Coin or Pea in The Shell

"I believe in a world where gay married couples are free to protect their marijuana fields with fully automatic machine guns."-- Austin Petersen, slogan maker extradinaire

And I do not believe in this world of a libertarian political hopeful on whom I've kept eyes for some time; if I find a better outlet than Reason to give him a serious expose, I will coax my friend to lose the above quote, try to give my readers a sharper definition of why he is the right Senator for Missouri, and for that propose, the moral relativism needs to be dialed down, this coming from a woman who, in 97, saw gay marriage as an inevitable legal victory, supported it, and in the intervening 19 years, I am not entirely unsympathetic to Roy Moore's hardline extremism on homosexuality. That is quite a shift simply because I felt threatened and survived trauma which for me was too much to bear. I know I'm on the losing end of this argument, and that progressives outnumber the right, and that my hostility has little intellectual standing other than medical model stricture, but I have been too close to too many men and women "in the life," some of whom I have written in here more than others, like Alan Gordon. Alan was privy to the intensity of my unhappiness for a long time. He and I kept our connection with each other through the deaths of our mothers in 2005, online and otherwise, and he knows me intimately. I cannot say he reads Disability In Entertainment Arts, but if he has, he must be appalled, and tried hard once to pull me back from the sheer extent of my hatred for what I allowed this center to do to me. Much has changed, and Liberty has been significantly downgraded due to Harrisburg's centralized horror of a shell game with Maximus, and I'd no longer recognize the chaotic empowerment tactics therein of my day. The chapters of past and present are no longer parallel, and this brings me to Craig Brittain's second suspension from Twitter, with a weary sigh.
A first amendment lawyer I chatted with briefly told me Craig was a fraud, and that he had to be directed by the SEC to stop representing himself as an attorney, but he was one of the first of my followers to accept me for as I present myself. I don't know what he did this time, but he takes Twitter's banned or suspended accounts like the holy grail. I do not, and have yet to see the evidence of Milo's genius. But I do have to say that Terms of Service policies have always had an air of uncertainty about them. Spam is speech. Twitter wants to be profitable, yet law firms cannot solicit clients. Account holders cannot ask other account holders for money, but we can promote, and even there, up to a point. We cannot harass other users, but I've trolled my share. Peter Thiel, though inactive on social media, probably could have had me banned for my brief outburst at him. Don't know. Nick Denton isn't exactly an exception to the dowager's coda, but I was nonetheless angry over Gawker's downfall. Once fraudulent parties are excised, we do not consider what happens to them unless they are recycled as an event worth telling: Stephen Glass denied at the state bar. Jayson Blair's plagiarism recast as an interracial motive for murder on Criminal Intent. They become life long outcasts, crippled in some fundamental way. I was going to profile Craig too with some libertarian window dressing, but in the third largest political party full of outliers, even felons, Craig is an outlier. He makes Austin seem nearly as established as Rand Paul.
In my shameless and weary dithering, I am working on a legal outline against Mr. Wheelchair. Vendors such as these dissolve with incremental regularity, but I cannot endure this machine. Pyrrhic victory at this point?

Verne Miller Bowel Obstruction

"It had begun early that morning when he stopped for gas.--Tom Pawlik, Vanish

The age of my technology makes all this more than a bit frustrating. Friday evening I was able to sync, and sampled an Amazon original, Absentia, which opens with Stana Katic in a water tank, or being punched, or stabbing a journalist in hospital, but this morning, despite cold reboots, I cannot get the hotspot to ping, wonder if it is the anti-virus software. I’d like to lose the USB plug in. It keeps my phone bill high, as the black man who has based his economic decisions on my assurances drags me by my legs in the morning like a fucking sack of turnips, helps me sit on a Jay cushion far too high while the Depends wadding gnaws my rectum for the hours I sit here.

When I lose a long time follower like Justin Murphy, the assistant professor kindred Catholic libertarian, yes, I wince, but caution myself I cannot ascribe reasons for my account removal to his feed. I was going to keep his on mine, may restore him later, but I give very little time to my followers, even failing to recall that Mikaela’s tag line is a far superior resume to mine, and half the time, I do not know what Justin is tweeting, and so I did not rise above the law of an eye for an eye as proscribed in Deuteronomy, and dropped Justin and his specious queries about weed and mass, even as he hit like for a couple of my responses, which seems inconsistent, a drop with continuing validation. Trust me, I know imitating Mikaela’s trained anchor pleasantness would improve my social media ratings, but is Mikaela being hauled off a generic hospital bed by a minority who failed in manufacturing at one corporate plant after another, from food processing to retail? I cannot overcome the cruelty of medical socialism, in my 57^th year, plagued by nightmares of being hauled away by force by a bevy of females similar to the scurrying bitches of VNA, to another institution for imbeciles, while the director puts his hand down my blouse, strangles me with a forcible kiss, as I protest repeatedly that I’ve been matriculated and educated, hauling myself awake much like Stana in her fast moving collision of a lead, it is still nonetheless a variation on my end game, which my readers assure themselves they are helpless to prevent. Going out with a time trigger bomb wired to this power chair, punishing my posture and all but strip mining me helpless, doesn’t present me with that much of a dilemma. March For Our Lives cannot de-weaponize the anguish of a life bowed over the screw.

From Here to The Eternal Plague

Alessandro Manzoni’s seminal work is on my mind because of Renzo’s forced migratory path in Milan. My history with The Betrothed is somewhat quixotic: I started reading the text at a free access site, perhaps Harvard classics, or John Hopkins. I then paid ten dollars and change for a kindle academic edition, started the novel once again, and left Manzoni’s besieged youth at the inn, slightly imbibed. I also purchased an academic study of Manzoni which I had also just started, it was expensive, and I engaged briefly with the Italian literature instructor about it, and it is hopefully undamaged in one of my boxes, but maybe this gives my audience another perspective on my vehemence about public housing. It refuses to cease disrupting my ambition, and it I really do go down in a criminal flare of rage, don’t be surprised. I have barely been able to live a semblance of my former life since October, one that was already too constricted, and the VNA keeps saying they will “bring me back.” They have made this assertion since November while I am struggling in Mike’s power chair with no desk arms on a two inch cushion which leaves me dangling. I am no stranger to temporary loan chairs, but this thing, for me, is a health hazard. I keep trying to divorce VNA, and the Jewish crones want to continue on with this love fest of ineptitude. They will not continue on for long, because I have to bring myself back, and I am starting to rebel. As soon as the Muslim is exchanged for another brow beaten fatalist of the underclass, I’ll push back more, though I considered dousing my scalp tonight, and shelved it, despite my knowledge that I’d feel better if I did, Saran’s ever constant accented protests ringing in my ear.

I have little idea why she was allowed to emigrate to the US, under the Clinton Administration. She is 53, certainly not moving on up, in the lingo of Norman Lear’s aspiration when The Jeffersons had cultural relevance. She misses Africa, her religious absolutions interfere with things I need to do, and though I have been through worse, her prayer activity is unprofessional. No one confronts her, not the health care Jewish league I’m arm wrestling, not the intake coordinators, nor I. If I get too confrontational before my switch, she could drop me, and yes, she stays where others would have quit, until I solve the toiletry issue, or I don’t, well aware I could die from this. I may not be comfortable with her, but I feel horrible about what she does for me. It is too much, for me, her, anyone, but like Renzo, miraculously untouched by buboes as he walks the length of Italy under Austrian rule, a journey of displacement, nevertheless one I envy so much. I am not entirely untraveled, but remain impressed that Jason Dorwart has transversed the heartland, while I remain in stasis, weakening in the city of my birth. I had a small exchange with Jason about his material needs, and do not know how to accommodate him at this time.

In my archives, I have written before I am diffident about performance and empowerment in disability culture, but I also do not have much access to it, so this is problematic, especially as not all of us have Dinkage’s cross over appeal, so recently off the lone hip Superbowl commercial. Doing an analysis from a YouTube viewing, even if it was pertinent to his theatrical periodical, might not be entirely fair to the troupe, but yes, I am glad he found me, peer to peer. One can’t always get away from identity politics, or autocratic injustice. Manzoni ranks highly with me, however, nearly Stendhal’s equal at psychological penetration. Will I live long enough to read him in dialect? I’d like to.

Back Up Parentis with Titus

Do you ever have anything positive to say?-- my better weekend aide

The only thing Bosch brings to the table as a procedural, in my estimation, is hard luck forming its central character as a stickler with his own honor code, (something with which I identify) but the second season opened with something which threads through the history of civilization: using human frailty as a form of masking. The first thing this wizened detective does after a six month suspension for flipping a pissant captain, fraudulent as that felt, is expose a suspect as not his father with emphysema in a wheelchair on oxygen. Chair gets violently thrown, (not that this doesn't happen to actual users) suspect flees, and our star of course lassos him in. Hugo makes the same distinctions in The Hunchback of Notre Dame, when the unfortunate poet Pierre Gringoire gets corralled by beggars of a 15^th(?) century Paris in upheaval. They only pretend to be lame and crippled. The gruesome operatives of Slumdog Millionaire, if you recall, take no chances with such fakery, and blind destitute street kids to beg for what must be an unstable currency. Although I can feel Jason Dorwart’s raised eyebrows behind me, nothing has truly changed in the world. Why do I assert this? Because Erik von Schmetterling, for all his transsexual ADAPT zealotry of yesteryear, is senile, his troops dying in Riverside Presbyterian’s lobby, while I’m literally quaking myself to death in an incompetent mechanic’s contraption because I can no longer pivot to take a damn dump in the toilet and the medical professionals around me are going berserk bilking Medicare without doing a damn thing to restore my function, and a west African minority has me running around doing her job because she’s too tired. So I have to criss cross center city buying supplies I cannot afford. I can, conceivably, explore suing Mr Wheelchair for product liability, but by the time that needle moves a stroke will have probably hit me, my body actually fighting the disposable adult wear for hours until discharge necessarily takes place, in pain regardless of her masks and gloves and her physically brutal ignorance. I allowed Dana to see too much of this, my racial hostility. It preys a little because she is morally decent, but her provider, TLC, is “cheap immigrant labor,” once removed. Karina is little better, white as she may be. I wasn’t planning on a yodel about entitlement metastasis this morning, however, but since I’m here, from what I am able to observe, millennials and the adolescents coming up behind them may well end up living in much more poorer standards than those I’ve had; I just have to find the right entryway to broach the topic without causing undo friction to my family in their hardships, but it does alarm me. Karina is 38 and she has an adrift life. At that age, I was earning between 250 and 400 on commissioned articles, working, in other words. Nevertheless, let me uplift my percussion with an upbeat rhythm, as transitory as social media can be, I was heartened by Svetlana's discovery of my account, dare I consider her a spiritual sister in arms!

The Dining Room Table

When I could still enjoy solitaire as a form of recreation rather than psychological duress, some of my favorites were the two deck game, St. Helena, and the small table game, Four Seasons. I made Four Seasons harder than it is on Warfield’s software, allowing only one move on the tableau per pile. I won rarely. Another was Hit or Miss (or Roll Call), a simple count and discard game, Accordion, and oddly enough, Perpetual Motion, which is a simple pattern game which can last a long time. I would not recommend playing it on the device, in my teenage mind which had no idea I’d plummet back into this distraction at this age, not helping myself. I have to wean myself away from all this awhile, upset that I allowed Karina to prey upon my sympathies, giving her money to wash my hair. Instead of being conscientious about the matter and giving me advance notice that her mother would be entering hospice, she took my money without finishing what she started, flimsy woman. I read this a long time ago in her and knew better and the Muslim, who is up in arms that I’m ditching TLC even though I’ve told her this for weeks, won’t do it, and my father’s ex attendant, whom I said I was going to hire on my dime, won’t shut the fuck up, so much so I’m having second thoughts about honoring my verbal assurances to her. She lost her mother too. “When Momo calls what you going to say?”

This is Saran, the big African child who cleans my stool five days a week. What does she think I’m going to say? I am a racist Momo and I’m sick of your accents and skin color, sick of not being able to have any time to myself, at all. I may not be dying, but my strength is gone, and all I have is my mental capacity struggling against my mechanics, not even positive I can trust my uncle’s company to restore my independence just a little. Mike altered what he sold me, but I shall never be fully functional in this machine, and it may be too late; fine, but I am losing my ability to cope. In Philip K Dick’s Electric Dreams, this peels off under your thumbnail like mica, a sad series, aptly casting Terrence Howard and his moral rectitude, carrying the burden of incendiary individuals like myself on his back. For me, this is going to bed early. I will make edits tomorrow after the Jewish nurse dashes off. She has achieved nothing in terms of making things better. I am under no illusions about moving on, what I’ll continue to face.

Hoya Lift Suspension

"Even though we ain't got money," -- a lyric from my era

New Zealand is a strange idyll, for my two cents, although character tests aren't that far removed from meeting the  financial requirements for condominium ownership; the island's exotic sensibility manifests readily in the disappointing genesis story Z for Zachariah. I see what Seitz sees and raise no objection. The pristine cleanliness of both characters and scenery was less troubling than the consequences of Margot Robbie's choice leading to dramatic abruptness. The conclusion lands with an unsatisfactory thud, though private property is still a relevant concern. It is the girl's house, her chapel, her boredom in such a pastoral landscape, while I've been growling like a rabid animal in leg irons since Gretchen and Robert and I were first introduced in Speakeasy. The nurse, whom I shall not identify, said the wrong thing, and I threw a tantrum, with only the child-like Muslim urging me to stay strong; to my mindset, this means telling these socialist bitches to get the fuck out of my life. I can, and I may, if my death dance with Mike leads to a modification I can live with for a year. Yes. A year, which certain segments of the wheelchair community comprehend, a year for a chair I did not pursue strongly enough in 2014, though it may have been 2016, as I did not have issues with the Jazzy until a year after the P-200 expired, and the payment being exacted now is too much. No good choices, only bad to worse, with all those around me drowning in debt, urging me to go join the parade tomorrow, but like Jerry of long ago lecturing on his own triggers, if I was overwhelmed by the only super faggot I over obsessed (not the only semi-exiled fan), how much more so for a Super Bowl parade of an estimated two million. I'm only a casual observer, subsumed by a welfare state which is now punishing me.

Inimical Roman Numerals

"let's get you cleaned up"-- Geena Davis

On the controversial Clements and Ertz touchdowns (come again with runner versus receiver?), the dowager would engage with habitual cynicism and assert that the play calls were made as they were to mitigate any potential chaos in Philadelphia had these end zone penetrations been overturned; with all due deference to Al Michaels, who knows the rules better than I do my pubic hair, they looked like touchdowns to me. History may laud Pederson’s 4^th down special for the next fifty years, but I concur with the voice of urban brawn that Graham pivoted momentum in the Eagles’ favor. I missed some fairly good chess this season, to my regret, but as I posted to fellow Speakeasian, Gretchen Laskas, the intrepid, Superbowl 52 was a great game; never saw the Eagles play that fine before, not that I don’t reminisce the rough edges under Ron Jaworski, but foe once we had a real battle of wills, and Philly broke the seams of Belichick’s juggernaut. As to Brady, he may have a year or two left, but he is engaging in self-deception. Graham proved it. Brady had a cognitive realization delay on that fumble; it would not have been there five years ago, or even three. Having paid attention, however, I did not see the Patriots as invincible. Men can wave all the statistics they wish, New England is just another franchise. Brandin Cooks comical loss of orientation is ample evidence enough for jock itch folly, an ever omnipresent force.

Not to elaborate further on my own physical punishment (I knew it would be excruciating, but knowing doesn’t make living it easier), I am getting a medical equipment evaluation this morning, and as such, shall not punish myself for the sake of work beyond the next 20 minutes). You may cross your fingers, but the horrible toll this has taken on your bituminous host  can no longer lead to recovery of prior rebounds. I am convinced I am om the verge of heart failure, stroke. Hats off Mike, you prevented a future feeding tube insert. If anyone wants to sic the President onto CNN’s deceptive lede in, this time the umbrage is earned.

Voyeurs to Spastic Climax

"I've been in worse places than your apartment."--the proprietor

It is not that I cannot work, I am recalcitrant about starting something new when I was in the middle of other things, but I suppose I can marshal my forces, weakened as they are, evaluate whether or not I need to interview Woods, and then form my questions. One thing I am not interested in, and this goes for O’Neal as well, whose publicist chose not to respond to my inquiry, though I intend to persist, is prurient “gotcha” profiles. O’Neal was too candid with Tavis Smiley in 2012. The interview was memorable, by media standards a successful expose, one in which Ryan may not have meant to reveal he was a bit bitchy, but it didn’t serve his legacy, and I prefer to learn more about craft, sans Al Pacino, who has taught his fans, fantasy fuck melt girl here included, about the art. If I do approach James, this is what I want, not his sex life, or his scorecard political bites. I want the work, some intangible insight into his magnetism, and if I’ve fallen in love just a little, from a distance, I can afford it. It may even smooth out my ability to finesse over and above letting the world know I’m owed for my own continuously browbeat ability: Dana got me on the toilet, and I am weak, but not quite that weak, and perhaps should sue Mike. The code, in disability culture, is wheelchair mechanics are supposed to get it, and I feel betrayed, because Mike’s sensibility is I’m supposed to know how to build my own chair. That is his job, even if his wife is sick, I don’t know how it assuages his personal life to drag me down the drain with him. What I do may not matter if what I do is too late, and he places demands on me I can’t meet, Trudy Richardson wants what’s best for me? How is pressure sores on a bad machine good for me, not even able to go to the bathroom without a thirty year old woman pole vaulting my body because I can’t help her on a scooter device which impedes me? And the answer to this is to have a rookie cop haul me off for psychiatric care? Penn Medicine bounced me back to Riverside in record speed, the police having washed their hands, and Trudy says “well you don’t have to be so aggressive.”

Yes I do. I would not have survived independent living collusion if I hadn’t been so aggressive, if I had not made an effort to put dirty laundry front and center, and then there’s Mike, like a damn body slam, toss the product and then reel the hook, so long, and good luck, an old man with a sick wife burying me along side him, this is why I believe violence needs to create upheaval. Trauma teaches the complacent a lesson.

Not Paddock’s way, no. McVeigh was closer, and he and Nichols posed a threat to the state. This is what disability activism needs, a leader smart enough to threaten the compliance models represented by the Richardson’s and the Nancy Lotz’s of the world. But whether it is cousins, or private hires, or state aides, housekeeping takes precedence over what small contentment I held to. “The apartment looks cleaner,” a false positive, signifying nothing, other than I am right, and have been right all along. I need to be sacrificed for the sake of sanitation, and if that’s the case, why not let me go to sleep? Because the Pope says all life is precious, to the last. If we really believe that, Presbyterian Homes and Liberty Resources would have admitted negligence long ago, but we deny, then reveal too much, and burrow, the damn human race. I claim the right to pave the way for a new age militancy, as good as my word, researching Krugman on trade, a militant that will follow in my wake, since I am not diabolical nor quite ruthless enough, not gouging out the eyes of my CO, like Alvarez, in his senseless, senseless cage. Tom Brady critically injured on the field? That would be a start. A call to arms!

Congenital Kiss and Tell

On January 31^st, Vincent D’Onofrio expressed consternation for the loss of some followers due to voicing his political beliefs, and with a slight hedge, I offered a mitigating consolation without mocking him, but admit I’m a bit taken aback by how soft he seems to be outside of the studio’s insulation, and perhaps I shouldn’t be, since he is a regional performer with crossover national appeal. Woods is a little larger, but one thing the two actors share is a sense of the personable on social media not so readily apparent with others, and since fame interests me as a contextual problem, with questions about whether Twitter collapses recognition, engenders it with sometimes detrimental spontaneity, or not, with Ebert’s dictum that “[Celebrities are] just people,” coming into play, getting used to the pain of this hard vinyl seat, the physical pain and despondency in tandem. Mike the prick wants 400 dollars to convert what I’m sitting on to a base with a cushion, and if I was desperate for a usable chair in the fall, I’m not only now desperate to rid myself of torture, but the spool unwinding in my interior doesn’t know how much longer I can stand it. The man at the helm of Mr. Wheelchair has lied to me fifteen ways to Sunday. He had another chair for me. Now he doesn’t. He was coming in November to rectify the problem, then it was December. Then January. Each time he was a no show. Neither of us trusts each other. A little of that fame utilized to raise conscious awareness might be useful at present, as I’d rather not take the time and energy to consult a lawyer about this, and Medicare is its own sweet draconian process.

Today I lost a truck load of followers becuz of my views on where our nation is at right now. My liberal snowflake views,my bleeding heart views,my freedom2call out false info when I c it&my call4equlity.I have2say though it did put a smile on my face. #NoFearNoGreedNoEnvy

— Vincent D'Onofrio (@vincentdonofrio) January 30, 2018

D’Onofrio’s public worry about his drop illustrates that everyone can be affected by “the numbers game,” of automated models, unless consumed by distress which reduces its concern: Much to my astonishment, Karina refused to break off our relationship founded by Craigslist. She returned to Philadelphia for personal reasons I will not dangle before you with callous indifference, ignored my indignation, and crashed in upon me with her heart of gold hugs, however suspect its reliability, so I relented and we’ve made up, just after Amazon’s own streamlining suggested I might be interested in Breathe, an Indian series with more than one or two parallels between hero cop with his emotional wounds and his antagonist. Madhavan is interesting as Danny, a soccer coach whose son is afflicted with cystic fibrosis, due to more than his unipolar descent into psychopathy. Due to the fact that this is Bollywood rather than its American cousin, the series whets my aesthetic curiosity, but this said, I am not convinced this is how killers are made or pursued in Indian society, but why Danny descends into hell, why he destroys his own social decency, you’re looking at it right here people. I could be wrong, but Breathe seems to have its own melodramatic subversion, damned if I don’t find it funny, even if the logic of his multiple efforts for one fresh donor after the other  is unclear. 

Robert Byrd’s White Nigger Echo Chamber

"I have to go to Norristown--" The Mechanic

I am literally teasing matted locks of my greying and now wiry hair out of my scalp, ever slowly, and to my mortification, it looks like Gilda Radner's worst day of chemotherapy, the original anti-prime timer, and yet persisting, slowly, tackling the worst before I let a cosmologist do what they can with it, but as it is now, it perfectly symbolizes what 14 weeks of being at the mercy of Medicare has done to me, and this is what Paul Krugman champions, how long and punishing this has been, trying so hard to fend off the iron jaws of “means testing,” my case is now under review at County Assistance. No idea why, as my savings were depleted by 2014. I held off reapplying for Medicaid as long as I could, but knew I would need it (late in the day) for another power chair, but all of a sudden, I am “under review,” in order that the Commonwealth can ensure it protects itself. No one is willing to ensure I am protected from it. The dynamic nigger duo, Trudy and Debra, contracted with Liberty Health to at first pressure me to comply, and then Tom of Liberty Health did his damnest to talk me into signing myself away, but didn’t know his job, that Hahnemann University Hospital couldn’t put me away. I had no condition they could treat me for, but Hahnemann and the Visiting Nurses association, and Mike's bucket seat ingenuity, have virtually incapacitated me. Libertarian political philosophy, perhaps traditional conservatives, as well, may not have an answer for disability, dependence, and rationed care, but the system has some serious dystopian fissures. Maybe it will right itself after boomers have their mass die off, but I am not so sanguine about Western medicine’s  market correction. My father cannot afford to let his wife die in the most compassionate manner, my body has taken fourteen weeks of a prolapse break down, to the point even my arms are now affected by tremors, and these are my options:

a)      Hang on until I can manage a better power chair fitting and ditch hospital bed and hope for partial recovery

b)      Attempt suicide and hope I don’t fail

c)       Give up and allow Inglis House or equivalent facility to torture me into hospice

The Medicare medical equipment model failed me from 14 forward. The Trump Administration had nothing to do with it. I did not have a primary care doctor or practice that met my needs, and still don’t. The VNA is an outsource model staffed by nurses and other therapists near retirement. Mike and I are in agreement here. They know jack shit, this VNA, but private contraction failed too. Hiring Karina from Craigslist was a mistake, and utilizing Mr. Wheelchair broke my strength, my resilience, and the fucking liberal majority insisting I need an attendant has taken 98 days to put my Medicaid eligibility under review. I’m sure Krugman would blame austerity, but that would be too linear. I was in the beginning of needing to curtail and be cautious, in September 2017, but I wasn’t failing; Pennsylvania seems determined to rectify that. I should go lie down, as the grease monkey is coming early evening. Should you pray all goes well for the dowager’s scathing mouth? All I ever wanted was a career, to make something of myself, to have some freedom to achieve certain things, maybe have a good man, but no, 32 years ago, I moved into an accessible 811, and that anguish and rage permeates this one wee blogging platform. 

Untenable Mummers' Day

The holiday is the perfect time.--the man in charge

In this chair I cannot go bare buttock as I used to. The vinyl seat is too hard, too small, and the discomfort I undergo has taken away very nearly all my control, including the food preparation I did on my own, let alone dressing and food shopping. Nor have I so much made a dent in assessing what the cleaning service did or did not do with certain personal effects, including my clothes to which I had adapted. When the Caribbean accented paraprofessional sat me up in the winter afternoon, before the bad transfer assist, alarming as that was, my growing weakness might as well have set off a Geiger counter. I got Mike on a word of mouth basis from a former Liberty consumer, and assumed he understood cerebral palsy fittings. I am at fault for taking the chair, assuming I could adapt, but he should have known better also, on the basis of the broken models piled under the daybed beneath the one window I once handled on my own, on top of a week’s worth of unnecessary hospital stays. I don’t have access to my work, cannot restart much of what I was doing, not from scratch, and my aunt thinks I’d thrive in her mother’s home, all because of a combustible grease monkey. A Man Called Ove is the type of literary conceit on which I was weaned. The title character feels life has passed him by. His suicide attempts fail. Poor planning, community interference. The point of the film, probably the book too, is learning he is still valued and can fill in the gaps. I’ve no such luxury, fearful I’ll never get past this. Fighting welfare and Medicare rationing kept me healthy. Seven doctors had nothing to treat me for. Diaper shit and piss, my inability to sustain my nutrition, is making short work of this, and if I did not feel I’m being forced down the drain, it wouldn’t be so hard to swallow. A nursing home isn’t going to let me write and have digital access, despite the occasional Washington Post feature from those with no choice. I left Oz off at season four, after “O’Reilly” kills Nathan’s rapist himself, weary of all this overflow, wondering how much longer I can persevere, but maybe it isn’t simply Philadelphia, it’s self-depreciating half assed efforts, with swatting being the new eel wriggling in the cesspool. Libertarians should have no problem uniting against weaponizing police against innocent civilians. I have my recidivism too, from my childhood under the knife to some damn cubicle, accepting it as the hardship of decline. It isn’t worth it: Let’s see what the new year brings, shall we? I’m off to bed, against better judgment, daring to remove the diaper, staining the underpad so my crotch can get some air.

Viva Zurita!

Thank you Mr Woods. This of all days was just what I needed to here. Dec 5th diagnosed with Stage IV Mantle Cell Lymphoma. It is in all my lymph nodes spleen bone marrow and blood seems hopeless bu I believe in miracles

— KathyB👠 (@BrandensteinKat) December 13, 2017

I am not back as a working writer yet, let alone journalist. I am in somewhat of a holding pattern: Am I dying or not? If Mike and I don't slay each other in mutual hostility toward rationed health services, can I restore my former lateral transfer functions or not? I can still take a piss in the ladies urinal designed for a vulva, but I am inhibited about fecal defecation in disposal briefs, and this inhibition is wreaking digestive havoc. Bed pans are just as problematic for these poor infantile immigrants who feed off me and tend to me badly. Libertarians can take a moral lesson from the fact that in my own squalor I was still thriving. Nine weeks into a power chair breakdown, streamtolled by domestication under Presbyterian hypocrisy, I have chest pains, continual bronchial congestion in my lung, all this from forced dependency, overlong stays in a generic, and bad, hospital bed, and black women who disposed of my personal effects yet once again. How often do you think objects that form part of your identity can be discarded, as if you were so much less than human, by one fucking rental agent, and none other, from the age of 23? Any circumstance can trigger dying unexpectedly. A number of us may have been struck by the story of the Texan contractor so rapidly stricken simply through the process of being a recovery optimist. The city of Philadelphia took 31 years to waste me into a despairing old woman, who, for all her brain power, allowed contradictory impulses and desperately broken trusts to do her in. The old white women from the Visiting Nurses Association trying to keep me afloat amount to little more than a vague exercise in incompetence. It offers one insight into both male misogyny and execution squads. I am sure most libertarians would consider cleanliness valuable, and it is not that I don't. I simply valued my independence more, and stayed clear of pressure sores, until now, and rashes. Sure, no one wants to kill me because I'm a spastic quadriplegic, but forced compliance causing my death? I am just one ever so slightly less anonymous life who related well to Adam's preaching skills when he turned prostate cancer into a parable about the collective majority and individual opposition on twitter. It was well done, and remains my only insight into libertarian philosophy and good grooming. I retweeted the above bit of moral poignancy from Woods' traffic, like anyone, trying to lift the embattled soul's spirit, but I'd never let it get that far, never would. Holding pattern. Save and publish, hang on? Recover? That is a very deep vortex.

Quakertown Brass

Caesar is home.-- the guttural utterance

“My chair shorted out,” I posted mainly to my family on Facebook this day on the asphalt across from PECO central. Cops can’t do a bloody thing except watch you hopelessly reboot, but does cousin Tommy remind me to call my uncle?  No! I struggle back to building. Do I remember to telephone my bloody uncle? No! Does my sister recall that my godfather runs a bloody DMV(Designated Medical Vendor)?  No! I manage to race up to tenth floor of this bloody zoological senior parody of Planet of the Apes. You heard me. I am as guilty as Hamblin when it comes to disparaging senior goon squads. Some of the people who populate Riverside might be lifted straight out of Annie Proulx for subconscious routing routines. Ah, but the dowager’s contempt is momentarily bounding with self-flagellations, as I intently asked Maria for Mr. Wheelchair’s number and desperately begged Michael for a speedy purchase, and like a fuckwit, I bought a model I knew was bad for me because I managed to haul my soiled buttocks onto a car seat. This is what syphoned out a week’s worth of hospital costs depleting the Medicare Trust Fund, a gift I’m still giving. 10 fucking G’s and a ding because I never met a vendor like Mike, who, when he queried me about being done after one modification, wasn’t joking, and no one remembered, myself particular, that my godfather runs a respected company I’ve worked with before, all this Italian Catholic noise, my father and I ready to draw blood over a hospital bed, letting cheap conniving minorities bilk him over the assistance Presbyterian Homes offers indigent tenants daily for housekeeping: my last paid commission for my work floated in around 2010. If the linguistic cash register that sublimates the bond between fathers and daughters wasn’t a life jacket, Trudy and Debra, and their Mississippi fecal twang vocals, would have pulverized me in a juicer by now. I don’t blame Maria for any of this, but it’s evident I am still infected by the conspiratorial tensions of us versus them in disability culture, as my only life-threatening prognosis is ableism and niggardly incompetence which spearheads Pennsylvania like a persistent lymphoma. I may not have anything seriously wrong with me twelve weeks into the end of January, but damage? Yes, the type of damage which leads to “down the drain” gallows humor, because a pathological technician tells me he’ll fix the problem, but just blows me off, from before Thanksgiving through 1/19/18, a perfect way to reference in rogue elements which forms part of Austin Petersen’s experience. In his case, it was polluted cancer drugs. I do not eschew free market models due to this. Like Austin, I can separate bad apples from the model, and Mike’s callousness is born out of rationing and single payer options, but I do curse the fact quite bitterly that I tend to trust wheelchair providers, and see my family as somewhat apart. My uncle is invisible in my life, and I plum forgot him. He’s on it now, but the quality time I was struggling to cling to? I still cannot convert my files in the wake of my Toshiba failure, and don’t want to antagonize certain parties in my circle to help me circumvent Home Advisor’s prices, but it is a fact of life if I want to earn money again, I need access to my documents. We can all debate the models, regulated and otherwise, but streamlining customized needs is far easier in a director’s cut than it is in handling individual adaptation, within or outside of a chronic condition.