June 23, 2019

or cut-n-paste

Caveat: Sincere apologies for the delay in posting this issue of QuadTalk, a phillipic soliloquy shouting my personal discontent with the for-profit healthcare system that haunts our nation's privileged indifference towards the inequitable distribution of wealth and power. However, I've been researching a lynching of four African-American citizens (including Hazel "Hayes" Turner, who was lynched in the state of Georgia on May 16, 1918). Anyway, the research has been simultaneously interesting and disheartening, but I've been writing essays in the interim and I've got many archived essays, so here's this issue's results. Enjoy.

A capriciously disseminated newsletter written by a hemp-inspired quadriplegic jester who, like King Lear, impotently screams ineffective vitriol at the raging antediluvian squalls of societal indifference that violently smash the planet and callously destroy the things I love. I cry, defeated by a redoubtable sea of troubles as my terrestrial siblings, whose pursuits of happiness do not coincide with the status quo, are mowed down by ignorant privilege while comfortably content Indifference ignores the anguished cries of people's suffering simply because they don't look the same.
— SSTJazzVocalist

#Wheelchairistocracy #GroovicusMaximus @frangeladuo

Welcome to QuadTalk. I am Rusty Taylor, a complete, level C-4 spinal cord injury who, for thirty-three years (and counting), has been unable to perform even the most rudimentary acts of daily living, and, as such, I am a victim of the nefarious for-profit healthcare system we, the citizens of the U.S.A., have callously ignored for too long. This will not be a media blitz of superfluity; I am a vitriolic antagonist against the status quo, so if you are naively looking for a feelgood story about a “poor li’l ol’ cripple boy” who done good against the odds, then I suggest you go find the Hallmark Channel and infuse your brain with enough endorphins to make you forget that separating children from their families is simply morally unconscionable or that a casual rapist majestically sits as Supreme Court judge. Otherwise, welcome...


This newsletter is inspired by my capricious Muse. Unfortunately, I alone am responsible for its content and dissemination. I have no proof-reader or editor nor do I have corporate sponsors to moderate my tone and style, so...

I alone am responsible for all the typos contained herein, and all I can do is promise to try not to make additional grievous errors. Please excuse an occasional rhetorical mistake. They are unintentional.

What Is Fear?
An archived essay from June 2013
It is the beginning of Summer, 2013, and I'm in my room, typing on my keyboard at my desk. I'm facing mostly south before fenestration that looks into the front yard, primarily at the slightly blushed Japanese Maple that my sister bought for my mother some decade or so ago. I am approaching fifty with the celerity of pharmaceutically enhanced light waves and the alacrity of prepubescence toward Innocence. I've been reading Hardy's Tess of the d'Urbervilles , the part in the second section wherein Tess is contemplating her temporal mortality.
Thus far, the book is most interesting to me because it encompasses the very same social concerns that my contemporary milieu is facing even though the hardy book was written by Thomas Hardy and published in 1891. Throughout the novel, Hardy challenges the sexual mores of the Victorian Era, a bowdlerized, puritan facade hiding a sexually repressed empire that punishes the same prostitutes that their frustrated men, in the guise of portraying gentlemanly behavior, employ for services of a more carnal nature dichotomous to the false morality to which they plangently profess to adhere―Hypocrisy, plain and simple... the exact hypocrisy I see in the current herd of nationally elected representatives decrying lax morality, especially of homosexuals, even though some of the lawmakers themselves be of the same ilk. And as I read Hardy's rhetoric, I light upon a gossamer thought as slight as a mosquito's breath, that maybe it is fear that encourages hypocrisy, or, more precisely, maybe it is fear that encourages an irrevocable, irrational, overly emotional distress that coddles and nourishes hypocrisy.
So... what is fear?
Fear may be what happens when irrevocable Faith is proven wrong.
I imagine that fear might be an octogenarian priest's contemplating his lifetime vocation that has, for scores, embraced personal vows of poverty (or, more accurately, vows of moderation) as well as the instinct-nullifying vow of celibacy and realizing that the beliefs that have fueled his resolve to maintain these vows are based on misinformation, propaganda endorsed by papal authority for the soul purpose of maintaining control over the minds and wallets of its worldwide congregation.
I imagine that fear might be the illusion of a laughing couple: a healthy young man and his beautiful wife in the respective primes of their lives, raising two young children, both parents with decent jobs that keep them securely among the upper-middle class but at the cost of time, which is spent increasingly more at work away from the children, ten hours a day, sometimes more, during the formative years most conducive to the development of their young progeny's cerebral and physiological characteristics, and as their children blossom for the daycare workers, the grimacing couple endures hour upon endless hour witnessing myriad soul-draining corporate promotions of fools into bigger fools, silently accepting the status quo because they have convinced themselves that they are, indeed, happy... except during those increasingly more common, short, almost negligible nano-moments when he remembers his post-adolescent dream to front a rock band or she dreams of winning a gold medal in dressage―both passively enduring the pains and sorrows of outrageous fortune so that, ultimately, they can collect within their capacious caves of luxury many superfluous, specious, glittery adornments, or they blindly and quietly sit as a lifeless family unit before a mind-numbing yet very inviting and entertaining rectangular box that paints sparkly portraits of caricatures of a more deprecating non-reality that effectively ameliorates the sedentary couple's personal shortcomings yet simultaneously enrages their rote intolerance for other more seeming libertine lifestyles that are irrevocably irreconcilable with the faith-based overly rigid morality of their overtly professed religiosity.
I imagine that fear might be an aged warrior's deliberate reminiscing about her quickly approaching entrance into whatever lies beyond her current geriatric terrestrial milieu, after shedding the physical turmoil with her final suspiration, the ubiquitous catechismal quote ringing in her inner ear: "suffer the children unto me" and the subsequent pain-provoked mental meandering about her supplicant, ancient murdering of distant civilian progeny at the command of some unseen, highly charismatic, pasty-white aristocratic leader who was elected into his position of authority by subterfuge and who used his ill-gotten power as commander of the most potent military killing machine in all of human history to propagate imperial acquisitions of blackened, liquified treasure by preemptively destroying a civilization of people who didn't embrace his puerile ideologies based on avarice-induced nepotism, a charlatan who arrogantly attenuated his murderous decisions by disguising them as the inevitable consequence for a more common good, which somehow seemed not only fair at the moment but morally conducive―her realizing, during the waning years of her life, that she had been used as a minion of destruction by apparent evil. [Keep in mind that I wrote this essay in 2013, so I'm not addressing Donald Trump and his morally bankrupt administration; instead, I'm alluding to George W[ar Criminal] Bush, Dick Chaney, Donald Rumsfield, William Barr, et al.]
I imagine that fear might be a quadriplegic's turning fifty, a once formidable young man who has never been married and realizes all too clearly that his lack of physicality, his extreme paralysis, forbids any possibility of forging a terrestrially perfect union with an amazing [partner] almost exclusively because the physical and mental strain that he, as a sentient male unable to perform even the most rudimentary acts of daily living, would unintentionally create for his partner's distress: his incessant requests for water and food or to scratch his head, comb his hair, not to mention getting him up and dressed in the morning, his washing, shaving, teeth brushing, ear Q-tipping (is that a verb?), face washing, beard trimming, assistance in urinating and defecating―would drive even Florence Nightingale insane... pain could be his realization that he will never marry and the accompanying understanding that to attain the perfect level of consciousness that is his life's ultimate destiny is impossible without an intimate connection to his magnetic opposite, his soul-mate.
I reckon everyone has fears, but my main concern about fear is how I, as a citizen of planet Earth, react to these fears.
If fear stimulates an anger towards a dissimilar individual or group, conflict results, which may lead to destruction of life. On the other hand, if fear nourishes a humbling realization of one's personal shortcomings, illumination resulting in positive change may occur. Ah, there's the rub. Fear can either lead one to conflict or to self-realization. The question remains: How does one react to fear? Does one exclude individuals or groups of people from one's fold, or does one try to adapt to better fit into a more diverse community? Does one try to force change in others or in one's self?
I can either fear that, without force, my ideology will be altered by others who don't accept my visions, or I am secure enough in my ideology that I peacefully live my ideals without concern that outside influence will reject them as frivolous? I suppose the answer is whether or not my ideology is emulous. Regardless, looking deeply and objectively into my passions seems to be a great place to start.
Peace Through Music

Testudinal Mitch McConnell is one of the lowest critters in congress. In the following video, Jon Stewart eviscerates the Senate Majority leader for not doing HIS JOB...
Testudinal Mitch McConnell replies...
Make Stages Wheelchair Accessible
Wait A Minute... We've Been Extant For Seven Years
Although a few organizations are popping up in recent times, the citizens of the wealthiest nation on the planet who are the congenitally, physically handicapped faction of society, seem to have been neglected by an indifferent society. Sure, the heroic veterans who have sacrificed [1] for our country receive V.A. benefits, but that should be the norm, not an exception to be used politically by both parties. Everybody suffers during war, which should be the very last decision available... not just a whim to make life easier for an embarrassing few. [2] Like the 9/11 responders that Jon Stewart so passionately defends, they should all get free healthcare for life, but I digress…
The LGBTQ Community has advocates,. Wounded Warriors, the handicapped community, handicapped entertainers (check out www.Abel2.org ), handicapped athletes, alcoholics, drug abusers, and practically everybody else has a champion, a patron... but for some reason, the congenitally handicapped go unnoticed, but wait...
Another Chance has been around for seven years, but what is Another Chance ? Well, according to their website ( www.anotherchancecsi.org/ ) their mission statement is:
To enhance the dignity and quality of the life of individuals and families by providing quality services, skills development, and other services in ways that are flexible; to assist individuals [with special needs] to achieve their goals, and by eliminating barriers to full integration [my italics for emphasis].
What I totally dig about this organization (other than the fact that it’s been extant for a lustrum plus two years) is that it emphasizes the caretakers of individuals, like me [sic], who use more resources than we have ever put into the system... the genuine, caring nurses who have no degree yet who clean the shit off of the muddied cracks of incontinence and who do so sans histrionics… without yelling to the world that they are cleaning shit from a hapless and helpless victim… like my current hospice CNA, who cleans my fecal mishaps while tacitly maintaining my dignity… the caregivers who selflessly give themselves to others… the true Christians… the true Jews... the true Muslims… I imagine that most religious denominations share similar moral beliefs... the true citizens of the planet whom Capitalism shuns so that it can adulate the kitsch incompetence that ubiquitously inundates our visceral senses with such raucous emotion that we forget that whatsoever we do onto the least of our [sisters and] brothers, that [is what we, unintentionally,] do onto ourselves. Caregivers like Norma Stanley (Norma is also a singer, songwriter, author and speaker. The mother of an adult daughter born with cerebral palsy, she released her first novel in 2007. An inspirational book of testimonies, poems, and reflections primarily for and about mothers of special needs children, the book is entitled, “The Elected Lady—Finding Victory in the Challenge (Words of Faith, Reflections and Inspiration for Mothers of Special Needs Children and Other Moms).” Click here or here ).
On June 21, 2019, I was asked to represent Myrna Clayton’s Abel 2, Inc. for the non-profit organization Another Chance ’s 7th anniversary celebration by singing the National Anthem.

Special thanks to my sister-in-law, Tanya Culpepper Taylor (whose father Coach Jim Culpepper is a member of Georgia Tech’s Sports Hall of fame… he initiated the female basketball program in the 70s. Click here fo' mo' info) for uploading the video to public media.
I think that you, dear readerdearreader, can infer from the video that it was hotter ‘an Georgia asphalt in mid-August, and I’m a diabetic on hospice who didn’t have time for breakfast, so I was a bit dizzy, plus… we had to deal with the feedback… nonetheless we persisted (a li’l less-than-subtle shout-out to Ms. Elizabeth Warren, although, I am fond of many democratic candidates willing to extirpate the bigoted Tea Party faction of the GOP). Still and all, it was magical to experience the crowd's hushing to hear my singing. I hope I’m asked back to help with next year’s celebration.
Peace Through Music
#Wheelchairistocracy #GroovicusMaximus #BrianKempIsACheater
[1] During war, even through the wars that have been initiated by Capitalistic aggression, i.e. for the greed of our nation’s industrial war machine manufacturers, everybody suffers… wives, husbands, children, small business owners, and, of course, everybody else who is under-served by our nation’s political representatives. Although my father was gifted the opportunity to miss out on the destructive chaos of war, many of his high school classmates died, brutally, in the conflict that one of my uncles (who married my aunt) experienced as a helicopter pilot during the Vietnam War (a conflict for which the sentence “I jus’ love the smell of napalm in the morning” became emblematic)… like a high school teacher of mine, whose patriotism I admire, and who, according to high school legend, had a contract on his life from the Viet-Cong... he, too, was a helicopter pilot during the bloody war, but I digress…

Like the sole survivor of an airplane crash that kills dozens of other passengers, my father had/has to deal with the fact that he was spared the emotionally shattering and destructive aspects of mankind at its worst… while a certain leader of our nation not only bragged, on a popular nationally syndicated radio show, the fact that a woman’s vagina is a “potential landmine” and that “there’s real danger there... You know, if you’re young, and in this era, and if you have any guilt about not having gone to Vietnam, we have our own Vietnam — it’s called the dating game,” Trump said to Howard Stern in a 1993 interview. “Dating is like being in Vietnam. You’re the equivalent of a soldier going over to Vietnam.”

[2] My father, serendipitously, joined the Air Force in 1962. (He graduated from Baker High school in Columbus, Georgia, in 1961. He married my mom in a now lost and forgotten chapel in Fort Benning back in 1962 as well, but, again, I digress...)

The draft was extant in ’62; my pa figured that he could join the Air Force and learn electronics instead of get drafted. (Although an average student, my father was an avid reader, and he did post the second highest SAT score in his particular high school class.) Point is that, during the Vietnam War, my father, thankfully, was stationed in Germany (where I was born in ‘64); Fort Fisher, North Carolina (where my brother was born in ‘65); and outside London, England (where my sister was born in ‘66). [3]

[3] Incidentally, when we, as a family, returned to Columbus, Georgia after my father got out of the Air Force [4] , my aunts would playfully mock my British accent. Well… at least I didn’t… unintentionally… throw a whole pecan pie... that my mother baked... the envy of the world... into a basin of dirty dishes that my aunt, the sister-in-law of my mother, [5] was getting ready to wash… the family was upset that the beautiful pie was an unintentional casualty, but it was an accident… we think...

[4] Dad always jokes that he never served in the military… he did, however, spend eight years
in the Air Force… yeah, it's a dad joke. What can one do?

[5] My paternal grandmother was/is also my mother’s godmother, and she, my grandmother, Gran'ma A , as we kids called her, was my mother’s sponsor when my mother converted to Catholicism, which is a big deal to Catholics. Those of you dear readers know… if you’re in the fold.
Peace and Love
Around Two Dozen Democratic Possibilities
One Jackass
Of course, June 6 th was the 75th anniversary of D-Day, and, unfortunately, Donny Dumbass, or Dipshit Donny Trump embarrassed himself... and the nation... internationally… again.
According to Huffington Press:

With the graves of U.S. troops who died in the D-Day attack serving as the backdrop, Trump during an interview on Thursday with Fox News’ Laura Ingraham called Pelosi a “nasty” and “vindictive” person.
“I think she’s a disgrace,” the president said. “I actually don’t think she’s a talented person. I’ve tried to be nice to her because I would have liked to have gotten some deals done. She’s incapable of doing deals. She’s a nasty, vindictive, horrible person.”
Unlike Trump, Pelosi didn’t indulge in attacking her political opponent during her D-Day memorial visit to Normandy.
“I don’t talk about the president while I’m out of the country,” she told CNN when asked for reaction to Trump’s comments. “That’s my principle.”
A drove of Democrats are campaigning in Iowa, and the pundits are debating one another about whether Joe Biden, who is currently leading in the polls, can beat Donald Trump if he were to be the elected Democratic presidential candidate; the quarreling word-manipulators are wondering aloud if Joe's more moderate policies are what will ultimately win a Democratic nominee a chance to reside in a stately white plantation house on Pennsylvania Avenue. I reckon this is what one gets from 24-hour news programming. First of all, none of the nearly two-dozen Democratic candidates are going to beat Dumbass Donny (#DD) simply because Donny will defeat himself. Keep in mind that #DD possesses the perspicacity of a diaper full of liquid feces, and that’s being a little nasty to the soiled diaper.
#DD consistently polls at around 30-40% popularity, and these folks, his avid supporters, are so disenchanted in life that they’ll follow any charlatan who offers anything different from the status quo even if they end up following a madman to their own collective destruction. This is the paragon of nihilistic behavior, which is defined as “the doctrine of an extreme Russian revolutionary party c. 1900 which found nothing to approve of in the established social order,” and believe me; I get it. Our nation’s government has always favored certain people, or, more appropriately, our nation’s government has, historically, disenfranchised a minority of our nation’s population of emigrants who, for whatever reason, despise incoming immigrants.
Centuries have passed since the beginning of our nation’s democratic experiment that, originally, favored western European aristocracy that had fallen out of favor with their respective countries of origin… Disguised as a pursuit of religious freedom, these “pilgrims,” i.e. people who journey to a sacred place for religious reasons, sailed to America, named for Italian explorer Amerigo Vespucci, to exploit its resources that included the indigenous people whom they nearly decimated, with European diseases... indigenous immune systems that were incapable of overcoming diseases that nearly wiped out a significant percentage of the aboriginal population. According to wikipedia:

The population of African and Eurasian peoples in the Americas grew steadily, while the indigenous population plummeted. Eurasian diseases such as influenza, pneumonic plagues, and smallpox devastated the Native Americans, who did not have immunity to them. Conflict and outright warfare with Western European newcomers and other American tribes further reduced populations and disrupted traditional societies. The extent and causes of the decline have long been a subject of academic debate, along with its characterization as a genocide.

The eastern coasts of North and South America were invaded by Europe; although, the Europeans ultimate influence ranged over the entirety of both occidental continents. The French controlled the northern regions; the southern regions were controlled by Spain and Portugal; and the English controlled the central regions, including its thirteen colonies that formed the fledgling United States of America.
It is ironic that none of the European colonies would have survived had not the indigenous population assisted them. Additionally, the Europeans’ subsequent survival exasperated the unintentional plague of European diseases that nearly eliminated any indigenous influence. The power of the thirteen colonies grew, and so did their laws that granted noticeable privileges to men who “owned” land… privileges that still exist and allow a few incompetent men to unmeretriciously appear more regal than reality can justify, like a contemporary impotent man who claims to own innumerable opulent facades despite the fact that he does not possess the ability to cogitate beyond the capability of a prepubescent child with cerebral abnormalities and despite his experiencing the advanced stages of moral depravity that allows him to lust after teenaged beauty contests, Playboy bunnies, and porn stars with impunity even when he lacks any discernible mental acuity... and I won’t even mention the name of our nation’s 45 th president.
Currently, political pundits are debating whether or not Joe Biden can defeat Trump. That’s cool... I guess, but I, personally, do not think that Biden will be the Democratic nominee for the 2020 presidential election unless he chooses Stacey Abrams as his running mate, and, even then, I don’t see his becoming the nominee because he’s too conservative. I believe that we, as a nation, have grown weary of the current interpretation of Capitalism that encourages a combination of the unsustainable exploitation of our planet’s finite resources, the deregulation of our government’s oversight of the business world’s coveting egregious largess (initiated by Reagan’s avaricious “trickle down” policy), and a laissez-faire encouragement to maintain the status quo, so… I believe that a more progressive candidate will defeat Trump… that is if Trump is not incarcerated by the next Election Day.
It’s too early for me to predict the Democratic candidate for the 2020 election; there are currently too many well qualified candidates, but I will predict that the next president of our great nation will be Democratic, a major social revolution will bring in scores of peace, and too many of the current GOP high rollers will be either wasting away in federal prison or will be so humiliated that their respective lives of self-serving public office will no longer be extant.
Peace Through Music
If you want to read the funniest, non-politically correct book about quadriplegia and alcoholism, then this is the book. If you want to know what motivates me, then read this book. It's a no-holds barred, slap in the face that'll make you cry with laughter. I just found out that Hollywood made a film about the book's author John Callahan back in 2018, and the movie stars Joaquin Phoenix. Looks like I've serendipitously found subject matter for a future essay. Life is good. BTW, click on the book to learn more about it.
WARNING: Inspired Writing Alert! Inspired, I Say... By What... You May Wonder...
Genetics or Environment?  
From my Personal Journal dated July 7, 2010

The age old question about whether humanity is more influenced by genetics than environment has been debated probably since modern man started walking upright. I’ve been thinking lately, and upon further reflection:
I burst onto this planet in a wave of placenta, body-surfing into the harsh florescent lighting of twentieth century medical sterility in 1964, the first of three children who were born in consecutive years. This coincided with the Beatles meteoric rise to celebrity in the United States; however, my father joined the Air Force en lieu of getting drafted, and he spent the formative years of my life abroad, so I didn’t become a fan of the Beatles until my adult years; although, the Beatles have been widely played throughout my life on the radio, so I know many, many of their more popular tunes, and I realize that as I grow older and as technology continues to advance towards evermore exciting auricular perfection so that archaic recordings from the incipience of rock-n-roll sound more like it did when it was recorded live, my impression of the Fab Four matures into avid admiration.
Again, I was the first born of three, and we siblings are very close, raised Catholic with it’s accompanying guilt and humility in the deep South with its overzealous appreciation of sweet iced tea and fried chicken, and had it not been for a medical anomaly that ambushed my mother, a medical condition that inspired doctors to remove parts of my mother’s anatomy integral to reproducing children, I can’t help but believe with the eagerness of a child waiting for the sugary rewards donated by the Easter Bunny, that I would’ve had more siblings. My father was the second of ten (although Uncle Tim died shortly after he was born. He was, however, baptized, which was necessary for my paternal grandmother who was irrevocably Catholic). My paternal grandmother was the first of ten children. Yes, my people believed very strongly in procreation.
Is that genetics or environment?
My father got out of the Air Force in 1970, when I was 6, and he moved back to Columbus where his mother and my mother’s folks had retired. Of course, this time period stands as a prologue to Nixon’s re-election; Watergate; the Vietnam War; the OPEC gas shortages; the horrors of terrorism during the summer Olympics in Munich, 1972; Gerald Ford’s ascent to the presidential throne; and it lingers on the foothills of Woodstock; the deaths of JFK, Robert Kennedy, and Martin Luther King, Jr.; humankind’s landing on the moon; lengthy guitar solos of Page, Hendrix, and Clapton; wild hair; peace and love; anti-war; governmental distrust; a more lax sexual pursuit; and a more recreational use of pharmaceuticals.
Genetics or environment?
Television was still controlled by the three powerful networks: ABC, CBS, and NBC, with public television trying desperately to find its niche among the giants, and since choices were subsequently limited, my escape from the aforementioned chaos was also limited. As I sit here before my computer, Billy Holiday intimately singing “Body and Soul” directly to me from a more abrasive past, during one of the hottest summers in recent history, I think I may have suddenly determined what most influenced my childhood in such a way that my high school dream was to become a plumber so that I could fix Farrah’s faucet and Olivia Newton’s john:
Genetics or environment… who cares?
Peace Through Music 

Progressive Aphorisms
The ability of so many people to live comfortably with the idea of capital punishment is perhaps a clue to how so many Europeans were able to live with the idea of the Holocaust: Once you accept the notion that the state has the right to kill someone and the right to define what is a capital crime, aren’t you halfway there?
—Roger Ebert, film-critic (18 Jun 1942-2013) 
 Did You Know…
In 351 B.C., the Greek orator Demosthenes delivered a fiery speech warning his countrymen against the imperialistic designs of Philip II, king of Macedon, and chastising them for their timidity and inaction. In Greek, this and subsequent such speeches on the subject made by Demosthenes were known as philippikoi logoi, literally, "speeches relating to Philip." Demosthenes is known to have delivered only three Philippics; in contrast, the Philippics of the Roman statesman Marcus Tullius Cicero attacking Marc Antony some 300 years later - orationes philippicae in Latin (so-named because of their similarity to Demosthenes' orations) - numbered fourteen. We still capitalize the word when we refer to these famous diatribes, but ever since 1592, philippic has been used (usually in lowercase) in a broader sense as well.
—Marriam-Webster dictionary


 In the late 60s, the drug culture, the hippie counter-culture, and sexual promiscuity catalyzed within the conservative mindset an opportunity to exploit the voting population into fearing inherent human characteristics and thereby supporting draconian prosecutorial sentencing for insignificant misdemeanors inequitably enforced along racial lines that hit its apex with Bill Clinton in the 90s. (In my mind, Bill Clinton is not a progressive; he leans too heavily on the feigned altruism of Capitalism, but I digress…)


Of all the disorienting and disturbing cultural effects of Trump’s ascension to the presidency, few are as disorienting and disturbing as the redefinition of ideal masculinity in the hearts of many of his biggest fans. The sheepdog has been replaced by the wolf.
—The Atlantic

Trump was not a scout. He is the only American president never to have devoted even a single day to the service of his country—in uniform or in public office—before ascending to the chief magistracy. But his speechwriters set down the list of virtues for him to recite to the assembled scouts. “As the Scout Law says, ‘A scout is trustworthy, loyal,’” the president began. He paused. “We could use some more loyalty, I will tell you that.” That was as far as he got.
—The Atlantic 

I’ve seen advertisements in various media that suggests that the human race should prepare for when our society reverts back to pre-technology. They call themselves Dooms-dayers, which reeks of testosterone. As inclusive Matriarchy is poised to wrest control away from the status quo, these followers of authoritarian philosophy are, very simply, trying to keep alive the Patriarchal influence of oligarchic excess.

In the end, Putin won with the aid of Americans who had turned on their own values. The news media assisted greatly by elevating stolen innocuous emails from an insecure party server to a national crisis in which the victims were treated suspiciously. To Trump supporters it validated everything they ever suspected about Hillary Clinton—she hid emails, which meant she was a liar. No matter that Trump voters elected a man who openly embraced white supremacy, rejected diversity, abhorred global engagement, ignored his own corruption, and enlisted his own family and staff as royalty to be worshipped. Trump voters saw these traits as perks. They viewed nepotism, largess, and excess as virtues of a business and political shark. If he vocally stood against virtually all gains America had made in equality and global economic expansion since 1964 and it got him elected, then all the better that he hold those positions. By all means necessary was Trump’s apparent motto for the 2016 election. Russian intelligence lived by that motto too. The spies of the Red Square were shameless enough but the real scandal was that Team Trump saw nothing wrong with it.
—Malcolm Nance 

I posted the following to facebook… slightly altered in proofreading:
Please share this with your empathetic friends: Abel 2, Inc. is a nonprofit organization dedicated to finding stages for artists of all kinds who are physically and/or mentally handicapped individuals but who also happen to be talented performers. The organization is the brainchild of international songbird Myrna Clayton, who among her other amazing vocations-of-the-heart, is an ambassador of music for our nation’s department of diplomatic relations by performing internationally with her amazing band Myrna Clayton Experience. She’s recently returned from Africa and the Baltic states where she spread the joy of American music with the ease and grace of a Duke Ellington composition or Nancy Wilson’s singing with Cannonball Adderley. She has even traveled to Russia to spread the good Jazzonian word. Google her to find out more about this remarkably gifted humanitarian vocalist... ew… just noticed that the verb google, admittedly, sounds as evasive as the Ebola virus, but, until Dumpty Trumpty makes ‘googling’ a crime against his unimpeachable megalomaniacal self as a “stable genius” who “knows the best words” but uses, at best guess, only about a dozen of them—and many that aren’t even words (can you say ‘covfefe’)—the act of Googling remains legal. Seriously. Myrna is so amazing, she’s even got a privileged white boy singing, literally (i.e. not metaphorically [1] ), her praises.
Peace Through Music

#Wheelchairistocracy #GroovicusMaximus #BrianKempIsACheater
[1] It’s a shame that I have to qualify that I literally mean to connote that the word literally literally denotes that the word is intended NOT to be considered metaphorically, so the following is for the Trump supporter who may need help in understanding: Dear friend, there are words and phrases that exist in the ‘Merican language that… although the words are exactly the same, they may be understood by both the listener and the speaker as having a different meaning altogether, many of them are innuendoes. Stop! Don’t run away, dude. I got yo’ back. All an inuendo is, is… well, you know, like, uh, when you say that you’re drillin’ a, uh? What’s that? Oh, a whore? Excuse me? What’s that? A ho’? You sure? A ho? OK. A ho. When you tell yo’ best frien’ that you are drillin’ yo’ ho’, what you’re really saying is... that’s you ‘be givin’ yo’ bitch the good business’ as you just so elegantly put it. Now you’d never get those two mixed up, would you? You and your best friend know the difference between actually taking a drill to your girlfriend… it is a girl, right? Oh, no. I would never think you’d ever admit to havin’ affections fo’ another dude. I was wonderin’ ‘bout livestock. Yeah. That’s a different story, right? Yeah, I thought so. Now where were we? Oh yeah. There are other word pairings… I lost you... where you goin’?
GoFundMe Update
Thanks to a few anonymous donors who sent money directly to me, my life has become much less stressful. Additionally, my brother has finally gotten VA assistance, and through his receiving back pay, we have plumbers coming this week, and electricians will be coming soon. Our house is slowly coming to life... with an accessible apartment/basement for me and a couple upstairs bedrooms for my parents and my brother's parents-in-law, both of whom are septuagenarian couples insidiously acquiescing to the atrophy of long-lived and fulfilling lives. Hopefully, fairly quickly, we can have a family reunion, which would be truly groovy. If you haven't surmised by now, my family is awesome... without them, I would be yet another casualty to the kind of societal indifference that is diurnally experienced by the chronically crippled who have no support at all. Still, it costs me a few coins to write this capriciously disseminated newsletter, so if you'd like to contribute to its continuation, I will fain accept all contributions, especially if you simply continue reading what I am

Peace Through Music
It Ain't Jazz, But...

Opelika Songwriters Festival
May 24-26, 2019
I ain't braggin' (yes I am), but Ted and I share a special, synergetic harmony that'll transcend music-genre stereotypes and touch the souls of listeners who are passionate about music . Additionally, Ted's lyrical wit and compassionate tone encourages the active listener to experience the gamut of emotions from heart-wrenching sorrow to riotous laughter and... yodeling. For more info, click here .
Dr. David Banks is the current president of the Columbus Jazz Society that has been extant since 1977. If you'd like to receive an email containing area jazz events, send him an email, and get added to his distribution list by clicking here .

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Shameless Solicitation

It’s time. I need money to pay for someone to help me because I’m wearing out my family. I’m hoping to solicit enough money to overpay someone to help me throughout the day and night for a weekend... or longer; my septuagenarian parents need a break. Please read my story, and if you can, donate a few bucks. If a bunch of folks give just a little, I can stay home; otherwise, I will consider going into a nursing home. I am tired of being a burden on my family. If you are unable to donate, your support will be just as appreciated. Thank you very much.

Read my story...
...or you can buy my CD of jazz Vocals


To enhance the Quality of Life of People with Disabilities and the Under-served by Creating Music and Arts opportunities for Employment and Enjoyment!