Traditions of Prague Foment

The Prague Spring had risen up from below, from the people themselves.-- Oleg Kalugin, Spymaster, p119

I do sometimes wonder why Twitter administrators haven't banned me. I've upset the kids, unwittingly, the teens yelling at me: "Chill Out!" and I've radicalized myself along libertarian sentiment enough to go to jail, just like Erik used to do. My favorite transsexual has a jacket, a sheet. Whatever your preferred usage-- but my willingness to act on my anger illegally springs from non-compliance. The mostly dead Erik  acts from the  radical left. Me? I want to destroy the entire system, from disability intakes, which are ineffectual outsource models, to HUD. If young libertarians like Craig have little love for the Federal Reserve, my hatred for the Department of Housing and Urban Development is as pristine as Ebsen's follies with Texan crude-- but not now. I'm sick, and it will take me two weeks to clear, give or take, with my stores of Mucinex, and, while I am unsure about my battle with Blogger, had I not purchased the domain, I sort of can pity the gatekeepers

Zuckerberg is a kid. I feel perfectly entitled to kick his meta-swindling billionaire ass, because, he, like you, refuses to look at the near genocidal price of the American welfare state, and I remember the twitter kids interviewing on public television. They aren't my censors, got that, but twitter's top brass have wedgies up their crotch. And I myself have gone a little off on the "follow and drop." When I was new to micro aggregate in 09 I had to learn, didn't quite get it, and got sore at a crime aggregator. I let it go, but really got mad, and swing expletives with Nixonion relish, and still feel sad for certain liberals who mattered to me; losing Nate was my fault, however. The flippancy of the ambulatory world just got to me when I looked at the other South African post graduate's blithe poise. Suck it up people, meet limited travesties like Gladhandler, trolls like me. Take us out to ball games, stop leaving us at the mercy of niggers who have no other choice. Stop running away from us. But now I have to work. Jeffrey gave me an idea. He can reject me 20 times, but I am determined, before I pass, to play in his league, and so I shall. All my other tabs are closed. Clean coffee pot, then hit boiler room. Some of you know the term.

Inclusion Paves Stairwells to Hell with Best intentions

"I don't know Stacey." Nate Maingard, fantasy abandoner

Karina Klaus, that is her full name, likes to surprise me, but in elongated chucks. I cannot remember when the fuck I hired her, in desperation. It is in here though, my bloody archives, trying to sustain my Trujillo - like self pity. Wiki's pic is not the man Llosa painted in my head, yet I cannot explicate the difference between the actual despot and Llosa's rapacious appropriation. I worked all night, shopped yesterday a living troll in the spastic flesh, and Karina telephones me, out of the goddamn blue, and I panicked. Nate Maingard, my love, twitter (my hate) Is she reading my posts? I said none of this, told her a parable, texted her about my thirtysomething self reliance. "You're my friend," she said. Yeah, all the way from Eugene Oregon. I can surmise Portland went for Clinton.

She's my friend, Karina, from Craigslist. Get real spastic, the ambulatory world expects you to know your place, accept you can't care for yourself, be nice to Pennsylvania's welfare. That kind of friendship, an itinerant passing, a ricochet of failed consideration. I previously wrote she suggested she and I could live together and she retracted just as quickly. I'm that type of quadriplegic. None of you can handle it, only nigger trash for wages not worth the price. There are worse. My dead ex-, Frank, who was probably correct that this chick is drug suey. I worked all night, to what end? Lessig treated me like a real journalist. I think, or faulty adversary.

She is still with the bum over 50 (for the puzzled, it is buried in my tweets). I recently gave Danita Berg a hard time, and I am thinking of writing a piece about it, my pugilistic stance with the left. She runs a damn literary website for fairies, she isn't a trauma specialist, but I laid into her inappropriately similar, but not exactly the same, as what I did to Stacey, Nate's co-patriot. I never supposed the recording artist knew the hapless engineer. If I really let myself go-- well, I am. In public housing, section 811 or 202, recertification is mandatory. I'm not doing it this year, so nigger Trudy gets what she wants. I either find a solution, or I'll be muzzled by August. The stream will go on, with or without us.
Spooky.

Mining Twitter for provocation and paying absurdist fees

"I've seen men hurt worse and lose more."-- Joseph Cotton, the third man

Trivial detail: Twitter notifications emailed me October 27, 2015. "You have a new follower!" Neil Thomas Stacey, whose thin and languid ambulatory poise rather recently infuriated me, the insulated self-interest. I flagged him down on twitter's web page to get a sense of who I lost, and became angry. Not with a South African civil engineer tossing out pithy trinket tweets so much as with ambulatory blithe assumptions about its privilege. I have, in point of fact, lost hundreds-- maybe decades instead, of followers since I opened a twitter account, including Nicholas Kristof, and as of Sunday, Neil's follow countryman, and my sentimental favorite, Nate. Every bitter bitch needs at least one twinkie for sentimental comfort, and I wanted to chase after Maingard, and suppose I did sorta, trying to explain. He claims he blocked me accidentally and cannot find my account, and it feels like I've lost an adoptive nephew, or the good fuck, worth more than 5 rand, if only, but it is my fault for hating the able-bodied. I went on o small rampage and booted Trump's daughter, Ivanka. How many gulfs can I expect to leap, after all? Why should she bridge my divide? She is a status mogul descendant, tweeting what wealthy blonds tweet about babies, and I am just a spastic, slowly losing, but also failing to see the late Roger Ebert's awe of social media. I also parted from Dale Reardon, a blind Australian who may have believed I wanted back in the throng. Shared experience, all that, in disability land. And no, I need a job, not the segregation of disability empowerment. When I tweeted, "I am saying goodbye to you," however, Dale understood what Stacey could not grasp: Cripples, even smart ones, emotionally invest a little more, and I liked having Maingard as a sugared sex fantasy to show off to the vanquished Karina. Sniffling a little, but over what? That Nate misunderstood the dots I connected to get from A to B? Is a long time follower a relationship? The age of automation gets on all our nerves.

I asked my sister to ask her children who Shelita Burke was. I followed her back, initially, for the sake of the chasm between us, but during my mini-rebellion, all she wanted me for was to prop her label profile, and the humane fascist said no more. Screw the damn numbers. (Ali Spagnola is a different context, one enumerated many posts back in archive.) And I only knew one thing about the Singh before Harjinder found me. A Singh assassinated Indira Gandhi, who overruled her advisers and kept her guard. "How else can we prove we're secular?" She inquired. But I can understand a sect who know what they are, and I followed the proud father foodie back, with respect, even if he too has to work on my profundity.

Grieving for Harambe

"I think it's about finding a place to live," Michael C. Clark, my dead academic advisor running a more harried composition course

Beating someone to death is something, an action, in the abstract, of which I believe I'm capable, whether or not I share Depp's cunning at being able to overcome lesser strength and other limitations. I have little to no idea why Depp is on my mind. It is not Secret Window, which I did not like anymore the second time than I did the first. It may be Donnie Brasco, and his latter day Victorian detective in the Hughes brothers From Hell, certainly one of my favorite derivatives. I like things that show me how far I could never go, or believe I could never go, but I never entered into Johnny as a sex idol. For me that was Elton John, the most notorious British fag, and I no longer enter into his piano and Taupin's lyrics with the same sense of masochistic inducement. My grade school teacher Neil Montgomery hooked me onto Elton John, and I queasily regret it, having to peer into revelations not necessarily easy to confront. 21 Jump Street had status, that I know via reputation, but Depp came to me through Tim Burton, as opposed to music, or an aura of a cult icon. Where Ben Landis is on that scale his fans know better than I.

I tweet to Ben and to some degree Nate and Ali like regular people not to show how cool I am, but because how am I supposed to feign being fazed? If I was 15 years younger Nate Maingard might have needed to flee me with an ANC bribe, not to scare the rainbow candy musician, as we know age and youthful beauty rarely collide in triumph, but Landis, to his credit, has me thinking about personalization, in light of his recent queries about abuse. My three recent tweets to Will about Trump and the Russia hack, to my mind, weren't indicative of personal feeling, which cannot be said for Poets & Writers.

I telephoned them, late, after I hesitated to transfer and then beat the anxiety to transfer, and barely heard the editor's name. I left my number with a bit of kimmy's bristling and bushy tail, intending to duke it out. Just as I asked on Gawker, why does this matter? To the extent I have a reputation at all, and I did, it is in spite of PW, not because of them. Yet I supported them for years, and cannot explain to those of you who don't know it what it is like for a majority of people from your own class to turn on you, get you booted, but the circulation department still wants your fucking subscription. What happened to me on Speakeasy is a reflection of what ambulatory society does to quadriplegics and those with Downs, with MR. Poets & Writers was a predominate voice in my life before they were Poets & Writers. Before I collapse in the exhaustion of age, there will be a score to settle.

Feet On The Ground

Since he has a verified account symbol, Nate must have name recognition. Perhaps I've done the beatnik circuit with his relatives. A look at his capsule biography puts that to rest. At the same time, my mind flips through my involvement with Athol Fugard's work at the Wilma, remembering I used to orbit the anti-apartheid clique with perfectly self-righteous conviction, and now, in my old age, not so sure. I am thinking about tolerance, in conjunction with the way I've delineated Trudy Richardson, Debra Horne, and most of North Philadelphia in public, and candidate Oliver, to his credit, reached across the aisle. Maybe he senses that my real issue is the sense I am being shilled by these women unfairly, given my history with the killing fields of Protestant do-goodism.

I do not have contemplation in hand to get into it this morning. I'm just letting my guard down: I'm scared.

Presby has no legal ability to shuttle me to Inglis, but they are doing to me, at a much younger age, what they've done to many others in my 21 years of observation, and I cannot stay much longer, whether I push back hard or meander and duck. I'm angry enough to get arrested at eight thirty, if necessary, but that only hastens Pennsylvania's crushing brutality against me, unforgiving of failure, and I have to find a space to camp. Then perhaps another.

But if Nate threw his hat in my ring, then I can whisper "Hang on..." and hold tight. Thank you Nate.