Josh Hawley and Friends - OMG GOP WTF?

"If you want to get rich from writing, write the sort of thing that's read by people who move their lips when they're reading to themselves." – Don Marquis

White Power Salute at the Capitol

I am political. Josh Hawley is trashing MY STATE and he does not live here. He participated in an insurrection in order to install an unelected and totally rejected Donald Trump. Evidence above. Josh Hawley is an over educated underspanked elite douchebag.  

He has friends among the Conservative. Mike Lee is a social climbing oleaginous schmuck. He is one of those not conservative at all Conservatives. With a bad haircut. Skeeves me. Even he was intelligent enough to avoid the fray. Too bad because he is one of the worst of the 'conservative' gang. The stupid Kochs are going 'Gee golly willikers, maybe we made a mistake.' Makes me want to stab people. I apologize to my Lady Shrink for this post. But I digress. 

I vote at a Black VFW club. Or I did before the pandemic made social distancing necessary. Two voting machines in the back of an old Victorian bar. In 2016, I wrote in Elizabeth Warren. I just walk around the block. Poll workers are my neighbors and friends. All elderly and middle aged Black Veterans. They close the bar during voting. Hawley is trashing my friends and our State system.

Hawley is the kind of authoritarian psychopath that invaded the Capitol. I want to rip his tits off. I need the PERP WALK. So Bubba, Tyrone, Hector and Hamza can rip his tits off. I am old or I would do it myself. Fuck you FBI. I knew the Magat Insurrection was going to happen. What is your problem? 

Hawley is the smart Trump. The anti Christ for real. And there is at least one more of him being recruited. This other NEWtrump competition is blonde and devastatingly handsome but not as smart as Hawley. Cannot remember his name, but I got his and his backer's game. Might be time to resurrect this Play. Frank Zappa grokked in fullness. See Music below:

Mormons Are Dangerous - Real Philadelphia #3

I live in a Philly Rowhouse. My door opens right onto the street. I am hanging out at home one day minding my own business.  I hear Knock Knock on the door. I quick open it.

Standing there are two young guys who look like Tarantino Hit Men. As I was about to draw my sword in defense, I saw little name tags. It is Elders Keith and Kevin. I said "Yo guys. Where's the other K?"

Elder Keith said "We have come to share some scripture with you, Ma'am." I said "Sure. We have all sinned and fallen short of the glory of God." And the scripture throwdown was on. They quoted shit at me; I quoted shit at them; they quoted shit at me...and then, I had an Epiphany.

Elders Keith and Kevin started to look a little sweaty to me. I had a moment of intense self consciousness. I realized I was standing in my doorway in my pajamas, hair uncombed, no bra, doobie in hand at 3:30 in the afternoon. And what was going on for Elders Keith and Kevin was "Oh boy. We have only been in Philly one week and we have met our first real drug addict." I resent that. I am a writer. Context is everything.

I was so upset by the Mormon invasion that friends from St. Philomena's decided I was in dire need of crisis counseling. We went to the Toilet Bar in Frankford. I got so drunk I was treading the fine line between ecstasy and puking. So one of the Ushers took me out into the alley and rolled me a doob. I was able to avoid puking, mellow out and explain myself. Timothy is such a thoughtful young man.

It is not that I do not like Mormons. I understand the spiritual impulse. I have read The Varieties of Religious Experience. I hang out with Quakers and they are really peculiar. I have even been known to drop acid and consult the Lawn Gnomes.

No. It is not that I don't like Mormons. No. This is what bothers me. I am a mental health consumer, occasionally medicated for public safety. I still think Mitt Romney SuperMormon is coming to get me. I know Mitt Romney thinks the same.

I am Queer. I am out of the closet. Call me Nancy.

Poster by Favianna Rodriguez.

I like Queer because Friends (Quakers) have from the beginning been called 'a queer people.' I fit right in. 

I like Queer because, if I do some damn disgusting hilarious filthy dirty but not illegal act in public, folks go 'Oh she is queer. What do you expect'?

It was Minnie Jane Hamm who taught me being a Friend was a good thing. Big Hug.

Quakes have silent Meeting. We just sit there like bumps, no liturgy, no music, no Pastor, no excuse and we wait to hear what the Spirit wants us to say. Nobody says much. For about three years, I sat next to Minnie Jane and she never said a thing. Then one First Day, she stood up - you stand to speak - no hiding in the pew - and she said:

"Is it not wonderful that we are all so Queer" 

and Minnie Jane sat down, silent again for years. Her Sister Nancy H. was my Sponsor. She saved lives. Ergo call me Nancy. She would appreciate the pun. 

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.

Miss Norma - Real Philadelphia #2

Midnight. It was a soft day. Now it is a balmy night. A gentle breeze is sending smoke from the chemical plant out to sea.

Miss Norma is parked outside my door in her running car. I can smell the engine and hear the exhaust. Norma is dancing in her seat with the windows closed and the bass turned up so high the car is pulsating. She has been tossing her hair and waving her arms about for 20 minutes now. Norma has good taste in music, thank you God.

Norma is living in the rowhouse next door with another single Mom and eight children. Norma is sheltering a family while their house is repaired after a fire. The combined children range in age from 3 to 14. It has been three months now. You would be pulsating in your car too. Norma was so trashed after the Eagles game that she was out there pulsating at 2 am. She told me "I do not think I can make it inside." Offers of aid were refused. All must be well because she is running another concert tonight.

Norma has five children. Rosy Posy is my favorite. I promised crayons to all the kidniks for Xmas and then I fell. For awhile I could not write a sentence or even read. I need the boxes with the sharpener and all the colors. Soon children, soon. The girls came by after Christmas and politely reminded me I made a present promise. They are beautiful and I love them.

Norma and I, we have an unspoken deal. I ignore the constant pile of dogshit in her backyard, and her blood curdling howls of frustration that penetrate the brick walls that divide our rowhouses, and she lets me borrow the children and pretend I am their Grandma. Solid.