Giant

"Take a break." Melissa Horton, Yaberrz

I've already told myself that Niume is just another tool. My problem is the posts, taken collectively, drip like the orphanage gruel in Oliver Twist, the other Dickens masterpiece never read, so, on my last megabytes for this billing period, I am waiting for the prompts to kick in, and tomorrow, or later, my tweets to my posts will be invalid. Chrome autopass works on some sites. On others, it creates issues.

I do not know how many of you remember Rock Hudson, in his last days, coming out


I do. I have the memory of the news conference, live, in 1985, and here he is, a wasted consequence of both a sexually permissive society, and concealment based on sexual secrets, a matinee idol of my mother's generation, with her mania never fully, effectively treated until she gave birth to my half brother, and survived the heroin addict she wedded in mistake. Benjamin's father was a late diagnosed schizophrenic. For me, Hudson was a television star, the composite model for Blue Bloods Tom Selleck. I was much better off, a naive ignorant youngster who couldn't decode, and had fantasies of a happy middle class Italian marriage-- but my Pulchinella was barren, and he is a ghost.

I made my decision. I am not recertifying with this Presby building. Trudy Richardson, as far as I am concerned, is a hate crime criminal. The real reason Presby doesn't evict, is section 202 makes money putting senior citizens in hospices and homes. It is a consequential decision, and once the deadline passes, that is it. I cannot change my mind. They will move to evict, and I am the one who keeps taking it. I cannot do this forever.

I do not mean to take the collective human mentality all that seriously, but it is overwhelming me, my need for creative space.

Queer Eye Decoder, Doris Lives!

“All I ever wanted in my life was to get married, have kids, keep house and cook, and even though I did all these things, I still ended up in Hollywood.”-- the grand diva of more idyllic days

Only bits and pieces of Pillow Talk can be visualized, the confetti of its time. It may be a stretch, the notion that Rock Hudson was taking a mild enmity-riddled jab at la grand dandy in that scene with Doris, their little coffee klatsch, and then the staid post-Commissioner wasting away before our eyes at a Hollywood press conference. This was the Hudson I knew, the one trying to be the daddy wise ass. Even in death, in the grip of the worst disease to pass from bush hunters to queers, Hudson was reluctant to deconstruct himself along Clifton Webb's lines. Webb was the studio caricature of  Oscar Wilde, Proust, Henry James, their social milieu, but Hudson was the more clever chameleon, *the gay bachelor,* wasting away in public, exciting plague memories, mob panic, quarantine. We haven't  removed ourselves so far away from that vociferous social fear. We'd all love to believe otherwise, taking yet a new set of faggots on good faith (sigh).

I'm getting too old for volleys, and this bores you (or bores me), my adult settings that have taken only a few truly graphic turns, and most of those in a spittoon around a graphic temper which isn't really genocidal. I mean, come on. Caliban is only playfully demonic.

My back up kicked in, the Haitian at my adopted franchise, and I am supposed to meet with an Italian CNA the afternoon of 4/11. Female. You'd think it would please me, but it does not, 95% of my mind has already rejected her without a real interview so much as a confessional stress complaint over my decoupling with Jesse. 

I am slightly too overwhelmed to make our rendezvous; this post has nothing to do with it. Power chairs need to be charged, writing, reading, or throwing a load of laundry in the machine, teaching the cleaning lady about the Paperwhite, and the miraculous ability to utilize Amazon's book loan while some senile fucker sets off the fire alarm. I cannot fight Presby solely on the basis of my own legal acumen. Yet this doesn't seem to stop me.

I'll admit privatization causes mobility impaired individuals as much grief as the state system. Within plateaus of stability, I've failed. Sometimes the solutions simply aren't there.

Rock Hudson and Decoding Double Entendre

With only words to share.
You know that I was born for a night like this.
Born for a stolen kiss.
--Neil Diamond

The ACLU cannot argue that Stutzman was not engaging in a form of political expression when she refused to service these men, and I can also envision her attorneys arguing (as attorneys might for me one day) that those of us hostile to equality on the basis of sexual orientation are minorities whose views one day might need protection from the tyranny of the censor. This is how liberals damn themselves all the time.

I have read revisionists making their bylines decoding Rock Hudson's gay memes against Doris Day in Pillow Talk. The same level of equivocating can be found scripted in Blindfold. I have no doubt this linguistic vibrancy was mourned by Orwell well advanced from contemporary dangers opaque and present. Hitchens said his class took Orwell more seriously than what they were supposed to be  studying. It is difficult, however, not to see Animal Farm as a block of molten lava with a whiff of sulfur making a deadly stench.