My so-called journal

Because I've tried to stick to my routines and keep busy, the reality of Richard's death is just hitting me now, two months later. Even though I was at his side when I saw his head slump forward, and even though he hasn't been home at all in two months, and I haven't been back to the hospital in that time. I mean, I have his ashes in a can in the other room, but it's hard to put two and two together sometimes.

And the memorial service will be November 20th at a church around the corner. I've graciously offered—in a FB message—to Richard's girlfriend that I'd stay away so she could share about their special bond. She replied, "Thanks."

My plans are to take myself up to Harlem for a vegan soul-food brunch and totally blow off the memorial. In a group chat on FB Sara muses that she'll probably stay at the memorial just to say a few words and then go home to Cold Spring, so conceivably I could slink in after I was sure she'd left. Slink in, right: because I've always felt like I was the "other" woman, even after I'd lived here over 20 years. That's why I'm not buying into that "sneaking in after I'd made sure the coast was clear"; people who know of my plans say they'd always thought of me and Richard as a couple and would be puzzled not to see me at a memorial for him.

Sara was there first. She used to plan activities for the two of them, Richard said, probably in an effort to keep them together.
I've also taken a very hands-off role in planning the memorial next month: my downstairs neighbor Elizabeth told me up front: "I'm an excellent event planner," and proceeded to take care of most everything; I paid for the rental of the room. I complained to her once that she took over everything, even things I wanted to do, and she said she'd cleared it with me first. (She hadn't; but at that point I gave up and figured I'm not going to be there anyway, so who cares?)

She did try to involve me in decisions, saying, "How do you like the setup of the chairs; do you think they should be facing the park?" I told her I didn't care since I wasn't going to be there.

I've been very depressed today, and it's a strange feeling; I haven't been depressed like this in well over 20 years. It'll pass; I just don't know when.

We can still seek #JusticeForTrayvon. Sign the @NAACP petition to the Department of Justice: http://bit.ly/14PXbDI

Well, I still don't have Internet at home; hence no pictures in this entry as I have most of the photos I've been taking on my desktop machine, not this iPad I've been using to grab a little 'net at various cafés and places with WiFi.

The reason for this is that our phone provider is Verizon (grrr) and my Vonage long-distance has to piggyback on the Verizon internet line. I'm not able to connect at home, even though I've bought a week from WiFiNY.net. (It was worth a shot; unfortunately, WiFiNY gets swamped when Verizon and other providers go down.)

Here are a few notes from the past couple of weeks, including some spent in the dark:

( tl;dr )

Ruthie was right; Larry was the culprit here. I said he was like a babbling brook with no filter, and although I can't really blame him for the things he says, I do.

So I went over to Larry's this morning, didn't look Vadalyn in the eye, started washing out the dog's dish in the sink with the sponge because whoever fed Penny [the dog] last night didn't wash the residue out and it dried overnight in the bowl. I hate that. And there's only one sponge, goddamnit.

Vadalyn freaked and started scolding me because she has this thing about how animals are animals and their stuff shouldn't get too close to people's stuff. There's only one sponge; what do you expect me to do, use my bare hands? (I'm already getting my winter "dishpan hands," with cracks in the palms—and it's only October.)

So I told Vadalyn Larry had told me she had said I was retarded, and she said, "Did I tell you that?" and went on to explain all the kinds of shit Larry talks and how sometimes he just runs at the mouth. Ruthie (padiwack) was right; a lot of the time he just wants to see how far he can push people.

But it's easy to get caught up in it, and Larry knows how to play the disability card. Bastard.

Yesterday I was waiting for the torrential rains to subside and ducked into a vestibule; there was this notice:



[To the tenants of *** Greenwich Street

Please do not throw your cigarette butts or ashes out the front windows facing Greenwich Street.

Customers from the downstairs restaurant have been inundated with cigarettes thrown on them while eating.

Thank you.]



Sounds like life for the rich is one long frat party!

Congress is currently considering CISPA – the Cyber Intelligence Sharing & Protection Act – a bill that purports to protect the United States from “cyber threats” but would in fact create a gaping loophole in all existing privacy laws. If CISPA passes, companies could vacuum up huge swaths of data on everyday Internet users and share it with the government without a court order. I oppose CISPA, and I’m calling on Congress to reject any legislation that:

* Uses dangerously vague language to define the breadth of data that can be shared with the government.
* Hands the reins of America’s cybersecurity defenses to the NSA, an agency with no transparency and little accountability.
* Allows data shared with the government to be used for purposes unrelated to cybersecurity.

Join me in opposing this bill by posting this statement on your own page and using this online form to send a letter to Congress against CISPA:

https://action.eff.org/o/9042/p/dia/action/public/?action_KEY=8444

People, these are your tax dollars at work.

This is an ongoing protest of Wall street and all it stands for; we ask your support.



#occupywallstreet

Ernie Anastos is not known for his class, but come on.

If that's as bad as it gets, I'll live with it; I wasn't hurt, and the single item taken was totally replaceable.

I was sitting waiting for the bus over at the first stop where the M8 begins its journey east and this teenage thug-in-training runs in from my right, hits me in the chest—takes my phone, I forgot to mention that—and keeps running toward the river and disappears around the corner. I was like, "Wha...? [Expletive] you!"

The guy waiting for the bus with me said, "You gotta report it," so when the bus came, I didn't get on. Instead, I waited for the police cruiser and we drove around the park; the officer said they'd had a lot of luck doing that lately. I had only seen the kid's back as he ran away, so we were looking for a pink (?) T-shirt. I have no idea if he stripped off the shirt as he ran away, but my guess is he didn't. In any event, we didn't find him.

The man waiting for the bus with me let me use his phone to call 911 ("You gotta report this," he said) and some officers from the 6th Precinct picked me up. I hadn't seen the guy's face, only the back of his T-shirt (pink,) but we cruised around the park before we gave up.

It's crazy; I don't understand what the kid wanted with my phone, but I guess they were taking anything they could get their hands on in hopes it was an iPhone. (Supposedly there's been a rash of robberies like this lately in the West Village.) As soon as I got the chance, I reported it stolen to my phone company and it was blocked--stupid kid.

The Sixth Precinct has been great in all of this--efficient and professional. Wonder what they're like when a real crime occurs--but I don't wanna go there.