Jenny Durkan closed comments on her plea for peaceful demonstrations and condemned Seattle to living with the Trump Administration’s truly sleazy to-her-face lies, a commonplace with the Administration, by calling their horrible deceit a matter of semantics, as though anticipating some sort of cosmic garble ahead when the UFO’s of Ringo Starr descend to honor Trump and announce revenge for Lennon in the triumph of Ronald Reagan’s Queer Gestapo at Warhol.  Kids will be kids and there will be hooliganism in the name of Biko as coronavirus spreads.  This is the nature of reality.   Trump will have fun, too, schooling the hooligans in the mightier weaponry.  It will be a spiritual dosage of tough love from Mt. Olympus.  Nobody cares.  The whole Seattle Times and their impardonable bray of being THE TRUTH can shut their comments sections to every article they publish.  Every last one of us has hardened our hearts and sealed our souls.  You won’t find an open mind on a college campus much less in the streets.  It’s not a good time to be being driven into nail-biting though.

         A crowd of angels was outside my house yesterday, eight year olds, mostly Latino, and as I passed I thought about breaking into Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious.   Shows what sort of childhood I had with my father, who went down a waterslide in a three piece suit to thrill the kids, but there’s something truly monstrous about Julie Andrews and Dick Van Dyke is a pretty mean, snickering Gestapo thuggee these days.   I remembered his representation of an alcoholic crying in the streets as I screamed in seizures from child kidnapping trauma after the Warhol played with me.

          Every day I sort of I read the Pittsburgh paper which took off after their Governor Wolf yesterday as a squirming Leftist which is by definition someone being told Don’t Look in the Basement answering Do Not Worry We Will Not.   Pittsburgh is where MisterRogers church overlooks the glorious scene where Gail Burstyn mapped out the pussyball bus strike over Leslie Katz’ virginity and where her defender Matt Marcus burned two blond girls’ arms gangrene while building Fred’s set designs.  Katz told me a story about a child hit by a car and never feeling another thing again ever after, it was a real sob for her that underwrote the nature of reality Pittsburgh loves to bang on about.  Pittsburgh is the only place on earth where the consequences of the sleazy lies told by the NAACP are not obvious from my face.

          Ruth Hammer was my sixth grade teacher and I was her pet, I gave her a macrame bracelet I hear she still has, even though she denies that I saw her on the porch at Dolly Meieren’s a favorite of the Shionos and Katz, and familiar of Sean Strub.   Hammer was a film company.  Hammer herself took a sabbatical just when the hammerhead shark attacked me favored to win by Seattle darlings named Kospa for Gail Burstyn and her colleague, Mr. McIntosh read us the Outsiders as Eastwood Studios or something filled up my surroundings with makeshift bullies whose personas gave me the images I needed to visualize the book that Gail Burstyn banged on about.

          The significance of DVD, I mean Trump’s mesmerizing stand-in appearance in Network a film from the year of the Burstyn script is as obvious as that his picking and choosing who gets to live and who should look upward in beneficient rumination as offered for to die in his gild is the privilege he has sought.  Frankly, my dear Ms. Durkan, I don’t give a damn.  What did you say when your little darlings all grown up with Trump morality poisoned me in the mouff?