I get tired of it all. - or - My Adventure among the Twats. UPDATE !!

GO ELON! IT'S YOUR BIRTHDAY. GO ELON!

So I got thrown off twatter again. I have a lot to say about my brief twatter adventure. I was Irene Adler. What did I do? As you can see Larry Motuz, I have improved. I did not write FUCK. So there. I wrote this:

You come anywhere near my daughters IN REAL LIFE to enforce your agenda on their bodies and minds, I will rip your gonads off, nail your penis to my front door and urinate on your bleeding spasming body. We clear?

BACK - Some quick observations.

I will add bits and pieces as I process getting thrown off for the third time. I was having fun. So was my audience. I knew writing what I wrote would get me thrown out. I just got so I wanted to puke over twatter culture. Was a stupid thing to do. I will show you - I will hurt me. I thought I gave that baby shyte rage up.

twatter is a stratified society, You have Blue Check people and everybody else.. So I tried to get blue checked. I want to be known. I am the Second Funniest Comedian in Philly. Hat tip to Rose Wild. I do not make the cut evidently. No dice. 

My reader rate went up. I linked articles when it was appropriate. That was nice. In my messages appeared an NEW offer to write short editorials along with all the things they were going to do for me. No payment schedule. 

It is not considered abuse if wombnazis call you 'murderer and low class and uneducated'. If you fight back at the level of insult you are receiving, the abuser rats you out with friends. I never rat anybody out.

Anybody else comment on aol boards? It was the Cadillac of commenting systems. Rather bad service we are receiving today. AOL had real people moderating, not algorithms and censorbots.

I did a gospel type call and response as a social experiment. This was the CALL:

I really am going to write a second verse. Any of the "woke left" can help with another verse. Why I have to do all the work?
Lauren Boebert is so perfect. 

Oh what can we do? 

She's an insurrectionist 

And homicidal too.

This was the RESPONSE: Many were written. Hope I can find them again. I will publish them. They were GREAT.

Top mention earned 25 engagements

CharChar@charcharjones  Jan 30@IreneAd17234214 @laurenboebert Boebert is a basic bit*h. Whose husband showed his little inch. She is vile and full of lies. I’m looking forward to her demise. #LaurenBoebertIsATerrorist #ExpelLaurenBoebert

I think this is a poem. Is this a title?

CRIB GIRL

I wrote this poem by accident on a social media thread. Maybe I am leaking? Ack!

I think this is a poem. Is this a title?
by Mary De Angelis

There is no problem.
You are the problem.
If there is a problem,

It is the same old problem.

Since it is the same old problem, 

There is no problem.
Wash. Rinse. Repeat.

I am a Twitter Reject

Twits say I advocated violence. I say I write Doggerel. Doggerel is vicious and funny and it has to rhyme. Meter is usually simple. Twitter told me "Here's your hat, do not come back."

Here is my crime in a poem below. I also said Kevin McCarthy is a dumbass. That made me persona non grata. Oh, and I suggested facebook and twitter be made public utilities. I just do not know how to shut up.

Spineless Susan is a dick.
Smack her with a goodly stick.
Eat her liver with a nice Chianti
Or beat her peacefully with Avenatti.

How about a filthy one just for fun. Hey, after a dry  time, at least I am writing.

Song #2 for My Hero

Avenatti does not come from Madras
But his balls must be made out of brass.
In Stormy weather,
They clanged clang together
And sparks burned Michael Cohen in the ass.   

  copyright MDeAngelis

Mint Julep Oracle

This little essay was written in March of this year. It has become a lesson to myself that one never knows where Karma will take us all in June. Read more at Axios...

Senate Judiciary Committee Chairman Lindsey Graham (R-S.C.) said Saturday that he plans to honor the committee's "blue-slip" rule for the Trump administration's move to nominate Jay Clayton as U.S. Attorney for the Southern District of New York.

Why it matters: Graham holding to this policy — in a clash over one of the highest profile districts in the country — would mean that Clayton's nomination would not be able to advance without approval from home-state Democratic senators, per the Washington Post.

Sometimes I write a perfect sentence or two. Just perfect in every syllable. Not often. But once in awhile. And then I find I have nowhere to put it. Sentence just hangs around. Has Trump destroyed the word perfect? But I digress. I wrote:

Ms. Lindsey dipped a manicured finger into her mint julep, held it up to the breeze and detected a seismic shift in the political universe. Belle's have such exquisite sensibility

Perfect. Maybe if I do the same finger wave with my morning coffee and the breeze from the hole in the floor, I can find out why hundreds of Russians are reading here again. And why, when I mention them, they all go away.

“Man is a mystery. It needs to be unravelled, and if you spend your whole life unravelling it, don't say that you've wasted time. I am studying that mystery because I want to be a human being.”
― Fyodor Dostoevsky

Our Bill. He's a slut and I love him. UPDATE #1.

INTRODUCTION - Skip this if you have read it already.
UPDATE is marked. Soon soon there will be consolidation. I swear.

I remind you this is a Living Article Play Thing. I have a Beginning and and End typed. Soon there will be a Middle.
...............................................
When Bill Clinton was in his impeachment process, I wrote a short play about the event. I entered it into the Ten Minute Play competition and it was performed at the City Theater in Wilmington Delaware. It got a standing ovation from the audience. :::does quiet happy dance:::

Telling a story with interesting characters in 10 minutes is a challenge.

I have not looked at it for a long time. I think for giggles and because my original and only script is in tatters and scribbled all over, I am going to retype and rediscover it here. Who knows, maybe I will rework some of it into a new impeachment opus.

I am a big fan of the Living Theatre. I traveled from East Gibip to attend one of their performances. The photograph is from The Brig 1964. Prophetic?  Their work has been an influence on mine. This is a Living Article because I will be editing and rewriting as I go. Such fun. Send money. Keep me off the Street.

UPDATE begins here:.........................................................

It has been so long since I looked at the script, I forgot the title. Original title was M & M's or Mania, Marketing and Millennium. Bit pretentious, I think now.

BEGINNING:

Bella:
Occasionally, when I feel a need for companionship, I hang out at a bar in Philadelphia affectionately known to we regulars as The Toilet.

Donna:
The Toilet Bar has a large picture window (uniquely decorated for every holiday) through which one may watch exotic flora and even fauna stroll Frankford Avenue.

Bella:
So there is a woman standing on the corner at the bus stop. A white Cadillac stops, she gets in the car and it drives off. Gone 15 minutes. And she is back on the corner.

Donna:
Black Lincoln pulls up. 20 minutes. Back and tucking the green under her wig.

Bella: A Jaguar pulls up. Back at her post.

Donna;
A Lexus pulls up. At this point, the Woman has attracted widespread establishment attention.

Bella:
The whole bar is cheering. And Tommy the Bartender asks "Given stamina, what has this Woman got?" She is generic female. Neither ugly nor lovely.

Donna:
Upon investigation, it becomes clear that whenever a guy in a new car with a $50 haircut approaches, this Woman hikes up her skirt, shows her panties and hollers "Yo Baby, scratch and sniff."

.....................................getting coffee

HOT NEW COPY.

A short play for two characters. It is a play that is also a dance a la Living Theatre a bit. One day perhaps, a dance professional will help me notate it. Here is a bit from the end:

ENDING:

Bella:
I saw an ad for Right Guard. I have a Secret. I do not want to be protected from wetness. I am into sordid unprotected sex with long haired 20 year olds. These days a hard row to hoe.

Donna:
If we apply the concepts we have been discussing, you are in real need of a new look.

Bella:
Botox. Nip and tuck. Piercing various body parts?

Donna:
Ugh.

Bella: Shave the head and grow the legs. Look like a stick in a skirt? That will take off a few years.

Donna:
Too hard. Oh too hard. O tempore!

Bella:
So I went out and got a tattoo. Two eyes. One on each of my inner thighs. That way, if any wandering person should come to visit down there, it will not feel lonely and might tarry awhile.

Donna:
Honey, you still be the same old stuff.

Bella:
Yeah but I have hot new copy.

MIDDLE: Some of it.

Note; This is the part where I talked about Bill's penis. I only have fragments of a script. I am going to have to search in my papers. So no continuity at the moment. Damn.

Donna:S
Modern Life. It is 8 a.m. I am making coffee. My baby girls turn on the TV. I can tell by the lack of noise, they are rapt. Cartoons? No.

 A woman wearing too much fuchsia lipstick is intoning gravely "The President has a penis...and he uses it." Gah. Quick newsbreak 11 a.m. - "The President has a penis, it bends to the left, and he uses it often. News at noon - "The President has a lovely, loyal and intelligent wife; he has a penis and it is evidently the focus of a right wing conspiracy."

Bella:
Bill is no Spring chicken. So same old stuff. Hot new copy.

I wrote this.

I am not sure if this is a bad poem or the opening sentences of a bathetic mystery thriller. If it is a poem, it needs a second stanza. Too sad. If it is the opening of a throwaway novel, it achieves the right level of sappy happy bathos. 

I am not sure I can do a second stanza. It is one sloppy happy thing to go on social media and leak words;  writing is another thing entirely. The word KOOL has to go. 

Dying can only be done alone.

Kool if you have loving company. 

Bad if you have cold company. 

Worse if you have none.

Morning in August - Real Philadephia - #1 - First Draft

I keep baker's hours. Snoring at nine p.m. and up at three a.m. Philadelphia time. My front step is on the pavement. What happens on the street happens fifteen feet from my desk. Dawn happening. Peace.

I began to feel vibrations in the ether. Maria de los Dolores passing: earrings flashing, bracelets clashing, accompanying cherubs jiggy jigging. Everybody calls her Lola. Lola is louder and crazier than I am. I find that soothing. Everyone else runs when they see her coming. Lola starts her circuit ride around ten o'clock most days. Big disturbance in the pattern means big news. It is the Cherubs. Little fuckers tell her everything. So I opened my door.

"What?"
"Baby Dee is dead. You got a stamp? Give me fifty cents and I get my own stamp."

Lola jiggy jigged away, Cherubs in tow and one dollar richer. I sat until the light told me it was coffee hour. I meet all my neighbors at the bodega, one time or another.

Robbers shot the clerk behind the counter at the bodega five years ago. Then they went straight home. Cops had them in 45 minutes. Robbers had a wee problem with drugs. We got new owners of course. They spent their first year looking fierce. Now as the hipsters and Art studios begin their invasion, they just look bored.

Everybody in the world goes to the bodega just the same. The bodega is our oasis in a food and sundries desert. I get mango ice cream and Dominican beef stew. I get the heat. I get succulent roasted pork leg. I get fly tapes, socks, lottery tickets and EZwider. I get the story.

When I rounded the corner onto Tangerine Street, I saw the Commodore and Shorty.  The Commodore looks like a mocha stork. Just as tall as can be. I call him the Commodore because he is a sharp dresser. Always looks like he is about to go sailing. Classic Sport, you know what I mean? Shorty is short and short.

"What happened to Baby Dee?"

"Maybe you don't know Baby Dee worked with these young druggy kids. One kid freaked and Baby Dee was trying to calm him down. Boy shot him 4 times. Shorty found him."

Shorty nodded. He short.

"What can I do?"

"Funeral on Thursday at the Baptist Church at three o'clock. They started putting candles and flowers around his door. Shorty put up a balloon say PEACE."

Shorty nodded. Just stood right there. Shortening.

I keep walking toward coffee at the bodega like always. I pass Baby Dee's altar. It grew over days. Candles, flowers, notes. He was the Mayor of the 'hood and kept the day folk nicely separate from the night folk.

Baby Dee and I, we had a thing. Knees. I would hobble around to the bodega on my (I can still walk and get my own coffee) mission every morning at 7 a.m. Dee ruined his knee being a football person. He would stop detailing some Cadillac, limp over and hug me. I am like a child. I thought it was forever. I can walk now and Baby Dee is gone to Jesus.

I am old as dirt.

Graphic by Favianna Rodriguez.

Bless me, for I have sinned. I have done everything. I have been everywhere and nowhere. There is nothing I have to do. I am not at all accustomed to this luxury.

I got married. I gave birth, not in that order. I worked. I went ornately mad. I 'tuned in, turned on and dropped out.' I did my Art. The only thing that is left for me to do is become a Real Girl. And die. That is a lot more challenging than it may seem to the casual lie...I mean eye. I am a Beast.

I am astounded these sentences have appeared. I am dry. I am empty. Lady Shrink says that like a computer, I am buffering. I am terrified I will be in nowhere blah forever. When my Eye is on my eye, I I I...

Thank you Jesus, I can write something again. I just wrote something again. I do not believe Jesus will save me. There is nothing to be saved from. I just enjoy the conversation.

Stanley - or - This story has no redeeming social value with Music.

I am single. I am bored because I have nothing and no one to do. One of my Viper Girls told me "Ma, you are not allowed to date anybody without a written permission. It is like you have this sign on your head flashing Weirdos Welcome!" Sadly, this is not unreasonable. 

I met Stanley at a screw-rinse-repeat joint in New York City called The Candy Box. I think it was 1976. Stanley was the bald bespectacled guy telling us he “screwed both bartenders and all the other whoo-ers sitting around on the bar stools." Stanley is still loud, profane and bespectacled as I write. A Caveat Emptor, "Whoo-ers are all no good", delivered in loud Brooklynese has to be experienced to be fully appreciated.

I do not know why exactly, but I took him home. He came with me because I told him I had a pool in my backyard. I think he thought I was lying or nuts. He was right about the nuts.

I always enjoyed Stanley. Stanley and I used to have the greatest fights. He was naturally funny. And he always left me money. He could be generous and stingy at the same moment. We hung out together for twenty five years. We made a porno. We ate at every great Italian restaurant in three states. We fought epic fights. He was mean. Years later I found out he used to stand behind me just out of hearing range and make fun of me to people I knew. Stanley financed every crazy thing I could think up to do. And I am creative. Laissez le bon temps rouler.

Everything was great until I got sober and truthful. One day I said to him

"Stanley, God gave you a package that cannot be beat. Even Ron Jeremy steps back. Nevertheless, you suck in the bed. Now that I am dually diagnosed, I am no longer de-generate and de-praved, and the government gives me $638.25 monthly, I do not have to fuck you. So just pay for the fricking thing and stop that whining."

It was the beginning of the end.

Stanley went and got married. He came to see me even after he got married. For a long  damn time. As a wedding present to him and his bride Angela, I taught him how to eat pussy. I know why I did not teach him sooner. He was always a bit prissy about the physical part of life. All that experience taught Stan nothing. It is kind of a turnoff if a guy is salivating copiously all over you at the critical moment because pussy has germs. I miss him still. I still meet him in my dreams.

Although his career was relatively brief, cut short by a tragic plane crash, Otis Redding was a singer of such commanding stature that to this day he embodies the essence of soul music in its purest form.

His name is synonymous with the term soul, music that arose out of the black experience in America through the transmutation of gospel and rhythm & blues into a form of funky, secular testifying. Redding left behind a legacy of recordings made during the four-year period from his first sessions for Stax/Volt Records in 1963 until his death in 1967. Read more here...

Fragment Furioso

Once you have been sexually assaulted - me at age 7 in the stacks at the dry cleaner - it is like you wear a virtual sign WEIRDOS WELCOME. The Monsters find you. You cannot see them. Monsters can see your sign. They come in disguise - physician, friendly neighbor etc. Even my Mother. Remarkable I live. And I can laugh. And I do.

"Do not tell your Mother." I knew early never to tell my Mother a damn thing. It is 1:02 ante meridian. I am likely to type any damn thing. Note: Maybe this is a serious poem? Nah.

Hymn to Hillz.

Oh Hillz, so puissant.
Bitch Goddess.
She is cleverer than all the rest.
She is fearless and corrupt.
She is THE FEMINAZI.

Help. I am Manic. I had to take an ativan.

I absolutely hate feeling this way. I can remember dancing for hours and hours to dance it away. Dance until you drop.

I had a newspaper columnist lover who wrote at home. He had a wooden floor and original 78s of folks like Nat King Cole. He would lend me his spare room and I would dance for hours. I miss him.

I ran my second husband over with a Volkswagen feeling this way. Hubby saw the look on my face and his face turned white. I floored it. He knew there was no way to outrun me and he looked around frantically for a savior. He saw a small wide ditch and dived for it. My wheels ran right the fuck over him. By the time I got ready for the second pass, he had made it to the house.

God saved me. Always had a soft spot for God after that. My child did not need to have a Mother in jail. Hubby stayed with me another 10 years. I often wonder who exactly was the crazy one? The whole thing was so sad.

So, all I have to say is, talk me down, Friends. I am lonesome, horny, maudlin and dangerous. Okay, Ativan kicking in. I will be napping in blessed peace and not stabbing anyone. Good thing. Be back later.