AdamSmith

In all of us!

Just fail, then go again. And again! Her only mesaage.

Oneself would instead recommend... (From personal exp! Not with F personally of course. )

The Kitten can take care of herself.

Speak fer yerself!

We all do.

Actually, when I was (by choice, greatly) homeless & streetwise for that month there Feb '12, the lack of (& lack of need of) money was the single most spiritually liberating time I have ever lived.

The notion that Popular is perceived as good is terminally weird.

Look, both of you are right. dont over-think everything. (and that that has to come from me! ) (now I will be accused of over-EGOtization of everything!)Ai yi yi... http://www.writing.upenn.edu/~afilreis/88v/blueguitar.html

Ah! My misunderstanding.

...a urinal in the Tenderloin some twenty years ago...

To possibly belabor this too far, the only action I sought to achieve with those PMs was to help His Highness to understand how his, and his minions', overbearing and witless moderation, and general Miss Grundy-ness, were ruining what had once been a great community asset. Not to get reinstated. The opposite!

P.S. You are critiquing what you know is pretty much my modus operandi: find something I find funny, then push it beyond all reasonable limits. You find some pretty interesting stuff once you persevere all the way out there to Devil's Reef and beyond. 'If the idea is not at first absurd, then there is no hope for it.' Einstein

An extraordinarily odd way of misperceiving my motive and intent. A performative was none of my aim with those PMs. Only to let Her Majesty know my thoughts about how she was (is) running down the site, and my indignance at her treatment of me and other prolific (and I thought valuable) posters. Let the chips fall where they may. As they did. To my, as remarked above, great good benefit.

Manhattan of course went through its own version of this. As the Village gentrified -- and as the whole city became more or less wholly safe from crime, thanks first to Dinkins, then Guiliani and Bloomberg -- Hell's Kitchen where I lived 2010-2011 became the new 'gay' neighborhood. But it was a starched and sterile and 'in-group' place, much like the Boston I had just fled from. I still far preferred the West Village bars, and then later those up north in Washington/Inwood.

From There, not Here.

only by my putting my little pink ass between my dark friends & lovers, versus the pooolice hurting to harrass them up in Washington Heights and above on the streets at night, would I dare say this:

To -- -- --. Ulalume: A Ballad BY EDGAR ALLAN POE The skies they were ashen and sober; The leaves they were crispéd and sere— The leaves they were withering and sere; It was night in the lonesome October Of my most immemorial year; It was hard by the dim lake of Auber, In the misty mid region of Weir— It was down by the dank tarn of Auber, In the ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir. Here once, through an alley Titanic, Of cypress, I roamed with my Soul— Of cypress, with Psyche, my Soul. These were days when my heart was volcanic As the scoriac rivers that roll— As the lavas that restlessly roll Their sulphurous currents down Yaanek In the ultimate climes of the pole— That groan as they roll down Mount Yaanek In the realms of the boreal pole. Our talk had been serious and sober, But our thoughts they were palsied and sere— Our memories were treacherous and sere— For we knew not the month was October, And we marked not the night of the year— (Ah, night of all nights in the year!) We noted not the dim lake of Auber— (Though once we had journeyed down here)— We remembered not the dank tarn of Auber, Nor the ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir. And now, as the night was senescent And star-dials pointed to morn— As the star-dials hinted of morn— At the end of our path a liquescent And nebulous lustre was born, Out of which a miraculous crescent Arose with a duplicate horn— Astarte's bediamonded crescent Distinct with its duplicate horn. And I said—"She is warmer than Dian: She rolls through an ether of sighs— She revels in a region of sighs: She has seen that the tears are not dry on These cheeks, where the worm never dies, And has come past the stars of the Lion To point us the path to the skies— To the Lethean peace of the skies— Come up, in despite of the Lion, To shine on us with her bright eyes— Come up through the lair of the Lion, With love in her luminous eyes." But Psyche, uplifting her finger, Said—"Sadly this star I mistrust— Her pallor I strangely mistrust:— Oh, hasten! oh, let us not linger! Oh, fly!—let us fly!—for we must." In terror she spoke, letting sink her Wings till they trailed in the dust— In agony sobbed, letting sink her Plumes till they trailed in the dust— Till they sorrowfully trailed in the dust. I replied—"This is nothing but dreaming: Let us on by this tremulous light! Let us bathe in this crystalline light! Its Sybilic splendor is beaming With Hope and in Beauty to-night:— See!—it flickers up the sky through the night! Ah, we safely may trust to its gleaming, And be sure it will lead us aright— We safely may trust to a gleaming That cannot but guide us aright, Since it flickers up to Heaven through the night." Thus I pacified Psyche and kissed her, And tempted her out of her gloom— And conquered her scruples and gloom: And we passed to the end of the vista, But were stopped by the door of a tomb— By the door of a legended tomb; And I said—"What is written, sweet sister, On the door of this legended tomb?" She replied—"Ulalume—Ulalume— 'Tis the vault of thy lost Ulalume!" Then my heart it grew ashen and sober As the leaves that were crispèd and sere— As the leaves that were withering and sere, And I cried—"It was surely October On this very night of last year That I journeyed—I journeyed down here— That I brought a dread burden down here— On this night of all nights in the year, Oh, what demon has tempted me here? Well I know, now, this dim lake of Auber— This misty mid region of Weir— Well I know, now, this dank tarn of Auber— In the ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir." Said we, then—the two, then—"Ah, can it Have been that the woodlandish ghouls— The pitiful, the merciful ghouls— To bar up our way and to ban it From the secret that lies in these wolds— From the thing that lies hidden in these wolds— Had drawn up the spectre of a planet From the limbo of lunary souls— This sinfully scintillant planet From the Hell of the planetary souls?"

This seems kind of shallow, but then maybe not. PROSE FROM POETRY MAGAZINE Undead Eliot: How “The Waste Land” Sounds Now BY LESLEY WHEELER Thomas Sayers Ellis, or a version of him looping eternally on YouTube, is about to read “All Their Stanzas Look Alike,” a weirdly 
hypnotic indictment of academic and aesthetic politics. Before launching into the poem, he remarks: Imagine this pastiche declaimed in a deep-pitched monotone, as Ellis jiggles nonexistent jowls. He goes on to observe that during his childhood in Washington DC, “the voice that was on television all the time was Richard Nixon, and so when I began my formal training in poetry, you know, they all sounded like Nixon to me.” Thomas Sayers Ellis reads Thomas Stearns Eliot (and Williams, and Frost) as Nixon, guilty spokesman for a corrupt establishment. This is part of what modernism means now, has meant for decades: not revolutionary art but stiff authority. Despite the stiffness and the guilt, though, Ellis describes enchantment by rhythm. Ellis was beat digging, riffling through old vinyl, haunted less by the denotation of the words than by their detonations. Auden is right that moments of Eliotic influence are hard to finger, but it’s precisely in cadence that Eliot’s work survives... https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine/articles/70143/undead-eliot-how-the-waste-land-sounds-now

You, sir, are a shithead.