One wonders, in light of this, why would I purchase an expensive ticket to a concert on New Year’s by a band who couldn’t possibly welcome me. The truth is that I was a fan and a friend, they seemed like very nice people. I’m at a real loss for why they would create scandal so tawdry about a friend that it would result in such caustic, warlord mayhem.
There are things I understand about what they did. I can understand, for example, that my father Ryland having been Chair of Philosophy of Education at the University of Pittsburgh, made them envious of my potential as a local prince. My humor, my talent, my looks when I was young, might have aggravated that, as did my well-known correspondence with Peter Gabriel. The arrival of Rosine to become engaged to me, not because she loved me, but to pull a horrid crime of fraternity pranking for them must have brought them sweet bliss of parochial, snide satisfaction. In other words, when you read my testimony about my mother losing her house in tears beyond tears, when you see the truly frightening neuroplasm throttling visibly in my face now, when you learn that I was crawling in seizures of homelessness for years from what they did, and arrive, in your mirth or shocked stupid sympathy, depending on where you place your values, how I was taken prisoner, given unneeded and wrongful medicine resulting in chemical castration, obviously a tragedy, you will wonder why Liz Berlin of East Liberty, Vince Eirene and Rusted Root would have set me up for attack and injury in a pre-existing, impacted head trauma caused by a nerve agent that left me deaf a child when the KKK attacked me, kidnapped and molested me, in retaliation for the Civil Rights work of my family?
At 55 years old, I learned Sign Language with the help of Mercy Hospital and returned to school, where my mentor Dr. Ralph Proctor, author of: Voices from the Firing Line ~ A Personal Account of the Pittsburgh Local Civil Rights Movement, authorized Independent Study credit for my book: Hitler-Reagan Semiotics: Reconstruction of Axis Cinema during the Occupation to be found at http://themepaper.webs.com Formerly of WQED’s Black Horizons Television, Dr. Proctor learned that I was languishing in a state of trauma in the clubhouse program and urged me to come back to CCAC where I am now in the Honors Department after graduating once and attending two years with a Straight A Q.P.A. and perfect attendance. It is something of this mission of perfect attendance that makes me want to attend Rusted Root. My intentions are entirely peaceful. They were my friends once. I just want to cheer their success, despite their dishonorable mention.
All of us know that Robert Fripp and his sister are largely to blame. They are show offs and snobs in an sicko dimension where they cultivate direct relationships with the Reagans. Rusted Root’s former sound man, David Lucarelli got into my old letters for Jim Dispirito, who cased me for the klan when I was molested as a child, to make sure I didn’t understand what had happened, and they circulated the letters as a staged discovery to elements of the Warhol Society, friends of Andy Warhol, from Lawrenceville and elsewhere, involved in the action, who wanted the letters back. By then Peter Gabriel had sent reinforcements, Queer militants, at Carnegie Mellon, and their ragtag ultra-rich pathetics, like Len Young, eager to put me out in a limelight of their identity crime thrill kill.
I was a Medical Library Clerk investigating leads that AIDS was manmade. The Reagans and Warhols, who wrote the letters used to play a double bind game about Mt. Desert for the Pentagon-Disney power structure beneath the Beatles in their slovenage and Majesty, that allowed not only the perpetrators to go free but to ride high, and Rusted Root complemented themselves on this backstab, which is terribly strange.
What happened, I feel, is that I got a lot of crank attention out to make me appear a crank. My father was Peace Corps leader, called a “hero” by the Regional Director of Amnesty International, who he mentored. Dad also served on the same ship at Bush in the Navy, which brought me to the attention of the right wing in places like the F.B.I. and U.S. Secret Service when I was trying to nurse a neurotraumatic injury and deafness. Peer rejection was not new to me, but I had thought better of the Fripps in those days. The resulting Political Action by Hillary Clinton’s mafia, and the Obamas, was to rough me up, scare me for dare life, and create a cover story that I was hassling ex-girlfriends, something real men like Rusted Root would never do. Abused Deaf Advocates took me to Seattle for twelve years, but Police Psychiatrists were hot on their game after Carnegie Mellon’s bash of hostilities.
Does Rusted Root know or care that they got us, me and deaf Jeannie, tortured, raped and chemically castrated over nothing? Do they know how wrong this is? Are they in ISIS? Do they understand that I was deafened by a nerve agent for which the letters they found were documentation? That I am innocent of wrongdoing? That there was no trial. That Yoko Ono’s hostility towards me may have come down from the Pacific War and planted the letters with Warhol’s friends, like Amilda Tuttle who was in our house and gave me Warhol’s phone number as a child after I went deaf and calls were hard for me? Are they aware that they and their juvenile, sophomore antics set me up to be attacked in a pre-existing neuroplastic head injury that is now visible?
If there is some objection about my coming to the Rusted Root concert, you can just say so. I won’t ask for a refund. I feel comfortable knowing that my concerns were addressed. Please remind them, however, that we do not live in a celebrity superstate. If they had objections to me, there is a courthouse downtown. They knew where I lived.
There was a long planned trajectory to the humiliation that I had long overheard. When they molested me as a child, you should have seen the parochial savage jeering, gesticulating and the venoms of its leers. We know from all of this that the cowardly electric eels who advance George Bush and his sidekick Obama honor neither science nor such issues of taste as Pennsylvania’s tender years doctrine. Presented with unassailable proof that the child they hated was rendered unconscious, deafened, traumatized and then suffocated in such a way that panic stricken playacting bubbled up to the top to be mocked and exploited, they lied. The foreign English, devoid of honor, tried to deploy child levity to erase all record of the criminally insane visited upon a child used for a macabre toy.
I suspect Alan Parssons, having lived through what Peter Gabriel means by “hedging his bets,” working both sides, hitting both sides, then stepping in as mediator, if that fails, back to whacking, drumming up Operation Rescue berserkers and then the foaming Queer Sabbath. They knew that despicable viciousness, mind shattering and beyond all horror towards me would make the chumpish Vince Eirene a golden boy for Reagan bigots to cheer and gurgle over.
Obama did this out of greed, Clinton as a Confederate spy, but Bush’s mania is more lewd. When Wattenmaker first began his ripper campaign he liked to lead up to his paychopathic acts. He taught me games he called, “Bundy,” and “Steal the Bacon.” He asked if his father Bernard, the Marion Doctor of AIDS, could hypnotise me, coached me to b.m. outside, had Crary the Clown Roto Magazine on display, said a light socket was unplugged to get me electric shocked. I was first attacked on Hampton Street, so like Hampton, Va, where the CIA headquarters is, and where the Guttersnipes shot paperclips at anyone who littered. We know from all this that Bush who is implicated the JFK assassination, attacks children blindside, subjects them to mutilationist pedophilia and rock God slanders, blamed my blameless father for his luckless day in the sky at sea, raped a deaf woman over delusion fomented by the crackpot Fripp who likened his diversion to misuse of a barometer, and thus the electric shock, in poetry of Spy versus child, recalls a strange death on the US San Jacinto, an unexplained electrocution. Did another sailor first pay the price for crossing a Presidential psychopath to be?
This is a military image of a violent Queer fraternity at Carnegie Mellon CMUSU unleashed in the Trojan Horse of Amnesty International for the Midori Riots. It is to be recalled that City Paper is tied to persons I was with the night of the Blue House Massacre who, like members of the circuit in New York City, heap mention of Science Fiction on the alibi structure of Peter Gabriel. We note that they led me to the song refrain NOW NOW NOW NOW NOW in the days after which was painted on the sidewalk by the gunman. We note that among them obsess over a single love in death oath and blood vow to the death of the earth if necessary, all-consuming ravenous.
This is a hand drawn representation of the disgusto cover CMUSU image that archivalists Pat and Ron omitted from the microfilm records.
This is Chris and Navos Rachel, the latter suspected in the Police Psychiatry Unit convened to punish me for whistleblowing by castration malpractice. Barry came up to the SMH facility from the Federal Building to smash me in the face until I tried to verbally defend and Rachel took me into quarantine, a long battle to force me to justify them or face the murder of the children in my family.
The Slasher of Shannon Harps and the peer counselor of the Barry facility.
The Zell postcard where Don Denis for Gabriel claimed he would pour scabies on me steaming and hope it was enough for broPaul (It wasn’t nearly enough).
And they want to do this whole thing, blaming me in cold blood while denying what Gail Burstyn really was.