Hi and welcome to the Attic, I'm Frankenberry of said Blog Title and I write of just my everyday here, sometimes funny, sometimes heartfelt, sometimes angry, sometimes funny again because, well, who don't like funny, thoughts on getting older and sometimes stuff that's just kinda shit. I pen and sing the occasional parody tune and other songs, sometimes I even get a little bit poetic or short story-etic or something like that. If you're joining me here I thank you, but just mind your head and feet and keep an eye out for my little Bella and Cricket The Blind as well as the memories of Raspberry (Razzy), Mimi the Quirky, of Blink The Lil' Kit, Grayson the Mighty, Shoes the Big Orange, Shana-Girl, Benny Good Man Benny Brown, Merlin & Bob. Wouldn't want you step on them or anything … 'cause then I might just have to throw you down the stairs … damned humans.
I have done a lot of songs, over the last 7 or so years, of the political parody type (but also some others) ones that you may know, but ones that I must consider in a new light now, the importance of, and whether or not I may be freedom of speechly able to produce more of them …
tick, tock, tick, tock .
Oh, you jest say you …
… tick, tock, tick, tock …
Anyway, another time. It’s the holidays, thanksgiving passed, and an album of the “some others” Christmas tunes now (ok, not an album) and the adventures of three characters, the hapless Stevie and Tommy and Stevie’s NOT hapless little brother Billy with one “Christmas” tune in the mix.
Now, however much I might love to envision myself an artist who comes out with the requisite collection of holiday classics at some point …
Studio: It’s Christmas, be all Christmasy and shit, it’s about time, we need a whole record …
… I do, actually, already have my own without that required studio mandate.
Two of them. I know, Christmas prolific I am!
Now, if two songs are enough to constitute an entire album, maybe with some remixes and extended plays and spoken word guest appearances (no, I know that’s not a thing) and one original tune that I haven’t written or performed just yet then I’m good.
First the story of Stevie and Tommy and Billy started here …
Ok, well, that’s all I got, but maybe it will be distracting enough … give me respite until the Holidays wear off, and January comes and holiday hangovers eventually fade then to figure out retreat and hideaways.
New Quadrille prompt, a dVerse poem of just 44 words with a word to include . This time around, in the prompt from Lisa, the word is “with”. And the 44 word count does not include the title by the way.
Well, I thought to one of my cats and my well practiced solitude.
Earlier this week was a prompt at dVerse poets of Dragons and some history and to write of such. Now I missed the “window” to include an entry to this prompt but I still thought to get to something about Dragons, thus …
A Dragon’s Lament
I am ‘bout fold up my wings
my lament
of Dragon lore and settling scores
with villagers who I wish fight no more
fly over to tremble their thatch
homes
and thatch fields and thatch clothes and thatch thoughts
they too easy to burn brittle
if so
and turn
into fiery jackals wishing my hide
to feast in grand time at my demise
.
They can have my riches
though I have none
of what would I do
if so
with even some
piled glinting, blinding high laired in dragon stories
told
from the point of pike and mobbed pitchfork flamed dance
She took an almost step and then held back, “Oh, you two are going to be in sooooo much troub …”
“You mean Ralph and Ant?”
It was in that imperceptible but perfectly clear sound of that initial pindrop you could distinctly hear through the laundromat noise, right before the blinding light and the temporary stunning and the disappearing knock-off magazines and other assorted items … including herself.
But it was deep and heavy, filled with bass or was it wispy and floating like an angel’s falsetto dropped from a cloud into a void, she wasn’t sure, and her head sat static apart from her body as it walked away and walked back and walked away and walked back again looking for a wall to possibly bounce off, a door jam to bruise a nose on, or maybe a set of stairs to fall down like some headless ghost or an almost there drunk.
And she was missing a shoe.
Her voice just almost wouldn’t come again but then it echoed, loudly, and startled her.
“Hello? Whooaa that’s loud!! … Where am I?”
“Exactly”
“Oh great, cryptic (she sighed to herself) … fucking fantastic.”
“You know you weren’t supposed to find us, none of you were but your friends, the smart one and the fat one, just wouldn’t let it go …”
With a bit more bearing, Jenn then said into the void.
“Ok, hold on, but we weren’t supposed to find you?! Seriously?! You left one of your portals to wherever the hell this place is, in a dryer, in a laundromat that also happens to be a pretty popular juice bar, in the middle of a fairly big town, what did you expect?”
Silence now … profound silence.
“Hello?!!? Jenn said again but with a definite note of annoyed impatience now.
“Sorry, we were conferring”
“Conferring?! Conferring about what? And who is WE?!?”
“WE were conferring about what we expected leaving one of our portals behind in this place you describe and WE is, are … well, WE”
“Oh, I see”
“We were hoping you would”
“Jesus!! No, I don’t see!!! I was in a laundromat with my friends, who had found what they thought was a portal of some type in a dryer to some wherever or whenever and we were testing it and then I sat in it, thinking what the hell and why not, and Ant put in some extra quarters just in case, and then I ended up here, in some void, talking to a disembodied voice who is actually the spokes something or other for a bunch of creepy otherworldly voyeurs who apparently leave portals just lying around in other worlds’ laundromats they don’t intend for anyone to find. No, I DON’T fucking see!!!”
Sit: wonder what the hell time it is and check on the cows
Sit:be thankful of some quiet and that no one makes phone calls on Fridays anymore
Sit: depend on mind
Stand: pee, quite a few times or just think you have to. Understand that you are old and it’s just what old does (sprinkle this pee idea in, sprinkle unintended, at numerous other break points during narrative)
Sit: work on something you thought was the greatest idea since the wheel, sliced cheese and the toaster oven this morning
Sit: realize you ain’t got shit
Sit: Don’t look at the news, at least not now, another time with furious intent, you know you’re good at furious, but not at this second’s moment
Sit: re-read some of your things
Sit: Where the hell are the cows?
Troll: step up from under the stairs and announce yourself on the way to a sister who will still be alarmed anyway
Troll: give Rikki, who has your number, knows your footfalls, just at the top, around the step bend, the waddling jiggle jelly belly furry bowling ball with a head some pieces of hard food as a treat and a thank you of her attention
Troll: give Razzy, the sweetest of old girls some treats as well and for the same reason
Sit: realize you still ain’t got shit
Sit: detail your weekend itinerary
Remember: one post that told you you still have inklings of being alive. Re-post it00000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000 … have a cat foot, feets, foots mock you with zeroes
Sit: Laugh at the concept of sleep
Sit: look for cows and hope it’s not too late into a Sunday just yet to call them home
Lay: grab an elusive Z … or two but don’t get ahead of yourself on stringing some more of them together
Forward: repeat next weekend
Now: be good
Now: know cows do come home
//////////////////////////////////////////
(from up top … Remember: one post that told you you still have inklings of being alive. Re-post it)
(originally posted Oct 15, 2023)
I noticed
I got a bit melancholy tonight as I thought of younger days in my made excuse to hit the pharmacy on my way home for a third time in three days claiming old and having forgotten something the first two times around. The melancholy? The pretty Walgreens pharmacy girl. An unintentional intentional forgetting I guess.
I had been there twice in two days, for legitimate reason, the first to the refill of the relatively recent prescription I have of the smallest of pills that are now old man necessary in the largest of ways to keep the blood pressure on keel and then the second, the next day (after I had forgotten to get it all done in one) to a refill of the other pills that I am life tied to now after having discovered an adrenal deficiency that landed me in some hospital shuffling nine days sock footed sliding slippers shift slide dance with nurses and visiting doctors and pudding (or Jell-O) seven years ago.
But the melancholy came from this third day where I told myself I had to, with ulterior motive, go back and grab some Pepto that I had forgotten to pick up on either day to try and hold off the eventual nights where my heartburn or something of the sort keeps sleep at bay and has become quite a bother. I also thought to maybe pick up anything else for appearances sake in case my obviousness of a single item was noticed, paper towels would work I said to myself, yeah, maybe even some TP and Tums and …
I stepped up to the pharmacy counter, sorta fake purchase in hand, hoping to finally have a sec after the first two trips netted only her coworker and his remarkable beard and perfect quaff of hair above it.
She (a day three reason) immediately recognized and checked the alphabet drawer boxes under “F” for a bag around all the others in an overstuffed pharmacy library (so many people, so many ailments) without me asking.
She gave me a “???” look.
“Ok, sorry, nothing to check for me there right now, I’m all medicined reminded old dude good” I said “I just thought I could pretend that I am checking on prescriptions so I could ring my things up here instead of that line up front that is about a dozen people long, including at least two older women maybe getting ready to pay with a check.”
“Sure, only for you” she said with a laugh and a fetching smile.
I suddenly found myself being young again and talking to a pretty girl and remembering when I would have done such or do such now, usually pretty awkwardly after a maybe initial burst of confidence.
I let her know that her new dark color wave of whispy long flowing shoulder falling hair was a great look and sans glasses too, working even better simply for the change of it, which it did, does.
“You noticed?”
Any guy who has missed this is an idiot.
“Well yeah, of course” I said “been meaning to point it out (been dying to) but I just haven’t had chance to be at the counter with you to tell you so”
She smiled a million dollars.
Now, I have long ago given up such things, appealing to pretty girls like I were young again knowing that I have really nothing to offer now, I am broken, old, have suitcases of shit, history under my eyes, have very particular single habits, I have vices, I have broken myself almost intentionally after too many reasons to break, my breath is hard fought these days, I am out of shape, I am a single dude with two cats (formerly so many missed more) and whatever sad cliché that might imply my care of such worries put to the wayside for times to write of things just like this, but she smiled those million dollars and for just that one moment I was not my aged age any longer and I was reminded that she would have been just who I would have awkwardly tried to grab the attention of back when. The pretty girl who would have caught my eye and maybe a me hers if I were so lucky.
And that was it, though I will have to refill my stay alives in another month or maybe even go through paper towels and TP waaaay faster than any single guy should.
A trio of co-workers, Steve, Flounder and Seth at the Latham office of our stations in the Albany area, where I work remotely now for our Beacon group since I moved up this way, were talking earlier this week of a new superhero character they wanted to build, “Prospector Man”, something about an old-time prospector who somehow ends up in this day, some time travel shit and portals according to Flounder, and starts doing whatever “Prospector Man” superhero things might be done in this age, with hammers and swishy watered pans in streams or brooks with glinting gold flecks and “Eurekas’s!!” or fools “Goddamits!” and “Take that you bad guys!!” with Batman comicy “Pows!!” and “Ouches!!!” and “Kabooms!!” and broken rocks with prospector tools and maybe a prospector hat.
It’s all about the hat is what I’m thinking, super heroes gotta have a look right? for legitimacy? even though I don’t really know what a prospector hat may look like.
Now I didn’t get all the details as I was just kind of walking past their conversation of character building on my way to the kitchen to wash my fork and knife, from my lunch, in the kitchen, in the sink, a newfangled stream/ brook, to put them back in my kit in my knapsack in a tall plastic cup in the left hand corner of my desk as you would be wont to do when wanting to wash a fork and knife from your lunch and worldly travels, but I did catch enough that I thought it sounded like a bit of fun.
Then, as I walked past, with my still dirty fork and knife, looking for a stream or a brook, Steve said, “Oh, and Frankenberry could do the theme song” to which I stopped and said “sure?” as Steve has heard some of my tune things. But knowing that Flounder and Seth hadn’t, I figured I’d send ’em an example of a superhero theme and kind of remembered this one from November of last year about a feared possibility then, but sadly a worse realized one now.
A new version of the Mighty Mouse theme song, just with an orange tint (I also have a Ron DeSantis version … there is a link below …)
Listening to it again after some time (I had pretty much forgotten about it … what? I have a lot of these), I realized this one is not really a best example of fun, but though a year old, it is still pretty spot and relevant, very relevant actually, frighteningly relevant.
I think Prospector Man needs to start breaking some rocks here and now
Well, whatever, I will leave that to the movie version.
I know this a long way to go to just repost a tune I had forgotten about, though one that was prescient, but Prospector Man could just save the day, especially if rocks are heads.
Well, that theme song popped into my head again but with the thought of a revisit and instead this time of an Orange Devil.
So, I reworked the lyrics.
I also unintentionally worked in the word “rue” and then thought of Val Kilmer and REAL GENIUS (absolute 80’s comedy gold)
“Rue the day? Who talks like that?”
No, that means nothing here, it’s just funny … right Mitch?
So, a new version of this one then, for the orange instead. Oh, and Ron? You might want to better choose your battles especially when you aren’t able to differentiate horror from human.
Anyway, here is some fun not fun.
Despot Don (Mighty Mouse Trump Theme Song)
MAGA livestock flock to hear the sound
At the rallies where lies abound
“Here I come to save the day!!”
And root out vermin in an ode to Nazi way
.
Yes, I’ll save the bloodline from its plight
Of being muddied by those not white
Even expose leftist fascist thugs
While dimly missing such a statement’s rub
.
I’ll be following the blueprint of 20-25
To destroy democracy is what I’ll strive
Like mind, hive blind, right’s time, will be mine!!!
I haven’t written or posted anything yet about a Tuesday, in a November, in a year of our lord whatever future noted forsaken that will be a line of demarcation for new generations of where a majority in this once grand land, one that had always prided itself on its exceptionalism suddenly, and en masse, just wholly lost the concept of exceptional and also their moral compass, all at once, almost as if these ideals had never really existed in the first place. Practically mocking the mere thought/thoughts.
I just went to the comfort of my Attic instead, to try and grab some solace, with Flash Fictions that I so love and poetry and funny stories and songs sung to maybe listen to again, though they don’t, obviously, have the same import right now (new ones to come though I promise) and I noted that the only traffic in the Attic I have had in the last few days was of just a couple of glances but a one someone, who, out of the blue, came to be a one someone who liked a post I wrote back in July.
An unintended thing really, that post (those are often the best) just a response to a prompt at dVerse poets to write a poem of loss. That made me think of a poem I had written for my father at his passing too many years ago but, and the unintended part, as just posting the poem as was, was not going to be enough. It needed to be more, it needed more reason to exist other than just a poem about loss. It ended up being about heroes and a good man.
I know, but where are you going with this, Frankenberry, in your Attic solace?
Well, it occurred to me, after all this recent damage had settled like darkened dust around broken things, in final results exalted by all the misinformationists and their bots, domestic and abroad, of all the cowards who kowtowed and bent an early knee in hope of favor (looking at you Jeff Bezos you spineless prick) and all those who now glory in victory with, they wish, a vindictive bend.
So, I sit in my Attic solace and thank that one person who took a look back to a post about a good man and a one, a lifelong conservative, who would have been embarrassed by this circus show, who would have maybe even been angered by what he saw and he was a peaceful, understanding man, until he wasn’t and this current would surely make him an “until he wasn’t” and you never wanted to go there, not from possible violence, as so often promised these days, but you just didn’t want to go there.
Disappointment with a look and a shoulder shrug and a turn away can be way more powerful than anything that might involve a hammer.
Know this in your revelry, you actual, real less than humans, the ones you have warned us of and demonize, that you have no “good men” to look to, none, you all are just simple die-cast facilitators of the demise of democracy, you are tools, you have voted for a man who views our democracy and the constitution as a mere hinderance to his needs, and he has needs, even you can admit that you see this dangerous narcissism, or, sadly, maybe you can’t, but you voted for a dark future anyway, and accepted being nothing more than cogs and faceless oath keepers to a new King who only cares of you as much as much as he can use you.
It will come for you, this new “freedom” this new America. If a Viktor Orban, a devil walking tall in his hubris, who the actual devil himself is envious of and raises a “I’m hands off on this guy” while sidestepping around so as not to cause a ruckus chimes in with a thumbs up you know you have reached the bottom of the well. If you applaud this “victory” know that you have tread onto new unwanted ground, a one where no “good” men actually exist and you will find only …
Well, whatever, I will find solace in the Attic and the story of an actual good man, one hard found and one that isn’t you.
Oh, and Nick Fuentes? Dante is fashioning an additional circle just for you. Special.
Just posting then something from a few months ago.
/////////////////////////////////////////
(originally posted July 31, 2024)
A new prompt at dVerse Poets comes from Punam of paeansunpluggedblog and concerns grief and writing of it, if you are able to do so and share such.
It made me think of a post I wrote back in June of 2020, during the pandemic, a post about heroes and about my Father, something I wrote back then surely to ease my fear and apprehensions of the time and a post that included a poem at the end, a cherished one, one that I had written for him, 24 years prior, at his passing.
So I thought to revisit it then (with a couple or a few or a couple plus a few plus a bit more new eye revisions) and to re-post.
Thanks P for having me return to this.
It was really nice to catch up with Dad again.
//////////////////////////////////////////
When I was a kid my heroes were sports stars, specifically baseball and a couple of Pittsburgh Pirates, Richie Zisk and John Candelaria. That’s all I thought “heroes” were, not knowing yet that there was way more to the definition of the word than just that one thing and, not knowing this yet, I never thought to attribute the word to my father. He was just Dad, the guy who was always there, the one who I would check out the window for far too often on a daily evening basis looking to see if his whatever old heap of a car (“it’s only held together by the dirt Stephen” he would laugh) had pulled in yet after work, the one person I always wanted to impress like Richie Zisk and John Candelaria impressed me but, more importantly, the one I never wanted to disappoint.
No, these heroes with gloves and bats and balls were heroes simply because I aspired to their talents and the glory that can come with it but I never wanted to BE them, be like them, as I didn’t know them. But, and I didn’t even really know it then, I was slowly realizing I wanted to be like my Dad, because I DID know him, and he was good, simply just good, the epitome of such (if I’ve taken nothing else from my Dad all these years later it’s the “good” I hope I’ve lived up to). Even in this “I really didn’t know yet” stage I could see how much people liked, no, loved “Hi, I’m Joe Frankenberry from New York” as he would cornily introduce himself years later, one by one by one, to my new friends at college, and not embarrassingly so, as some may have felt of their Dads in such a situation, but endearingly, me being so proud to “show him off”, he so looking forward to the trips back in late Augusts for the newest school year.
I didn’t know then that I wanted to have the same open and giving heart as he, that I wanted to be as accepting of anyone, of any persons no matter their sex, creed, color, religion or any other such nonsense we need to label, to somehow delineate, like that’s necessary. That I wanted to have the same openness to any who would cross paths with his or then mine. That I would take to heart his most steadfast personal mantra of “always try to walk, just a few steps, in someone else’s shoes Stephen”. That I wanted to do nothing more than to sit and listen to stories at family get togethers with the older ones, my dad usually leading the story way, instead of dallying uselessly with my cousins. That I wanted to maybe tell my own stories. That I wanted my future person to be as close to his as I could possibly get.
I didn’t know then that I would veer off a bit eventually and that we would have our differences, which would be all about me becoming my own person I guess, but that it would have a core, a core of Dad’s “good”. I didn’t know then how much that core would mean to me down the road.
This veering didn’t cause a rift though, because that core wouldn’t allow it, but Dad and I did have some difficulty with the times in those days, MY times, my opinions being newly and constantly formed, and refined and confirmed, especially on religion and politics. They were alien to him but he always let them in, lent an open ear. I did, though, try to shield his good, as it was often a challenge for him with my veering but I still kept that core, eventually realizing that his stresses were a result of a changing world that was starting to get polarized and move past him. Dad didn’t like, no, more just plain didn’t understand that we all just couldn’t get along, even with our differences, that there couldn’t somehow be compromise.
I would also tend to call Mom first in times of personal difficulty then, personal difficulties that I thought might be too much for Dad (certainly not giving him enough credit as Dad had definitely seen his share of difficult times, way more difficult than anything I could ever imagine and had been through quite a lot) and there were plenty of Steve issues to call Mom about believe me (Oh, the drama of me) Mom another person I wanted to be but for different reasons. And one I also hope I have done justice to.
As I grew older and wisdom started to slowly grace me I realized that “hero” is a many faceted word, has many iterations, that it has a huge range, from the ones who respond in the moment to aid in sometimes unexpected ways and maybe dire circumstance and sometimes even at their own cost, to the selfless who willingly take on jobs that put their own lives at risk down to the ones who simply provide safe harbor for another’s storm to the dedicated teacher who persevered day after day for a lifetime to try and reach us, us arrogant idiots who thought we knew it all already and who I’m sure offered nothing but frustration too often. Hopefully I gave them a glimmer on occasion when I did respond to their teachings.
To the ones who stood up, were counted to the now new obvious heroes trying their damndest to keep us safe as best they can.
To the ones waited for impatiently whose old cars were only held together by the dirt.
When “Joe Frankenberry from New York” passed away going on 25 years ago now it was right at a time of huge personal upheaval, my short lived marriage coming to an end because of sudden discovered and then desired lifestyle differences, suddenly for me but known deep down to my too soon to be ex wife but a different lifestyle she needed to explore. What I didn’t know back then though was that the lessons learned from Dad, the wanting to be like him and the person he was, to just simply be good, to see all as they are with no preconceptions, no judgements, was the only thing that would get me through all of the anger I could have possibly and easily felt or even unjustly directed. It was a something, a way, that I have clutched, clutched hard to my chest for a Dad taught lifetime now.
Yeah, a few steps in her shoes Dad … I took them.
I just didn’t understand then what hero really meant.
This was what I wrote for him back then …
Been too long a time Dad.
.
The Story Of A Good Man
He watches Gunga Din
And I watch him
Seeing myself in the tears
That fall
To the armchair
To the beat of Gunga Din’s drum
.
I’ve written many lines
About a good man
Not conquered
By evils that say Hi in the street
Every day
Mocking his ignore and pass
.
I’ve written many lines
About a good man
Who asked no questions
To explain pain
Only answers a child knows
But is forced to forget
.
I’ve written lines
Of hate
Thrashing at God
Unfairness palpable
On a piece of paper
I can maybe wave on the courthouse steps
.
But I’ve never written lines
About a good man and faith
Unfailing
Flesh only a hindrance
The higher
Reached without even having to try
.
I’ve never written lines
About a good man’s search
For family
The roots of the tree
Embedded in soil,
Rich
.
About a good man’s search
For history
And reasons
.
I’ve never really written lines
About my Father
Just myself
.
A back to make Atlas envy
An Irish song sung
A family cherished
A God that is good
A heart that was a soul
A day that ended with dinner and talk
.
Gunga Din’s drum beats
Bagpipes implore
Civil War battles rage
Happy girls dance a jig
Irish ballads cry
As do I
At the death of a good man
//////////////////////////////////////////
Nothing you ever do, you facilitators, you lackeys, you blind disciples will rate this man, a real one not some orange demi-god, you are too small and I don’t envy you that.
A new Flash Fiction prompt, this one from Dora at dVerse Poets, a one of 144 word max prose (not including the title) and a one, in this case, to include the line “Out of the ninth-month midnight” from Walt Whitman’s poem “Out of the Cradle Endlessly Rocking”.
The Eye and The Dark
It was time of festival, one last for the cycle, in preparation of another season of The Dark and death, things only living underground, ALL things, when the cycle’s end sweeps the surface clean with wind and freeze and The Eye turns away, but not of disdain they assure the children, and not of old frighting tales but of The Eye’s need to tend Eye otherwhere, other people’s maybe, in his vast dark but spark spotted sky.
“The Eye and those that have preceded have provided shelter for this season that comes Out of the Ninth-month midnight where me must to, after our grand revel day, and while away the cold and stark”
“But father, has no one ever ventured out during The Dark?”
“NEVER ask such questions son!”
The next, what only old time-keepers said was morning, the son could not be found.
T-Minus 1 day. Well this is it, tomorrow, and all I can do now is hope for the best, and maybe get in a prayer or two to this guy.
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(originally posted Jan 28, 2024)
This one has a lot of words, sung at a very speedy clip to an instrumental from a guy named Kevin Macleod (same guy who did the instrumental that Will Ferrell and Kristin Wiig were being silly with at the Golden Globe). I know I posted this only last week but part of it was bugging me and I did a bit of a revision. It was a little monotonous in the verses so I changed up a couple of them.
Much better now I think and still fast with a shitload of words, loves me fast with a shitload of words
My response to the silliness of that recent “God Made Trump” video.
Hi and welcome to the Attic, I'm Frankenberry of said Blog Title and I write of just my everyday here, sometimes funny, sometimes heartfelt, sometimes angry, sometimes funny again because, well, who don't like funny, thoughts on getting older and sometimes stuff that's just kinda shit. I pen and sing the occasional parody tune and other songs, sometimes I even get a little bit poetic or short story-etic or something like that. If you're joining me here I thank you, but just mind your head and feet and keep an eye out for my little Bella and Cricket The Blind as well as the memories of Raspberry (Razzy), Mimi the Quirky, of Blink The Lil' Kit, Grayson the Mighty, Shoes the Big Orange, Shana-Girl, Benny Good Man Benny Brown, Merlin & Bob. Wouldn't want you step on them or anything ... 'cause then I might just have to throw you down the stairs ... damned humans.
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A personal exploration of autism from a brother’s perspective, including family relationships, philosophy, neuroscience, mental health history and ethics
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