The Family Tie Clarification, Sharon Osborne

 We're not saying that sexually repressed people commit murder,-- Linda Papadopoulos, disguised comedienne

 It has been suggested to me by the blabber mouth who couldn’t come in after the northeast’s first major nor’easter, that Dorwart and his wife blocked me to avoid a flirtation triangle; it is conceivable, and to all appearances Jason is an affable westerner, not a bad looking recycle version of John Hockenberry. Hockenberry ignores me too, though everyone in the disabled community knows him, in the range of our personable voices, but the fact that I have taken the block of a liberal drama instructor to heart doesn’t have a sexual component to it. I have had sex with quadriplegia according to Frank the ex, and it’s nothing worthy of a fetish with penis pumps and injections into the cartilage. I have written about it here on Blogger, much to the unhappiness of Alphabet, in the usual turbulence, and I have no desire to nab a paraplegic, and if I was to veer toward disabled men, it would be where I have journeyed before, circling the drain with a disaster like Christian Hofstetter, the blind hacker who made a fool of me at my own expense-- love the literary arts, envisioning the downward crevice of my mouth, where cold sores and fever blisters afflict winter dwellers. Christian was actually nothing in the scheme of things, but I was furious for having been played, and had the fancies we all project onto the ne’er do well. No, Jason Dorwart was about identity, the ability to disagree. I don’t know him, but the indignation rankles because he should comprehend me; instead he turned tail, and in my limited experience, the wife was a bit queer. I have had transsexuals follow me on Twitter and realize their mistake. The British crime author who fled me and I pursued with a small degree of pleasurable micro-aggression, saw tattoos of gunshots all over her body and for those of you telling me I need help, I think you ought to look at how the British left runs the jack, and that, okay. Check. Her sorry ass bulge believed me to be sympathetic. The motives of Dorwart’s wife elude me, however. I didn’t seek a consolation prize. I am struggling with relevance and poverty, decline, certainly not the only one in the ship. In the sense of getting a read on character, I don’t get it. I’m not an actor, merely an intermediate writer who almost and always almost cracked the glass ceiling, and of the very limited cache of run of the mill actresses I know who are as invisible as anyone, I don’t like them. I chased Barbara Gordon off my premises the year I discovered my academic advisor’s demise. Barbara was kind and well meaning and was there to empower invalids whose lives would never launch. This didn’t mean she and I made able co-workers. I axed it. Without regret. Whether or not my own internalized ruthlessness is deserving of Elizabeth Wettlaufer’s ability to terminate my respiratory function is almost an esoteric moral luxury. Wettlaufer wasn’t an aberration in any real sense. She was a fat and lonely nurse, a genotype relegated and overwhelmed by the success of gerontology. It isn’t simply the crime genre which gives these people undue importance. Papadopoulos represents the legitimacy flank, the insights about human behavior containing it.

I had a horrible day, one in which it would have been great to get things done without blabber mouth man, particularly without Ozzy's grand dame catting it on my screen. Simple Simon needs these bitches, but my stress incontinence took a knee. I could be more vicious, but I don't think Sharon knows herself particularly well. She's superficial, unwilling to probe the after affects of the British invasion. She may look fantastic for her age, but she's brittle, hypocritical. I'm too strong to die, too weak to rebuild any stability, and I can't forbid my homeboy The Talk. He has an incessant need for sound. Papadopaulos knows these warning signals as well as I, but as to powerlessness, by the time I get a more suitable power chair, it will be to late,

Hail the Hinderland

"She was tied to a tree and shot in the head."-- a forensic entomologist whose expertise is fascinating in a repulsive, macabre gawk

If I simply iterate racial slurs with repetitive vehemence like a raptor species, say a bald eagle, lacking capacity to embrace veterinary rehabilitation of its injuries, then I am just a shade closer to the finality of derangement which takes all our strength, debating plagiarizing myself, but that is double the effort in my end game of extraordinary duress, as if the curation team under Ev Williams will allow the grim reverberations of despair. Galahad doesn't realize the depth of my rage, my sheer relief at visualizing weaponizing this punishing machine, the worst fucking chair I ever had, against that stupid old bitch bellowing like a calving whale. Trying in vain to preserve what hearing I still have, the force of her screams set off my tinnitus, and I can't keep fighting my now crystallized hatred forever. I don't glorify in it, that this uncouth old woman contributes nothing to the world, and if someone likes me uses machine power to break her fucking legs, she deserves it; she isn't worth it, but any progressive who dares to tell me minorities who engage in such aberrant behaviors on a daily basis is my equal hasn't the slightest idea of what they are talking about. Common courtesy? She did not stop to think that many people here are ill, and don't need such volume in building front vocalizations. Vivian, another long term dead resident, told me I spoke too loudly with a great deal of frequency. That was just in terms of outside portico conversation. I no longer doubt that primal fictions like The Purge

have already seeded a reality we're starting to face, and it's the price of progressive totalitarianism. I'd sell my soul to see governmental contractors, led by the nose by the avarice driven Presbyterians, annihilated, all because I made lust driven, obstinate choices. If I run, even the idea of running, it is just too late, and I live in the greatest republic on earth. And yet, it's true, I wept for Morrison, more courageously sordid than I ever could be. She certainly would have been deplatformed for her "black bitch" of her first novel, driven insane by an incestuous rape.

Polynomial Spectrums

Alessandro Manzoni's mother was the beautiful and brilliant daughter of Cesare Beccaria, a distinguished writer on penal reform who enjoyed considerable fame not only in his native Lombardy, but also in liberal literary circles in pro-revolutionary Paris.-- Bruce Penman, an introduction.

I do not particularly enjoy considering myself a stalker, not beyond a certain point, and if I was as callous as I purport myself to be, I would have simply removed Tassoni's account from my Facebook feed, in tacit correction of a mentally hamstrung minority who thought he was doing something good for me, but instead, as grist for the mill, with a mastication near to that of Jamesian attenuation, I weigh the matter as heavily as Queen Elizabeth does in beheading a Catholic subversive. Heartburn versus he isn't the bad guy, and why did he accept the request if we quarreled in 02 in our relatively hale middle age? He achieved his goals, and I've done remarkably well, considering, annoyed at myself. My feelings are still involved, as if my consciousness teleported itself into Marquez's Love in The Time of Cholera.

The care worker, however, provided me with an understated life jacket. John is an authentic link to my more aspirational past, when I did believe my writing was a calling. He has 417 Facebook connections. I have 23, and torched more than a few of those, removed my mother's family from view because Mary wants me to go to a home because her brother, my dear godfather, couldn't get his apathetic technician to do the fitting right for my needs. So I am dying, simple as that. This is a serious rift between me and my aunt, also a partial cyborg. From what I have read of Cronin's trilogy, the Fox Network has its work cut out for it, and I'm rather in agreement with critics like Wheldon that it doesn't interweave properly between the novelist's past and future shifts. It does, as a show, tap into our anxieties in this post Ebola age better than Stephen King does with The Stand. That novel, while driven by well formed characters, was never worth the effort. It simply transforms calamity into Armageddon, a 70's era neurosis in tow. Cronin taps into a more complex undercurrent of civilization overwhelmed by a brute atavism humans never truly conquered.

I have witnessed the same ghastly minority devaluations in North Philadelphia, with the same white clean up operation, that has left district attorney Matthew Weintraub so visibly shaken. We all see the paternalism involved here, the privilege aghast at the color coded gasps of despair. Gosselaar and Sidney's studio manufactured bond, for our disappointed escapism, is no palliative, neither is the progressive fairy tale that egalitarianism is the better part of valor. My sister in law disrespects me because I don't coo at her son's child in the mall, not stopping to think how long it's actually been since I voluntarily went to a mall, or even have any funds to spend there. Instead, my finely educated mind has to spar with a black man who goes off on me because I do not salivate at his movie recommendations. There isn't any statutory requirement in Medicaid Waiver services that I have to be grateful to be diminished by his rote series of tasks, after living a life of mostly sterile disparity, and yet for all the violence in my failing lungs, nearly aspirating to death on a flu shot I did not want, but complying with an Asian resident's request to receive, I still refuse to go down. Should the FBI tag me, you think?

Momentum of Validation on a Swell

And the one thing we know the federal government cannot do is locate illegal aliens-- Kyra Sedgwick, not in Georgia anymore

As a matter of technicality, it was meningitis which killed my brother Nicholas, and not the HIV he injected into his bloodstream, but all I know about the disease is that it is prevalent among college age adults because college age adults live in close quarters and sneeze on each other with unguarded nonchalance, and Bre Payton was close enough to this sybaritic out of control age group to make her sudden demise from its attack on her brain-stem comprehensible, if otherwise unfortunate. I had a distant relative of similar age die in an accident at a skateboarding company where he worked. Brian was probably closer to being a millennial than Bre, but the suddenness of youth taken before its time makes me wonder why old age such as mine can malinger into bitterness, and others are snatched in nearly incidental fashion, as in MRSA or virulent cancer eating alive Mexican carpenters and eight year olds while others are merely hamstrung into inhumane predicaments. My novelist friend Gretchen Laskas has had a difficult time since returning from Ireland with her husband. I am unsure what it is Karl Laskas does, but it is high octane, like a client in Alicia Florrick's law firm, higher up than anything in my family short of my father's high rolling real estate deals, and while that affluence is certainly more secure than my vulnerable, withering indigence, it did not shield his wife, Karl's, from nearly unimaginable travail, which struck Gretchen like hobo's hopping the rails in pairs. Her uncle committed suicide while she was still in West Virginia, and then her son was in sudden mortal jeopardy when meningitis through a strep infection attacked her son's brain. Although the samples of Grechen's early novels which I read at the turn of the century were on the maudlin side, somewhat over - dramatized, her Facebook posts illustrate the maturity of a nearly Tolstoyan focus on family dynamic and medical crises: Brennan's brain surgeries, the scars on his skull like Frankenstein, chicken noodle soup day at the San Diego hospital, the purported city of a band musician named David Owen, who trolled me on Twitter

and just as quickly vanished on Twitter, like something out of a mariachi band in Creole culture. I was going to write a post about his charming screenshot fit of my tagline. No particular reason except that I won the shouting match. All of you, (as in Krugman, Douthat, Kathleen Parker) feel guilty about my existence. Gretchen doesn't. She was merely considerate enough to ask how I was the day I did not do my grandmother's birthday celebration in the rain, not doing as well as I should, despairing in chest pains from lack of proper ability to defecate of ever having true personal autonomy again, keeping my chin just above water in static pain in my godfather's ill begotten Quantum, and no, the fact that Bre and Brennan and Brian and my long spiritual underworld shyster brother of a vanished gen Y milieu exude reversal by epidemic and folly, these instances of decease are too variable, as yet, to point to apocalyptic wariness, what they do illustrate, beneath the seams, like the sordid exceptions in certain NFL clubs, is modern medicine progress is being stonewalled, in the breach, by evolution's powerful insistence, and its ineptitude, as well, in being able to adapt the independence of those such as I, whom it once trained into defiant ability. Kyra Sedgwick's perspective about honest coming of age dysfunction is a truism, after a fashion, even if what seasons The Closer as your standard ham and cheese is somewhat mystifying.

Singular Insulation Propelled on Cheap Batteries

The wounded gunman, {sic} Gary Atkins, looked at one of his hostages, MaryLinda Moss, and told her it was all over for him.-- Robin Abcarian

Robin's feature is a nicely balanced human interest story, taking aim at American excesses all around, whatever conspiracy theories are still plaguing our fourth largest metropolitan newspaper in their post-Tronc aftermath. SWAT teams invariably escalate tensions, however pristine they appear in television serials, the villain didn't want to lose it entirely, this is California, after all, a state that latticed Trader Joe's, which doesn't advertise, into a nationwide cult, and a woman with diabetes thought fast on her feet, touching upon our ambivalence with cages, referencing the positive attributes of being a free market society. Some prisoners do become notorious causes, but those are a small minority, and MaryLinda was cognizant of limits. Perhaps some of you feel I was never cognizant of mine, and shrug. It isn't your fault I moved into "the badlands" of Philadelphia and wound up defeated, unwilling to correct the price I paid by moving back in with my mother, and here I am, so much bloody pulp, not strong enough to rewrite what I have to while shit gases out of me, allowing myself to wither on the vine under JEVS. This is where I get Galahad from, the care worker with whom I got frisky. I knew of JEVS when I too coordinated, and so here we are, with an all black cast, including a flaming gay drug addict whom I have to try really hard not to run out of my unit Monday. With all due respect to my Catholic and Christian accounts, this Trey fellow is a dead man on stilts, an incredibly fucked up little twinkee, he makes my West Oak Lane man look like college material, and I am barely holding it together, even though this Mawson Dave followed me, put aa assertive foot forward with Twitter DM. Hello Joanne, how are you? I patted Galahad's shoulder. "See you, I got a new boyfriend," teasing him. This is how we put up with each other, the bitch and the lion. I do not know what Dave wanted, don't have the energy to play the field anymore. This Q6 is a good chair, and after raising my voice at my uncle's troubled medical vendor, the avuncular technician, a man I know from childhood, reminded me that people are people, whether private enterprise or state model run, changed the arms for me to restore my hand grips. It is too little, too late. Restoring my legacy is an overload, and Galahad's determination to keep me from implementing my despair plan is only aided by inertia. All I have to do is unleash my inner caustic, empty, hollow-eyed hatred, as in, get the fuck out of my studio, you nigger imbeciles, and then go buy what I need, sort out the details. It is contingent upon me to want to live, to keep fighting, but this Q6 is just too high off the ground for me to be anything in it other than a potted plant. I no longer dress, barely prepare my food. The VNA achieved next to nothing, as did my father, my father's sister. Now I am just a body, giving unskilled blacks a Medicaid living at 10.5 an hour. Not one person respected the narrative I offered them so I could retain my skills, not one. I presume my followers have nothing to say to that. 
I truly believed my sense of lifelong alienation would one day pass, back in my make the best of it Reagan era coming of age, and I would have been proud of myself for the strength of my accomplishments, instead of hit after hit leaving me already dead, barely able to sustain interpersonal relationships, impoverished, soiling disposable paper linens as soon as the end result of Lyndon Johnson's 60 year civil rights expansion walks out the door.

The Wasp Woman

"I had to do that."-- Susan Cabot in her final film

While I was pondering the lesson of Alison, realizing I never had that I never had the will such as that, the will to optimize for positive outcomes even without the benefit of being stabbed 37 times and left for dead in a gaming reserve, I chanced upon NBC's Reverie by accident. As of this writing, ZapIt no longer provides me with a local programming guide, and in my spastic inefficient manner, I now bounce from network to network when my nose isn't buried in Prime, wondering when, if ever, I will simply sit and read again quietly. Was it by sheer coincidence I caught episode 6, "Pas de Deux", with a paraplegic dancer in a rather disembodied atmosphere? I decided then and there to ditch the marginally better medical drama Code Black for Shahi's winsome, wounded, Marla, downloaded the NBC app, and with the pilot under my belt, have three of ten episodes viewed, as uncertain as published critics how unwitting persons of interest can be tricked into entering Reverie with interrogators without the command prompt, mindful that Hollywood's depictions of virtual reality are nothing new, just more prevalent, closer to the cutting edge, unlike Tron, which was a video game inside. Part of my frustration with the standard medical serial is audiences are cued to marvel at doctors as superheroes, when we all know this is mainly the furthermost thing from the truth. Care is a variance, and Reverie is more accurate than most about institutional processes destroying the individual character. Pilar's life as a cancer patient is ruthless and barren, and Marla's rescue of her in the turbulent Chile of 1973 is more pyrrhic than cathartic, just as doctors cannot do anything for my primary condition, or its secondary symptoms, until my immune system gives way to my now severely limited control. So my energies to restore my published history move at a monolithic pace, only in part due to the paraprofessional and his wretched daytime television. The discomfort I experience in this new model Quantum is more systemic than the old models which have preceded it, and I have taken inordinate droughts behaving like Tim Mccarthy's bludgeoned character in Remainder, a novel Amazon reminds me I purchased in 2010 of all my approximate 630 electronic titles, this personal narrator marginalized into apathetic numbness seems to be overtaking me with the prevalence of Marla's new hallucinatory uncertainty.
The paragraphs I lost on the day of Frank Versante's death are few. I pitched them to Quartz perhaps a year and a half back, looking for clues as to my original coffee piece path. Did I make sense to the editors? I don't know. They were polite, as always, but this reconstruction is catastrophic, unseen by anyone, even Galahad, whom I've ceased to reference. I have to breathe, despite the breadth of my digital losses, including my penny articles. I already know Blogger will not protect this account should I not memorialize it. Perhaps I should have anticipated this now violently sterile way of life, but I never saw it coming, that my entire legacy could nearly be wiped out due to poverty and lack of precaution. Whatever the rage of my betrayal by the wasted space insolence of homosexuals like Jimmi Shrode, this I do not deserve, not the loss of my every accomplishment, everything I aspired to. Real killers are actually memorialized. Journalists tell their stories. A week after the date of this post, I moved, made a pitch. It's something.

Twitter Has Bookmarks Now, imagine

He, stroking my hair: You don't know that you can't be independent. You've got a new chair, can't you be happy?
The dowager, "No," stifling a petulant tear.

He wants me to be happy, presumably Samsung and ATT do too, finding some intrinsic relevance to tackle my pain in a phone of which I grasp about a tenth of its function, and rather than dwell on my inability to be at my ease with my own self-worth, I put Mainline Medical’s tilt chair on full speed and smashed into the plaster paris covering the wall in the hallway, the therapist throwing a wobbly, and my attendant of too much gargantuan heart blaming the dictator, as we call the therapist. The man, as a sexual distraction, is over for me, and has reverted to just being an asshole in the black male category, the favorite denigration of powers that be in Los Angeles, if Bosch is any indicator, so I’m still basically libertarian by instinct, if nothing else, as the jaws of life wait to disarticulate my rotary cuff, tendons and fat leaking bloodily from my shoulder. This has taken me six weeks to realize there isn’t a male on the face of the earth whom I’d desire openly who’d in turn want me, but can I fucking work anyway? No, unless I start from scratch, all over again, and you’ve heard this all before but I get angry anyway because he refuses to let me say it’s over or it isn’t because his cure for my depression is contact with him, after a now muted and petty fashion, and this will go on every fucking day, our shit in each other’s noses, contingent on his lousy eating habits and my impaction. The chair keeps me a foot off the ground, if not more. I’ve already written my death warrant, despite cousin Pam’s consolation. I’ve utilized her for solace, and she doesn’t understand his tambourine jiggles anymore than I do, up one day and down the next, and oh yes, he cares, no doubt of that, with my five wheelchairs in this fuck-ass studio, on a roll here, aren’t I? He cares about the thousand dollar Samsung, the wheelchair, but making love? The flavor of this turgid Monday: that’s too easy. I already told him, after that memorable April 15^th, that I’d hate myself for winding up a nigger’s lover, more recently sent him my diary page telling him to go fuck himself, nothing sticks, nothing makes him reorient, and yes, if he yields and I knead my knees into him and pull him down, he’s going in, and that, conversely doesn’t make any sense to me as the slatterly lass shooting up flares with him every afternoon, with his untutored but overzealous dedication to my welfare. I’d be grateful for it if I could work, if I had a reason to live beyond the fact that he grasps my shins, slides me down the deplorable mattress, slides my buttocks on the cushion, sits me up, then spins my legs, after I wash my pubic hair. We’re a literal horse and buggy. Oh, the disabled community would wave me back in, hello there, what did you expect? Not that I would let myself be so far subsumed, that hole I blasted in the hallway as much an omen as accidental. I don’t call this living. Would any of you?

Mayday

It's four o'clock in the morning, damn it.-- Bernie Taupin

I have a post in draft I wish to finish about Leonard Cohen's signature lyric, but I am juggling so many issues, along with events tied to them, that I merely stopped by to make a pout, wishing my twitter accounts could ideally stay stable more than a week, with yet another block for reasons unknown. The fact that I drive a very hard bargain, not all the time, but when I do, doesn't mean I am always right to do so, but it also doesn't mean I can change my spots simply because I've never been happy before and now I am happy because someone I desire desires me. I never had that people, odd as it may seem, and as I reiterate constantly, I'm near the end of my life and would say I don't appreciate divine humor on that score-- I know too, that being wanted doesn't change I have a lot of shit thrown at me and a lot of shit to repair, which doesn't make sense if read literally. My fiances are now even more strained, and after Monday, the seventh, I have to rebuild a resume, make a do or die effort to unlock crucial Office 7 files into my Word upgrade, and get back to work, however clumsy my pitching may be. I do not have a relationship with my mother's brother, my godfather, but he rushed my new power chair, and maybe extended me some further small wedge of freedom. We can never quite discount personal connections, or loyalties which we value, but scouts honor I'll get the fuck off my non- existent but anticipated resumption of my sex life, sucking all the oxygen out of my discipline and energy. Bad girl, and it's nearly three am.

Janis Joplin Tours Khmer Rouge

freedom's just another word--

As I have predicted, ceding near total control to state welfare has ended whatever eclipsing independence I’ve clung to, and this power chair has given me a bedsore; it isn’t serious, not just yet, but if I’ve written it once I have written it a thousand times, saying no to attendant care kept me healthy, and had the Jazzy not failed I could have held on a while longer. Despite my tremors, arthritis, me being me, if I can extract or bully a better chair out of the Commonwealth, I may yet tell the visiting nurses and case managers to fuck off, then file a criminal complaint against Presby, and drive off into the sunset. I think some consumers misunderstand me: I do not believe in independent living centers, and even when I thought I did, in the back of my mind, I had more than a few red herrings. My personal loyalty to Linda Dezenski held me in check. She ascertained that herself.

I have stopped living the pain she caused me, even though I’m rehashing it here again, perhaps as a footnote. It was all mostly stress. My blow out was contingent on many factors, but those weren’t sexual. And my burdens have overtaken my stamina to really care about shoving a pogo stick up her ass. It wouldn’t change the “great blow” she landed. All things being equal, I’ll be back later this evening.

Shtako, Defiantly

"Stop complaining."

If the videos posted to social media on the subject have a modicum of authenticity, there are those on the right who allege that Moore’s loss to Doug Jones was a conspiracy; they ought to be applying that disbelief in the voting to examining why he was allowed to secure the nomination in the first place. The Troy Messenger cites Shirley Reddoch as saying that Moore’s run off victory against Strange sent “a clear statement”. Yeah, a clear statement that Trumpian methodology has sent Republicans into freefall. Even the fact that New York’s mogul in chief supported Moore is a contradiction in terms. President Trump proclaimed often enough during the primaries that he was a businessman. In that light, going against rational conservative objections to support Moore, such as those voiced by Toomey, made the president look like a mouth piece for an authoritarian regime in trouble, as opposed to a shrewd political strategist. George Wallace, to whom Moore has been compared, might have been the inflammatory bigot of his day, but when he could still walk, he stepped aside rather than be arrested by the military who insured that Brown v. Board of Education was enforced, proving that he was a realist unwilling to sacrifice himself for what he purportedly believed. Wallace has even been vindicated in part, if you examine urban school districts for any great length, given that economics have re-segregated pubic schools. The accusations of molestation were not dispositive, but they rode on an irrational wave of hysteria which bodes ill for the republic. Moore has a right to be as dogmatic as he wishes, but separation of church and state is an abiding principle of American pluralism, and has no place in the federal legislature. It signifies how much Catholic temperance has failed to reign in the fervor of American evangelical factionalism in the US, despite Niall's admiration of our "work ethic'" in apparent abeyance at the moment.

The Trump presidency: tragedy or comedy? https://t.co/TdUbGvkXP0 pic.twitter.com/Z8v32GGVLu

— Niall Ferguson (@nfergus) December 17, 2017

The left has essentially lost its mind, and the right seems hell bent on swallowing its own tail, which leaves the dowager, in her suffering under the wondrous rationing of the welfare state, and her faulty consumer decisions, severely disconcerted. I want conservatives to succeed, to roll back the drawbridge, even as my options grow ever more tenuous, and the toll of bad mechanics weakens me as I enter my seventh year past 50. My well being and my health are in jeopardy, and the fact that I have Medicare and Medicaid amounts to negligible quality control, ever steadily forcing me into an acute crisis, not mitigating it, after everything I’ve been through, the wheelchair vendor has left me in a situation which amounts to daily torture, imprisoned on a consumer hospital bed on which I can barely move, and I am still with the right, even if the state GOP is ignorant of how incapacitated I am, how negligent my care is, white professionals and black unskilled labor alike just rushing in and out of a section 202 which I technically evacuated ten weeks ago. It is this very cruelty, which is the business of poverty, which leaves me unrepentant, despite the fact that personalities like Niall Ferguson can only acknowledge the brutal truth of unremitting indigence. Yeah, it has gotten better: sixty years ago or more, before Judy Garland offed herself, I might have been in a rubber room with tards, perhaps beaten to death for my temper rather than threatened with disruption by Blogger for being a militant. I’m an upgrade, from no voice at all to Dreiser’s An American Tragedy, with all the requisite lack of forgiveness, for failure, embedded in stark negativity, while transplanted Britons frolic in amazement at the farce of the west wing before them. Niall himself has been pacified into a degree of disingenuousness. Whatever his former diffidence about the homosexual psyche, in its refreshing honesty, he is of course friends with a petulant AIDS stricken apostolic queer like Andy. Birds of a feather, imperial voices with paternalistic eyes watching over its troubled Infante Terrible, however roiled my country is at present, bawling in colic.

Carbon Dating

When I contend with Brian Greene and other physicists on Twitter, effeminate mind altering geeks as they are, I must come off as a blockhead. I cannot compete with them in the mathematical empiricism which illustrates the laws of nature as necessarily fixed, so why do it then? Before giving a direct answer, it may surprise viewers to learn I once did amazingly well in algebra and Euclidian geometry, and even got an A on my chemistry final dragging my sister bitch on a leash. My acumen sharpened or fogged primarily due to despair. In my home districts, I thrived. Outside of them my motivation struggled without the proper covalent bonds, but I never quite lost interest in how Einstein and those who made nuclear war possible revolutionized astronomy. I did not realize, or had serious memory lapses against what I was taught, that stars start out as frozen gas that clumps together, takes 10m to ignite or fail, accordingly, and that our solar system won the lottery with long odds, especially since brown dwarfs are popular failures which do not result in fusion, in theory. Space generates its own dynamism over extraordinarily lengthy periods through vibration, end of story. And yet, theoretical physics borders on tacky space opera in places. Matter may ultimately be a hologram. Time may be an illusion. Dark energy. Anti-matter. Four forces, weak and strong, magnetism. Are we absolutely certain we aren’t attempting to decode god? We cannot really say all that much about our self-awareness, let alone why the particles which configure life are so different from those which configure uranium, or why disease and age and so many other things generate agony, against which pleasure is fleeting. We know joy when we feel it too, but most of life processes itself irrespective of human naval gazing, which is why androids and android sex and zombies and singularities worry our collective social dynamics. I do not think the laws of nature recreates humanity in alternate universes as neatly as the equations of impaction lend themselves to in popular science. This is where my “yes but,” comes in, even if I risk being a Neanderthal, like Ron Perlman in Hand of God. Perlman is always reprising himself as a caveman, and his canceled series challenges materialism in exactly the same way I feel the need to challenge what epistemology gains through radio waves and optics. The pilot episode reveals a conspiracy through hallucinogenic delusion which, just possibly, might be divine revelation coming at a necessary price. Amazon canceled it, so we’ll never know, as its second season seems to meander in corporate evil. The actor who plays Keith (Dillahunt?) was certainly made up to look like a warrior from Judges, conquering Canaan. Going against the grain of established critics, there are things I’ve enjoyed viewing here, if only to observe, in context, why the West Coast is as fucked up as upstate New York.

My mother’s sister telephoned, since I have stopped using Facebook. We ignored my abominable attitude, and the prospect of moving into grandmother’s nursing home went in one ear, as the saying goes. Mary really thinks she is doing the right thing, oblivious to the fact that my sentience is still vital. Marie, the other aunt, accused me of whining, thus generating the enthusiasm of her former married relation, and then hung up. I have my moments, but Marie is wearying me with this constant punishment, as both she and my father contributed to this gradated wasting of my strength. A generic ten year old Quantum extended my strength, and when it blew on 10/02, I didn’t assume I’d be dead in 6 months. Unless I can move the absolute zero of Satan’s forbidding glacial majesty, exchange power chairs, relearn how to maneuver myself to restore some semblance of self-determination, it is possible, without exaggeration. The disposable underwear, the loss of my fish, coffee, toilet usage, the toll may now be too much. Trudy Richardson may not have defeated me with her illegal tactics, but as I’ve written, the stocky lupus African achieved quite a lot with her conniving, linear mindset. I have no love lost over these murders. First I thought one thing, and then said it’s a black problem, and decided not to ripple Twitter’s ions. I am not Milo, quite, but if the handwriting is on the wall, things might get more interesting still, in my quest, if not for grace, then? 

Exit Stairs Only

an emergency has been reported

Hypothetically, Penn Medicine is papering my doughnut hole with temporary home health care, but for the fact that my carrier keeps dropping my return call to them, and given it is the weekend, what happens tomorrow remains unknown. EMS has dipped its hand in the lottery of aggressive abuse due to my equipment failure, and the wheelchair vendor and I are shooting off various libertarian sparks, as I have never used this model, and it limits my ability, if you wish to picture a sedan seat on a battery. I am not sure the man in charge would be amenable to an exchange, should it come down to that. It is not that I can’t handle being an object of hate by women medics, but what I was subjected to Thursday echoes childhood, echoes adolescence, echoes adulthood on nine years with Medicaid waiver paraprofessionals, so I am rolling out next week, abandoning my library, my contributor copies, everything. It remains unlikely I’ll be read on this platform or any other in the near term, and I weigh scuttling my service, if definitively leaving my keys and laser lock on the office. Cousin Richard posted a soppy zoological piece about an apathetic 59 year old chimpanzee refusing food who then livened up when a naturalist it had bonded to paid a visit, and in terms of anthropomorphic superiority, spastics are analogous to the tragic consequences of animal husbandry. The sickest aunt tells me to keep fighting, but for what? Traditional medical procedures aggravate my symptoms, rather than mitigate them. The home care nurse telephoned, and the vendor is on his way for more haggling, potential modification. Almost a lifetime of work is still locked up in Office 07, the same aforementioned cousin silent on the matter of success or failure in converting two documents I sent for compatibility to Office 365, and if all property owners are more important than non-property owners, section 202 contractors illustrate the playful frivolity of human rights. These do not exist if you are non-compliant, aberrant tendencies buoyed along in the undertow. Intellectual capacity, though useful in fighting ambulatory guardian maneuvers, isn’t going to solve bio-engineering issues forever. Justice imprisoned a perpetrator, never otherwise persecuted or vindicated on my behalf. Louis Gossett consoles Levar Burton in Roots after a mock up slavery whipping. He exclaims “There will be another day.” This isn’t possible for those of us forced into relegated status, and in this sense, community integration, locked into rationing, is a travesty.

DWTS in Obsolescence of Product

no one talks like that--a wheelchair mechanic

Death is the most carnivorous of any ecological process, particularly when it is embodied in John McCain’s overly long victory lap for a heroism plucked like a thorn out of a tenuous policing action, his emaciated skin all but fused to his now skeletal visage, his torture as a prisoner of Asians on the peninsula referenced as a secular hagiography but never discussed, unless it be by biographers able at one time to solicit the details. The dowager doesn’t know how his forearms were broken for the near term intelligence desired by the charlies of Ho Chi Minh’s collective nationalism, nor why the bones weren’t set properly. Nearly two decades ago, when his candidacy was a viable property, slight details of his personal grooming needs were mentioned in profiles, and Dick Polman’s skepticism of the Arizona Senator’s maverick label have certainly been refuted by the malignant glioma currently disrupting his brain function. While no one doubts McCain’s political skill, failed nominee or not he is a national figure, a patriot in the truest sense, willing to wear blinders for the sake of it, to strike at adversaries with inflammatory rhetoric, clever barbs which swayed the 08 electorate toward The Invisible Man, his speculative presidency, had the enthusiasm not gone to the paper doll of the Neutral zone, would not have engendered history. The man pulls on the reigns with far too much frequency, coaching and scolding from the bench, just another centrist, whereas I would have vanished into the wasteland of American indigence. Thursday, October 10^th, I packed my electronics, intending to depart my chaotic destitution, and as I was able to predict, my old Quantum shorted out. It is now in the hallway, Trudy Richardson’s chastisements forthcoming. With tremendous struggle, I purchased a bucket seat model on the blind, from an ever harried vendor. They are all the same, and I am still helpless, too weary to adapt to a swivel seat, calculating I’ll survive a failed transfer to my bed rather than the toilet, if I transfer at all. No more money to restore the independence I had with other models, barely able to get my ass on the vinyl with the foot stool upended. This is helplessness, my mind still intact, a 48 hour hospital stay indicating I am a healthy plow mare, one which spins our modern caste systems round and round, low skilled black technicians, cafeteria workers, social services, nurses, chaplains who I sent running with adept verbal fury. Physicians play very little part in this. The same can be proffered for rehabilitative medicine. McCain’s prominence is a constraint. His peers and admirers offer a modicum of delicacy to a dying man, one whom impatience might sweep off the stage: retire to a lucrative hospice suite already and allow your state’s legislature to fulfill its one constitutional function not abrogated by progressive amendments, and appoint your replacement, his heroism as much a construct as it is genuine. I really have to shit, thrown out with all lack of finesse. I may not survive attempting something different, as opposed to a lateral transfer, but medical model hierarchy isn’t as suave as what the industry serves as a daily aperitif. The cracks in the wall aren’t casually dismissed, and Shaun Murphy’s libertarian definition of himself echoes mine, but centralized institutionalism will take care of my dystopian vision of humanity. It won’t take too long. The Commonwealth of Pennsylvania is one of the origin territories, and it is strangling itself to death with its socialized governing structure. I weigh my will to survive on the minute, and I am going to do something which isn’t done: my address is 158 N 23^rd Street, Riverside. If anyone can stop by just for a few minutes, to stand by, no lifting, ring me. 267-207-5455. It is very temporary, and I prefer you not be black. I wouldn’t write this if my willpower wasn’t telling me to try to hang on.

Dick's Torch

We all have bad days, and the Jazzy's battery memory, despite all my precaution, is on the way down. This is not a machine worth repairing, but caramel bitch started terrorizing me during my first equipment failure, and I cannot do it again, not with her nor her bull dykes, and the stress weighs me, vanishing in pain and out of the way because I left internal medicine and refuse to go back to Jefferson. This seems to make the brutality of High Castle applicable. I am in mid stride on S1, E3, with one operable ear plug to match my "bad" ear on the right. My left, which was my better ear drum, either has a permanent wax affliction, or lost sensitivity the last time I was actually on my bath chair. My acumen can only compensate for so much, and I'm telling you what I said years ago: staying at Riverside is destroying me. Linda Dezenski never fully understood what her conduct toward me did, truly leaving me without any allies. I have never heard one disability advocate, ever, systemically examine independent living corruption and suggest reforms. It's difficult because at one end of the spectrum you have Krauthammer, the crippled shrink who still plays policy doctor, and on the other end people like Cherry, barely in the world, and then Joe Delesio, the savant who imitates normal until he exposes his idiocy, and me, the outcast, terrorized by Africans who jump ship out of guilt, or stay on because they are as thick as SS guards in a New York skyscraper. I am going to die as hard as I've lived. What the fuck can you do?

A Libertarian Will Pull Up Your Woolens

"I don't hate anyone." Mike Baduchio, political operative-- (sic)

This evening I actually made it to my first Libertarian Party meeting in winter, this due to prior knowledge that I could ramp it up onto the Irish Pub's portico, and I met my first local libertarian politician, Ken Krawchuk, a bit of a ne'er do well with a grizzled  out of Montgomery County, running for Guvenor against the seemingly insipid Tom Wolf.. He has run for the governorship several times, Mr. Krawchuk, and told me to write about meeting him, his tutorial on canvassing, being a wedge issue bitch in general-- not that he told me to write that, but I can be as disillusioned with libertarian political chapters as anything else, always a distant fourth rail in the American primary system. I met new people, old people, all my white boys, promising energetic turks, the geeks, the pot bellied stoners, the disruptive quadriplegic barking orders, spending money she wasn't prepared to,  birthday gift not cleared yet due to bowel and holiday, meeting Molly and Mitch, the servers, and Mike, Krawchuk's handler. I broached Milo, and was respected enough to be asked about the state legislature. Was astonished to be asked. I did not say Brian K Sims should be torched, but would have liked to. Instead: "the state legislature is corrupt, on both sides of the aisle."  And emoted strong feelings about the demise of Kahleen Kane. I called her Harris and Ken corrected me, only small notches of my 17 year distress escaping. I did not bring up my life threatening self-evacuation that is scaring me so much my problem might solve itself with a mid-July stress death, putting my life in jeopardy to do this as it was. On a full charge, the dilapidated Jazzy barely made my 23rd to Market to 20th and Walnut trisect and back the same way. The Quantum balks at the cold, which should be worse this time of year, but I live in the chair, and this is not the reliable P-200. I'm obviously wearing the battery down with constant use, and have another mental hand of cards to play, as this machine is only giving me three and a half hours run time, at best, with the short. I wanted to press Krawchuk. Kindly colorful figure he may be, why keep doing it, being the wedge bitch, the thorn? But I've made this click my family: Kokesh, Miller-Miller, Stiles, and poor Craig. Libertarianism, local, national, this is my psychiatry, and doing some libertarian stories, even getting a scoop, (possibly) this may be part of my final act. I was going to be stark, and as hollow as a snub-nosed cartridge, but I am too empty of feeling, so drained I cannot summon the will for the caustic erosion, ignoring, for example, that there was an African American stud in the mist, as well. We are diverse. I am simply the only spaz, the dowager, being asked permission by the kindly stout wife of the operative if she could pull up my socks. She did,. My mother must be turning in her grave, that this is the solution I've given myself to, as if these fractious individualists would sacrifice themselves to rescue me from Center City Niggerland. Don't feed me shit about freedom of mind. I've lived a fucking holocaust, with interludes, without a scintilla of hope to possess something so vital as private property. Will still bobbing, with all these hooks, baited as a catfish.

Abject Failure

The last time my computer battery went south, the Toshiba stopped running, despite the external charger. PhillyTechGuy said it shouldn't do that, but that is in fact what it did, and I am broke, and dirty, with renegade pests run amok, the power chair falling apart, lacking the funds to throw my laundry in the wash, even if I fold, and telephone welfare, the attendant I'd land would be someone as desperate as I am; it would not hold. SSI would give me about forty dollars, and it is stringent. Sell an article and I'm in overpayment territory, and when this becomes your entire life because your brain damage was just bad enough, what is the point? Where am I to find the resilience? Maintain my sanity? I am this close to cancelling my Medicare premium, rolling myself out the door, attempting to manufacture a fatal collision with a truck, which I do not deserve. My father's bypass surgery has put him on notice that it too is ready to fly south, and I am having headaches and seeing spots in front of my eyes; his sister, like my sister, is nearly out of her mind, and she thinks I have solutions to spend down. Throwing in the towel merely trebles anguish, and pathos is out of fashion these days. I would not wake to discover that Inglis House would gratify me. Regardless of what the state spent to refurbish the "wheelchair community," it was built not to be seen. It is a castle where human detritus is hidden away, drugged, mumbling incoherently on gurneys-- how am I to live like that, as opposed to an alternative marginally more palatable? Here lies spastic dowager, done in by bad intestines and deplorable domestic conditions, saying livid vicious things to bingo eyes and buck teeth in the sultry air of an unpleasant autumn. If this Jazzy in which I sit kicks, it becomes relatively moot, believing I can climb the fuck back out. I'd have to go away. I cannot fight medical rationing in an unsafe manual wheelchair for another 9 to 12 months because I cannot get past primary care physicians to get at the damn technology upgrades I need. Terms of service policies frown on "glorifying" negative behaviors invariably grinding down to the inevitable conclusion, but I do not see the dignity of enduring lifelong institutional nightmares, drugged into oblivion for the sake of unskilled labor. They left my right hip dislocated, the fucking crippled children surgeons, after destroying what control I had, cutting hamstrings, fusing feet bones, only to hit middle age arthritis just as ambulatory individuals do; barring a miracle, I can't hold the line that much longer, and I'd rather go down much as General Gordon did in his beloved Sudan, doomed in my own Alamo, because I fled to this city, obstinate ass wipe, cratered by her own expectations. The roulette wheel of our elected officials changes nothing of the obscenity of the welfare state, breaking me, breaking your back as well. Parents never see these consequences. 

Camilleri Flats

The British government had become the prime European support of the khedive of Egypt, but sought to remain aloof from the affairs of the Egyptian-ruled Sudan. -- Britannica's encapsulation of slaughter

I took the risk and drove this aged, dimpled, battered and shorting Quantum under the showerhead to hose down, for no more than a few minutes, wrapped in baggies. The bath chair is still functional despite my slide down in 2015, if it occurred in the spring of 2015. Even on sturdier days, the shower stall is a risk transfer, always was, and the Quantum's design ups the notch, as opposed to the easier sling of the P-200, and even with pain killers, and remembering to ease my shimmy off the porcelain throne, I am not ready to play the piper leaving the chair's motors parked close to a good dose of steam, so it is a micro cheat in a necessary living extension of my body. Andrea Camilleri uses power chairs as accouterments in his annoying Sicilian detective series. On my last count, one power chair was the shroud for a clever suicide electrocution, and one was used as a lesson about corruption. If Andrea doesn't like Sicilians, the dowager despises the shame Sicily brought down on Roman glory, even if their old world provincialism seeps into our circulation system like venom. Camilleri is Don in his own right, but he is also a bullshit artist for pathos.

I'm working on my article, very slowly. It is not about rejection, nor commission. As a policy piece, I want it to pass ableism standards. This matters to me, and if it is declined I'll live but you better bet your sweet ass if Editor A doesn't accept it I'll burn through 25,000 journalists if I have to to get it branded. Hence my inactivity of late.

Today, this evening, maybe things aren't so bad. I need to be slightly less pecuniary with pain medication despite daily doses of fish oil, and become more clever with bathing techniques if the pivot cannot be reverted to immediately with confidence, but if you had to choose between end of live indigence in a state bastion like Inglis House, or going out relatively intact, with your dignity behind you, which do you think you'd pick? Camilleri can afford the luxury of a godfather's flesh, etched and contained in codes of honor. Some things never change, and the Sudan is still the Sudan, despite the contest between the superstars, Heston and Laurence Olivier, in a deplorable pantomime of a Muslim nationalist. 

Sickly Hues of Milk

This TV plays games with those of us on the cheapskate, much as we play games with the frustrations of touch interface, or online paranoia. Steve Jobs has neither my gratitude nor my fetish zeal, although one can look at Tim Cook's libertarian streak in his battles with the FBI as a paradoxical quagmire. Most of what we get from This is mediocre: mediocre space opera, mediocre war movies, shoveling shit to those worried about IVC Filter implants. 

Once in awhile something you want to eat comes along: The Burrowers, District 9. Code 46 seems to have the same nutritious texture, but caught me off guard, because I was busy having an insurgency tantrum about Blogger's HTTPS update, figuring they want to muzzle stiff necked intransigents such as yours truly. (Is my rebellious despair all that important?) I will have to catch its rerun over the weekend, but what I saw of the first twenty minutes certainly had an unsettled effect, at least in terms of cinematography, which contributed as much to the dialogue as Morton's oozy Caucasian journey in an urban environment anesthetized to the residue of humanity within it. All I did was log on to research what I was looking at, wasted over 2MB getting upset about HTTPS encryption and security protocols which I certainly don't understand, missed getting grocery on time, and now have to roll to the Pakistani at the 7-11 to waste money on bad franchise food, hoping they still have wings, as that is their most tolerable selection. Obviously, we need time off now and again; let's see how I tap dance around an overage gigabyte, shall we? I'm worried about my castor tire, and if that goes, so do I. Live it lovely.  

Funny Thing on a Timothy Hutton Tether

"Who would want to live in a world without pharmaceuticals?"-- Peter Strauss

The dowager saw just enough (1.7 hours) of American Crime in its first season to now be confused by its second, until reading enough entertainment news allowed Ridley Scott's reprisal role strategy to dawn on a wearied mind; in essence meaning I shall have to stream season one, realizing how much I missed out in my enthusiasm for Felicity Huffman, whose work on Sports Night remains sorely under-appreciated, even to the point that her Desperate Housewives director allowed her to echo her savvy sports channel executive.

While too cautious to offer Scott's bravado a raving endorsement, and perhaps too old, as well, spastic is slowly supplanting NBC's Code Black with Scott's consciously jacked torque ratios. Paid critics call the series brave, spastic calls it catching up with cable television as the models for content slowly collapse and merge, but instead of staying by Tom Reid's battle worn contrivance of a desk to watch the episode, I sat up in bed, writhing in pain most of the evening, and yes, this is the fault of my obstinacy, trying to stay abreast of the online privileges to which I've become used to, and could not get my legs back up on the Jazzy cushion for a significant length of time when I tried to lie back down. I got where I was going, but part of the problem was the metal plate seating of the Jazzy cutting the surgically fused arch of my foot; this would not happen with the Quickie P-200.

Hutton is at once ubiquitous and exceptional as the Everyman American inheritor of Protestant moral sensibility. Those of us who grew up with him cling to the raw repressive exposures of Ordinary People, because it manages to cut across the value systems between the sprouting denominational folly of the Reformation and the Catholic imposition of rational hierarchy. Some of you no doubt laugh at these vulgar descriptions I deploy, as opposed to with me. Is it okay? Perhaps sometimes, and perhaps sometimes it's okay to be undercut. Writing a furious scold to minority ethical lapses in my head juxtaposed against a furious struggle to control my posture with aging furniture and bad equipment. A personal care attendant wouldn't have been around that time of night just because I wanted to use my daybed like a lounge chair, and yet, even a nearly perfect talent like Felicity gets lost in our streaming rush to be in all places at once. In the dowager's estimation, she's a great actress, and nobody's beating the drum.

The Mercy of Adam Kokesh

In many countries, lesbian, gay, bisexual and transgender people are persecuted, attacked and killed.-- Fred Hiatt, an admirable opinion writer otherwise.

If I attempted to throw myself on the mercy of the Libertarians, just as with the the leftists, it would be to little avail. Some of you may or may not know I tweeted the indomitable Tony Stiles a direct message asking him if he could help me leave Philly to let me know, and I did not expect his largess to follow through and leap to my rescue in the shadow nation we'll call Nigerland, as I'm not sure I'm ready to risk total banishment in digital space just yet if I allow myself my true nasty colors-- for which Poets & Writers did ban me, but in my four years of running my mouth on Speakeasy, my vitriol had not coalesced into extremism in this unfortunate spastic frame. I list to my right, my right arm flexes in, and I'm peasant trash who really believed she could be a matriculated establishment player, after years of fighting the welfare state, I'm right back where I started leaving a large impersonal city campus without enough money to wash the piss out of my laundry. I became distraught with every resignation from every job I hated, and leaving the Matrix Research Institute was no exception, but the difference then, in 1996, was I knew I was fucking finished. Circumstances merely dragged things out. I started to write for money after dear lesbian bitch dead in my own heart published Leaving The Matrix Institute in a PA council on disability chapbook, and I managed to get lucky, and then surprised when mommy dropped and her insurance carrier left her children money. My younger sister wanted my cut and I said no. She and Ben joked about how long I held onto that nest egg, and now it's over. I'm on the verge of irrational flight out of one of the better 202 housing units in center city, mostly due to shame over my creativity with skid marks, my inability to get along with the wastrels in this community, the wastrels who make up the majority in this country, broken by the Roosevelt's culture of dependency. You want to come clean my apartment as an act of charity before the exterminator shows up tomorrow and my war with Trudy Richardson begins again?

No? I thought not. This fucking Jazzy is hurting me, and all I want is to run, and pray for luck, when I actually logged on to research Medicaid's health care plans. If I could I'd slide into a hole and starve to death while the beat goes on, and as yet, I endure, but probably not much longer. I wonder what Hiatt would have to say about gay activist corruption that had such a disparate impact on my well being. He'd parse it no doubt by differentiating bad acts from equal treatment. And my response?

Fuck that.