he mine, I swiped at him in a personalized frustration which will not help me return to the field with the stresses I’m undergoing. I wanted to explain all of this just a little better, and explain it in the sense that I do not need to become a Reason Magazine contributor, but Reason’s staff are often intellectually sloppy, like Brown is with her notions of Kavanaugh’s credibility, only I let my spool unwind too much Wednesday and leaned into my cousin about the paraprofessional who has eaten up a number of my posts on this account. I want to terminate my relationship with him because he lashes out constantly at the way, and how, I speak, and I’m near a breaking point, must have been out of my mind to have ever entertained the idea of becoming his lover. I have been through worse with this outsourced care, but never every single day of the week. I want the nigger out of my life. I can make it happen, but it means grief, possibly his termination, and absolutely nothing of this sustained duress will change for me. Not now. Starting over with yet another minority will wind up in exactly the same place, until I opt to attempt a failsafe suicide method, lose my mind, or give in, go to a state run facility, and if I were stronger, I’d put this torrent fusillade aside and teach myself to work differently, and simply cut him loose. What’s holding me back is I don’t want to keep recycling people whose behaviors are far more abhorrent to me, and that is all. I don’t feel for him in any real erotic context, and beneath the surface, his animosity toward me is taking its toll. There is little to no intervention advocates for victims of [insert category] can offer me, and Nick doesn’t see this, the limits on progressive modality here. Neither, I am sure, does Brown. I was wrong, last spring, to allow my loneliness to let this man cross the line. I crossed it too, we backed off, but cannot quite depersonalize, and for a quadriplegic, aging and always fiercely protective of her independence, it never stops. I’ll have more to say on the matter.

Flushed Cries of Distress

 I am not Howard Stern." --Charlie Rose, in a post operative interview with Terry Gross, a preemptive strike indicating how much we all owe Howard Stern 

As my follower Jason Dorwart is aware, sexual pride is important in the progressive disabled community. I’ve written about it in somewhat explicit fashion in earlier years, nor am I the only formerly indoctrinated and embittered outcast to be censored in search and have page views suppressed because of it. Far more confident paraplegic females have had instructional videos removed from You Tube by Google over the issue, and in extending an olive branch to ableism, the dowager was sympathetic. Reading the narratives of shared experience takes us only so far, and whereas sexual activity may leave certain women ambivalent, others may be happy in pushing boundaries. Harassment and hostile environment is the flip side of this coin, and having been through these trials, my viewers may think I’d find the scoop by Irin Carmon and Amy Brittain commendable. Eight testimonials illustrate a pattern of conduct similar to those which besieged Cosby into an opaque court case, and Rose, like other lesser PBS titans, stayed at the top of his game far past Medicare eligibility. He was bound to be forced into retirement at some point, given that his facial features in a live interview setting occasionally cast a ghoulish aspect to his profile.

What is seemingly intractable, however, is the incongruity of his cultural and political excellence juxtaposed against behavior we more readily expect to emanate out of the Playboy mansion. From my point of view, it is less about power, in Rebecca Traister’s micro-post, and more about a legacy of excellence tarnished less by the heinous aspects and more by the hideousness foisted on all of us by entropy. Look at everything he has done to explore issues with his audience, his lengthy segments taking psychiatric medical model treats seriously, even with enthusiasm by his guests. Rose is a robust believer in cooperative treatment in a way the spastic dowager is not, dissecting the clinical aspects of his heart disease with more than one eminent cardiologist, in an envious lust to hang on to the quality of his life. He channeled the outrage felt by the public over the Iraq war to joust with Donald Rumsfeld over the destruction of a regime and a society which later devolved under Obama into a puppet state. Judy Woodruff commended him on his scoop with Assad when the Syrian theatre was hot. There are too many probative conversations to list which amount to a daunting legacy. If it seems I am coming perilously close to advocating a grin and bear it approach, which is what my humiliation has amounted to since 1999-- no, not quite. I'm merely suggesting, much as with Roman Polanski, that being the best at something shouldn't be entirely forgotten, and though there is a rush to being a journalist on deadline which extended my lifeline to September 2017, I'm increasingly unhappy with The Washington Post anointing itself as the moral arbiter of feminine esteem. Would I have broken this story, unleashing the #MeToo fury in the public square? What I can say is this: I would have waited to give Rose the benefit of the doubt. We should rehabilitate and honor that ego, whether or not he considers his cardiac issues debilitating, or merely chronic.