Easing the Pedal

This interests me as branch off research, as I'd like to be nice to my ISP. If anyone can muzzle me with a "sorry sister," it would be a provider, but Ma Bell has put up with yours truly dashing about for years, wrenching my hair with dial up. I almost left the old telecom in 98 or 99 but stayed because I was confused about downloading a new service, and then never left. Why?

I'm stodgy, never quite agreed with the government breakup of the utility in the first place, and don't remain convinced that Verizon is a rival-- though Verizon Infinity beat Comcast and made a deal with this Presby owner to wire the building. I am not sure this is capitalism at work either, as opposed to inert municipal socialism (sputtering),

But in fairness to AT&T, we cannot all be online at the same time, and slowdowns are bound to happen. Comcast has been known to boot customers for overages, but AT&T has pretty much always accommodated me. True, I pay a little more than my neighbors, but I've never had much of a problem, and stay offline between 12 and 4 EST if I can help it, and imagine, if I need to parse on cell minutes, customer service will work with me. Is 5G plus the phone enough? No, but I cannot afford going up to 7 or 8, and so behave or once in awhile pay for another gigabyte. I may be mean, but I'm soft on Big Corporate, which may be why I never got fed to Jaws.

[Wry grin fade out.]

Scatological Morass

"Remarque demonstrates how wars reduce human beings to the level of animals and finally to excrement."-- Dieter Rollfinke, page 99

The reason viewers protested The Singing Detective in 1986 wasn't due to Potter's lechery, as such, so much as that his dramaturgic skill with repression and loss of control hit too close to home. If you really want to see one of the most original musicals on the face of the earth, ignore the Robert Downey Jr film of the same title from 2003. This is radical, and accessible. Dennis has no elitist pretensions whatsoever, and his protagonist, as a child, lets his school know exactly what it can do with the rote drilling of a British working class education.

Whyy showed true courage during its encore airing of the series, and then, in time honored fashion, whisked it away with nary a peep since. Gambon trying to fight off an erection and climax is priceless, and Potter gets to the heart of the underside of medical institutionalization, which is the same world over. Sick and sex are very closely entwined, and Potter's pop culture pizzazz did as much to inspire some overly ambitious narrative long poems of mine as any workshop. 

It takes extraordinary courage to admit we're all guilty pigs, curious about what cum tastes like, or fascinated by the coarse rectal hair exposed when we catch mommy having a five pound fuck in the dale. I don't know what I feel about Potter's work critically, strange as that may seem in a post, but the reason for this boils down to logistics. This was a tough subject matter for me in 86, since, having spent most of adolescence on the ward, The Singing Detective packed too hard a punch. Sentiment had to roll with it, as opposed to analyzing, evaluating it-- but one thing it achieves, and perhaps led to the weakening of arts and sciences colleges thereby, is merging of commercial fiction with mature drama, creating something resistant to classification.

I got lazy as an undergraduate and cited James Mitchner in a paper, and the professor in Jerry McGuire gave me an A- and a mild reprimand, and he was absolutely correct within his paradigm as a radical liberal to do so. By the same token, I was not entirely *off*. James Mitchner was a commercial novelist, and popular-- but his sagas were well researched, descriptive, and interested me in very odd things-- the evolution of Yahweh, for instance, within Jewish theology.

I do not know if I am returning to Liberty on the Rocks in July. The usual reasons. My poverty is writing my appearance. I am afraid to break the Jazzy getting into the eatery, but the cripple is pouting she wants a new family and since I've tried everyone else, maybe the anarchists will treat me decently (oh, yes?), but our group leader, who accused me of using his name in print, so his pseudonym is now Black Adder, said that telling Trudy Richardson, as rental agent, that I hated her, was a powerful statement.

In my mind, it isn't. We'll return to that later as this post is long enough for the moment-- but if I am too heavy in my philosophy for the boyz live at the table, I'll knock it out of the park here too. Is my honesty about my betrayal in the fine hands of disability activism, my honesty about my laundry list of hating my fake friends like Josie, bear responsibility for Roof?

Tactically, he was a moron, misapplying violence for an unachievable goal. But the hate crime statue equally reveals itself as nonsensical by progressives attempting to categorize it as an extracurricular exception. Adjudicating a spree killer as a domestic terrorist puts American jurisprudence on par with Vladimir Putin's playing board. My pain as a hate crime victim tearing up in front of my unfortunately homosexual state legislator was legitimate. I consider my negativity generated thereby as balancing the scales.

Vegetative Demons

"We shouldn't have got involved."-- Josie Byzek

My aunt hung up on me last night. Age, cancer, yelling at me to let my anger go, not to file a complaint against my building manager and her tactics. With all deference to Tony Stiles, for whom I need to make time to engage, I never had a problem with the police. Some officers have been more diffident than others, some more sympathetic, or less, but I downloaded an email for my district, and if I start this, ignite this spark, they may not arrest me, but conceivably could escort me from the premises, and then twitter, in a fantastical show of force, will have to come rescue me, with a small gobbling chuckle in the back of my throat.

If I file a complaint against Trudy Richardson, Debra Horne, Presbyterian Homes, Ken Cantrell, I then undoubtedly raise a flag with the police. I am weighing this, in my small status among seven billion.

Terri Schiavo's brain stem function and Bobbi Kristina's are complimentary in some ways. The disability movement may be silent in Bobbi's case because the famed sire of Houston may have attempted suicide, one. Two, the family is not ending her medical care, though entertainment media seems buoyed on the issue, even if it has been less than six months since the poor little love child became non-responsive. Does her brain deserve more time toward a possible recovery?

Terri, as I understand it, aggravated her heart with dietary supplements, and disability activists made certain insinuations against Michael, the husband, in reference to the marriage, and that after 15 years of institutional care, his wife wasn't improving, so he wanted her out of the way. Josie's argument to me, at the Asian restaurant I could not afford, was that Terri Schiavo, whether she had minimal awareness or not, mimicked those who were non-verbal with mental retardation, hence, removing the feeding tube and letting the autonomic, if absent, woman, starve, gave the American public the wrong idea. How many of us would trade places with Bobbi, or Terri, if given their condition as a choice over and above dying? This was my luncheon with two lesbian Christian case managers, the dumbbell in my head going "This woman is my friend, right?"

Cecil Morales, despite the power of his verbal acuity and penetration, probably would not have worked for me as a romantic interest, and if he is still around, (I am not searching), I apologize to him for bristling and losing my cool. I was trapped, trying to hold onto my belief in people like Ms. Byzek, and my need for someone interesting to trust and sleep with, but I'd give my right arm to have had an anecdote to tell you about the dinner date I never had with a very penetrating Argentine trade journalist who was such a piercing Catholic theologian. She took that from me. Josie.

Her and Ginny. Peevish den mothers. What other kind is there? Forgiveness. Yep. I know, and a novel about it wouldn't lead to a movie deal as it did for Nora Ephron. Learn how to be less passive when people who think they know best screw your anticipations. Now I'll debate going back to work offline, or lying down. I take my time being indecisive about following back. Nothing personal; people don't like it when I let my neural net behave with that peculiar lack of compassion with which savants can be gifted.

Golden Bonds

'I don't know about her features,' a very discerning observer had answered, 'but she carries her head like a pretty woman!'-- Henry James, the beginning of The Europeans

  

The Anthony Head Sharon Maughan commercials for Taster’s Choice arguably embodied something more than cosmopolitan chemistry making generic coffee seem upscale and understated with chic. The subtle romance was also about a culture imbued with the optimism of second chances, a cultural mode still able to believe in itself, capable of offering a rewarding life for those who took chances and still strove. We need that sense of the enchanting in delayed anticipation, quite a stark contrast from the David Whele of the boldly crass Syfy’s Dominion, believing in his own entitlement because he survived a savage destruction of the Las Vegas he knew as a televangelist. Although I am not a consumer of romances in the generic sense of the term, I followed the serialized story with the same delight as the audiences who watched commercial television, and it is a rare moment indeed where I would find consummation between elegant people to be beautiful. One might have believed it here. Pubic hairs dyed wheat blond, nails lacquered to reflect a casual and intimate dinner; whatever the tensions reflected in 21^st century dystopias, even someone such as I can mourn the loss of the magical embedded in our senses. Everyone’s busy pontificating. Pleasure in the world around us seems to have gone the way of Reagan’s state funeral, with Nancy’s privileges sorely tested by Joe Plumber’s unwillingness to offer her the appropriate deference due to a former first lady. Should our fairytales be so grim?

Who can I sue because I want to be normal?

It crossed my mind this morning, while I got up to a pivot the time honored lateral transfer to wage a five hour battle with my felines over toiletry rights and brewing coffee, that perhaps Sean followed me in rebuttal to my critique, which might be, arguably, as fossilized as Jonathan Capehart's adherence to the civil rights movement. We've all been down these paths before, with few exceptions, and not everything can be solved as a matter of personal autonomy, not even for those with gender dysphoria.

For those of you offering me free kindle material, I am not worried about restrictions on my book purchases right now. I have a back log of light and heavy reading-- and from my scan of Derrida in translation, I may have jumped in over my head, if his translator says Jacques is *unreadable*, but I know where to find you, and I am working on, debating, two collections for digital, so I'll be in the fray soon, if my rental agent isn't going to take me to court to re-institutionalize me before I can divorce the so called Presbyterian agent. Drag queens aren't new people. It may not have been Christine I read about years and years ago, but the faulty wiring issue has been around as a sacrosanct biological truth for some time. It may seem nice and reasonably drawn: we're a complex species with complex switches, and we fix the blown fuses-- at least until we short out the entire organism. 

Michael Jackson's Body Make-Up

The truth was that only far from home could a citizen of England, Germany, or France be nothing but an Englishman or German or Frenchman.-- Rodney Bruce Hall, National Collective Identity, page 214

The media loves the exposure of hypocrisy, and Capehart is in his element of righteous indignation over Rachel Dolezal's ethnicity. What no columnist has written outright, treading lightly on matters of defamation, is that Dolezal seems to be a clever and fraudulent opportunist with narcissistic character traits similar to the faded, occasionally recycled, Stephen Glass. In his earlier column on Ms. Dolezal's mendacity, Jonathan uses the code "furthering the cause". Red meat for black entitlement I've apparently impinged on every day of my life since I was 23. I'll leave Wapo's voice of black pride off the hook for my aggravated assault in North Philly. I was being the good progressive, and predatory addicts come in all shapes, all sizes, including opium pipes for an Afghani pasha with nothing else but a fix. I'll even leave him off for Ms. Eddy from Unlimited Staffing doing her version of the mixed race fuck bunny pass for my benefit. The woman falls into the nigger fringe ugly lesbian rejected within the culture of black liberation-- but there was the Germantown voodoo priestess hitting me up for money after my mother died in 05. For two days this woman barraged me, illegally opening my mail. Did a case manager help me? My bankruptcy lawyer? Guess again.

There was Ingrid, wearing her dead newborn on a decal, as if I needed to stare at that daily, who slept with a schizophrenic security guard who came banging on my door after her, impregnating herself again and embarrassing me-- not a crime, but it scandalized the building, not to mention the Jehovah's Witness who swindled me out of 300 dollars-- Mr. Capehart wouldn't dare address a rather livid disabled woman's victimization at the hands of black dysfunction on a contiguous basis, not to mention black arrogance, limited intellectual capacity I deal with regularly. I do not have a place at this table, as an established outlet would not let me critique black social norms using my personal experience and exposure to it-- but Rachel certainly exposes the brittle planks of Capehart's identity bible. Playing the role of a black abuse victim gave her a hedge with the tenure committee, not a bad way to go, as Europeans generally face tougher standards. 

The Brain That Wouldn't Die?

I am a bit cynical.

Journalists need to make money, and Doug Saunders of G and M is no exception, but blaming Mallory for the crisis in Tibet which opened the door for the Chinese to take control of the country seems like a bit of a stretch. I am fairly certain indigenous peoples too need climbing skills for more reasons than the desire to "do it," and there is nothing wrong with humans climbing mountains. Climbers who fall and break their backs join my club, which is a lifelong adventure in its own right, if the demonstrations over Terri Schiavo were any indication. The average cost of nursing home care is roughly 6,500 a month, and both my father's wife and my father's sister are pretty much bankrupt due to recurring cancer (the aunt, who is one of my characters herein that made Blogger hiccup), and rheumatoid arthritis with a possible blood myeloma for the wife, and those of you reading this who pay taxes are subsidizing my many battles and failures with matriculation, and this shitty sterile and boring studio where I am now back to total subsistence. I supported Michael Schiavo, in opposition to Josie Byzek and her troubadours over removal of Terri's feeding tube, even if the brain death proponents were wrong, due to the quality of life issues involved with persistent vegetative states. I picked up 36 page views once discussing my stepmother's death with seeming anticipatory avarice, but the woman is suffering, and whatever his sins, my despair and Louise's caustic bitterness combined with her physical suffering, which make my bad power chair posture seem quaint, is taking its toll on mio padre. Add this up with your family members on ventilators-- and Globe and Mail worries itself over an advanced primate that gets a hard on for mountain summits.

If the Communists in Beijing want me to take a page from Collectivism for the greater good, people with life threatening illness need to look at the greater good, and bring the super drugs and surgeries to a stop, and this includes the fabulous, like Bobbi Brown. Those dollars sucking in to battle our horrific diseases could be going to advancing infrastructure, making our mobility technologies safer and easier, and yet Italians now want to play with decapitation for some poor bastard whose limbs look like a broiled canary delicacy. I could not hear the whole video without my ear plugs, but 15 million dollars to bring deliciously bad camp to life? What in the fucking hell does the medical establishment think its doing? How would the distinct spinal cords merge? What kind of bodily control would the man acquire? The state of Pennsylvania wants me to hire criminal labor instead of giving me adaptive technologies. I let a cut rate medical vendor fit me to a cut rate Jazzy chair with plastic castors that drives like a cart about to get crushed in an earthquake when I was 45 years old because I was in a hurry to try to get my life back on track, and some patient in Italy is purportedly risking his life with someone else's brain death. I reapplied for Medicaid, and I'm pissed off and quite ready to go to jail.