I stopped writing here because I felt I had nothing to say that I haven’t already said. I still feel that but now I’m worried that “use it or lose it” might apply to my ability to put words together in a pleasing way. I just read some advice to writers from Ray Bradbury, and most of it involves activating your language skills on a daily basis. I’m not going to argue with Ray Bradbury; he taught me (and most of us) to love reading.

My brain is barely firing, due to boredom, advanced age, or all my meds. I now take a pinch of Adderall with my two antidepressants, not to mention the Ativan for sleep. And the weed of course. I believe this pharmaceutical medley has impaired my thinking but a dull brain is better than one that is squirming like a toad.

I can spend days without one real conversation, because talking to one’s spouse doesn’t count as conversation. It’s more like a series of utilitarian questions and requests, interspersed with sighs and eyerolling.

So let’s talk about TV, because that is my life, second in importance only to my hair.

We started to watch that new Nicole Kidman thing, even though I knew I’d have trouble with her face. The face did not disappoint, and she added a dopey Russian accent. All the elements looked stupid, but I was game to watch until the Dead Son theme reared it’s triggering head. If you watch a lot of cable TV, you will have noticed how often a Dead Son elemement pops up, presumably to supply a dose of grief-porn to the numb viewer.

I am tapped out on this, and can’t take any more unless there’s a compelling reason, which won’t be found in TV dramas. So I refused to watch it. After The White Lotus, it seemed especially pointless, right? I know you loved The White Lotus as much as I did. I hope the hotel manager wins an Emmy! Mike White is such a nut case, in the best possible way. If you haven’t seen “Chuck and Buck,” go find it. You’ll be traumatized, but that’s Art.

Chuck and Buck brings me to a movie called “Humpday” that I watched despite all odds because the NYT suggested it. It’s about a pair of old college friends who decide to have sex for an amateur porn film. Since they are both straight men, hilarity ensues, ahem. More like extreme discomfort, but again, it is Art. I loved it.

I’ve also watched a bunch of violent foreign crime dramas, and there is no body part I have not seen chopped off. There are always hookers and glowering, swarthy bad guys who are hard to tell apart. I have to keep asking my husband, “Which one is this guy?” A perfect example of marital conversation!

Oh wait, I almost forget to recommend “Dave” and “Flatbush Misdemeanors!” They are so delightful, both of them, sharing the virtues of fresh characters, dialogue, and the sense that anything might happen. Go find them and you will thank me.

Finally, I just started watching The Sweet Life Los Angeles. This is going to be my go-to TV when the chopped up body parts and cries of “Putain!” wear me out. It’s a wonderful reality show where everyone is feeling some kinda way, and they refer to each other’s attire as “fits.” It is fucking heaven.

Okay, this is 574 words and I’m hoping Ray Bradbury is satisfied. I really desperately want to communicate, but my tools are either rusty or long gone. Try to bear with me. And let’s hear what TV you’re watching, and what meds you’re on.

Love on the Spectrum is an Australian TV series about single young people on the autistic spectrum, learning to date and looking for love. I don’t know what I expected but I’ve been overwhelmed by how sweet and compassionate it turned out to be.

The series follows several characters, through interviews and during their dates, but it feels less voyeuristic than other reality shows in its gentle and informative perspective. If you’ve had no experience with people on the spectrum, you will see how varied its impact is on their personalities. As the saying goes, if you’ve met one person on the spectrum, you’ve met one person on the spectrum.

Me, I’ve had experience, and I can spot as Aspie from 100 yards, but I’m still learning. I’m increasingly convinced of my own autistic traits, which present in females much differently than in males and are more likely to go undetected even into adulthood.

There are only 5 episodes and I’m putting off seeing the last one because I don’t want to say goodby to its cast. I’ve tried to put a finger on what makes them so endearing, and I believe it’s their sincerity. In an age of studied authenticity, true sincerity is like a beacon of light. When they talk about their hopes of finding a partner, their unvarnished yearning and their simple requirements are almost unbearably poignant.

My inexpressive husband murmured emotionally during one segment, “So heartbreaking.” A guy named Mark was talking about his “disability” and how much he had to offer in spite of it. We love Mark! He is upbeat and positive throughout, although who knows what he’s like off camera. His parents discuss how far he’s come from being a non-verbal and aggressive child. How far we’ve all come from being awful children, but for most of us it hasn’t been such a persistent struggle.

The girls, Chloe and Olivia and Maddie, seem more self-aware and more inclined to joke about their habits. They seem less locked into gender performativity than the guys, who seem keenly aware of what men should act like.

This amorphous gender presentation reminds me of the years I would only wear men’s clothes…until my father threw them away. Even now I feel like a transvestite when I wear a dress and heels. I know I’m female but I feel deeply uncomfortable when someone calls me a “woman”. I’m okay feeling like a gay man in a female body, even though my husband isn’t crazy about this description.

Is it part of my autism? Or just a random trait? As a kid I felt baffled by other kids, who seemed to all know something I didn’t. I love to mimic people and I’m good at it. Females on the spectrum use this skill to blend in, often into adulthood. They are also prone to obsessions with people, who they stalk with unusual vigor. CHECK! Instead of acting out with tantrums like boys on the spectrum, girls are more likely to be afflicted with depression and eating disorders. CHECK! An alarming percentage of girls on the spectrum have been “sexually exploited.” CHECK! Because they don’t know how to say No, and don’t know how to recognize dangerous situations.

My husband and I also love Michael, a 25 year old who lives with his parents and only wants to be a husband. He is so earnest and guileless, it just kills us. What a lovely soul. I think he would make a great husband. Then there is Kelvin, who reacts with horror when a date tells him she isn’t interested in him. “You mean you don’t want to love me?” he screams, as you clutch your heart in agony.

I don’t want to sentimentalize the cast, or to imply that everyone on the spectrum is a saint. I’ve met several who are complete assholes, just like neurotypical people.

But more often, I’ve observed a sincerity that moves me deeply. Defined as “honesty of mind or intention; freedom from simulation, hypocrisy, disguise, or false pretense,” sincerity is a pretty rare commodity. After intelligence, it’s probably what I look for most in a friend. Along with the ability to accept my mimicking, obsessions, and the gay man in a female body thing.

Go watch this show on Netflix and tell me what you think.

Mid-rise. Four-pocket styling. Single cropped leg. Zip-fly. Partially lined. Tonal hardware.

“Single cropped leg.” Roger that. No explanation necessary! Here’s another view:

So good.  All eyes will be on you, hopefully. It’s a casual look, and quite breezy on the one leg, but you can upgrade for a more formal look by getting the nicely proportioned matching jacket.

For some reason, I think the trousers would be better for a one-legged person, don’t you? Instead of leaving that poor exposed leg to just hang there so vulnerably, a one-legged person would look great, without having to to take it to a tailor. I feel the same way about the popular one-armed look in dresses and tops. I just don’t feel good about the bared limb.

Let’s say you’re Dan Cooper, a guy who is currently featured on a reality show in the UK, living in a house with 4 other “extraordinary” people. Evidently, viewers don’t have much sympathy for Dan, who had his leg chopped off in order to feel “whole.”

Dan has BIID, and suffered for many years with the affliction of having one too many legs. Interestingly, this appears to be an extremely British disorder. There’s a great documentary somewhere that spends time with a few of these guys and they are all British. A Scottish surgeon got in trouble for amputating healthy legs, even though he was just trying to prevent his patients from seeking a potentially life-threatening back alley solution to their being bipeds.

Be that as it may! Dan is now a TV personality and people will just have to learn to accept him. Thank god that fucking leg isn’t tormenting him any more. But how good would he look in those mid-rise, partially lined pants at Ssense?

I’m just saying.

It goes without saying that I am horrified and despondent about the election. I don’t even want to type his name. My husband and I have been glued to cable news for hours every day but now we can’t bear to watch. I refused to listen to his acceptance speech – my tiny, pointless protest.

I have no appetite for all the political analysts doing their postmortems. It’s all bullshit.

“The American people want change.” “The American people are sick of the Washington Establishment.” “The American people are angry about being left behind.” “The American people are sending a message.”

Please.

Hillary won the popular vote so  we can’t brand all Americans with any of these platitudes.

Many of those who voted for Trump were motivated by knee-jerk hatred of the Clintons, which is mostly a psychosis rather than a reasoned response to their actual behavior in public life.

But mostly, Trump won because Americans want to be entertained, and Donald brought it, every single day!

Americans wanted a reality show on a grand scale because that’s how they spend their evenings, watching bachelors pretend to fall in love, or Kardashians pretend to argue, or Housewives pretend to form rivalries and alliances, or amateur singers competing for stardom.

Americans loved the Trump show, with his orange face and his Liberace hairdo, his wild insults reminding them of when Theresa upended the table! They love his two douchbag sons, his busty blonde daughter, the hint of incest, the exotic foreign trophy wife, the constant drama and craziness.

This show has everything! And it’s just beginning!

How will the Trumps adapt to their new home? It’s like the Beverly Hillbillies but better! Will they put in a stripper pole for Melania? Will they get gold bathroom fixtures?

And the cast of characters like Giuliani, Christie, Gingrich, true villains in contrast to Donald’s clueless, illiterate narcissism and need for attention!

None of this shit is based on any ideas about “policy change” or “economics.” It’s just a show about a kooky rich family moving into the White House.

There is one other side-note to Trump’s popularity and it was expressed perfectly in a tweet by a journalist whose name I can’t remember:

I don’t like being called a kike, but I understand that people are feeling disenfranchised and want change.

So sit back and enjoy your show, but remember that when you turn off the TV, it will still be on.

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I decided to skip the new Caitlyn Jenner show because (1) I am just sick of her/him, and (2) I was busy watching my other Sunday shit as discussed only last week.

But upon reflection, I feel I should have my own Reality Show and of course, you should too!

Mine will be about My Journey. There will be laughter, tears, and whining, and then more tears. There will be a lot of yelling and cursing.

My family members will make appearances, nagging and berating me. My sister will bring her list of things she resents me for, like she did the last time we went out for coffee.

My gender will remain pretty stable throughout, but my mental state will be all over the fucking map.

Like I imagine Caitlyn did, I will invite you into my closet. I will grab a bunch of stuff and throw it across the room, announcing, “No more Bruce!” Or I can just moan, “Why did I spend money on this stupid shit?” as my husband wrings his hands in the background.

We will review the history of my hair, and we’ll wonder how long before I die of cancer from those ‘keratin’ treatments.

Fine, it sounds a little boring but in fact it will be mesmerizing, like Apocalypse Now crossed with Grey Gardens, only not. Maybe I can get a synopsis of every Caitlyn episode and just follow her/his lead. We can certainly talk about my tits and make-up and how fearlessly I insist on being Me.

I fucking love this. And it’s not just about me. It’s about everyone struggling with existence as an angry, self-involved shopping addict with mood swings who wants attention but doesn’t have a voice. Cunt or not.

Gallery Girls is a great way to feel better abut yourself no matter how awful you are.

The latest reality ick-fest by Bravo TV, Gallery Girls follows the pointless lives of some tragically deluded young women seeking a place in the uppity world of New York art galleries. The word “art” is used very loosely here. One of the girls knows what “collage” means but that’s as far as their art knowledge goes.

The main thing is to hate the girls, and the main one to hate is Chantal. She is a truly horrible girl who needs to die ASAP. Presumably she has been told to play up her obnoxiousness but nothing could redeem her short of severing her vocal chords.

There seems to be a conflict between blonds and brunettes and lower Eastside versus upper Westside (or vice versa.) Since I don’t live in New York, I don’t know the significance of lower, upper, East or West. The blonds seem less pretentious, except for the one who always has to wear fur, even under a fur coat.

There’s an awful Asian girl who likes to pose nude and talk about her “pussy.” Her parents deserve our sympathy and a witness protection program.

The girls like to bitch about each other and they all talk like their mouths are full of marbles. Every statement is a question? Because that’s the kind of girls they are?

I went to the Bravo site to look for a picture and was directed to “like” the Gallery Girls on Facebook. The comments there are unanimously derisive, which makes me feel a glimmer of hope.

Let me put it this way: Gallery Girls comes close to giving red lipstick a bad name.  Please just take it away.

Anyone watching Showtime tonight was assaulted by death in a one-two punch.

On The Borgias, the Pope was devastated by the death of his knavish, syphilitic son. He carried the son into the woods, envisioning  him as a beautiful little boy. As Jeremy Irons began to dig a grave, I scolded my television and turned to my computer.

But then, on Nurse Jackie, the mean new hospital administrator was stunned when his drug-addicted son arrived in the ER on a gurney. I watched in horror as Bobby Cannivale tried in vain to revive his dead son. I couldn’t believe my eyes.

While I sobbed hysterically, Nurse Jackie cut away to a happy scene in the maternity room. In real life, we can’t cut to another scene. The attempt to reassure us with a birth, as if to say “Turn turn turn, there is a time for birth and a time for death!” was cheap and sanctimonious.

I think about death constantly but I don’t want it shoved in my face, Showtime. The death of children is literally unbearable. I realized that the specter of the shattered parents is what drives home the tragedy. The children have flown away, but the parents are left with eternal suffering.

Some of my friends and family wish I would cut to a new scene. One of them has even blocked me on facebook. What’s good on Showtime is less good in real life. If people could watch me on TV, they would switch to another channel.

My husband knew that the Housewives of New Jersey would make me feel better. We marveled at Theresa’s hairline, which threatens to devour what’s left of her forehead.

What would I do without my husband! We went to the Los Angeles County Museum on Sunday, and while we wandered through a dark spiral corridor in the Japanese Pavilion, he remarked, “This is kind of like Disneyland for adults.” Yes,” I answered, “if the Pirates of the Carribean was an adventure in dread, with no pirates.”   He sticks with me through everything, all the adventures in dread that my life has become.

Understanding the symptoms of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder doesn’t help to alleviate them, but it’s good to know that others have felt as angry, numb, desperate and insane as oneself.

I wish I’d learned about this earlier, thereby to have avoided lashing out at everyone in my path, but oh well, what’s done is done.

I’m reading a book that explains about triggers – things that reignite the original trauma, making you relive it, over and over again. But I can’t avoid the triggers and I don’t even know which traumatic event to begin with.

Meanwhile, I went to my first meeting of a Bereaved Parents group. Cancer, suicide, it’s all the same agony. We are  each  clinging to our dead child’s mattress. We are all members of an elite group: the walking wounded pariahs whose stories are too awful for civilians.

A nice lady held my hand and gave me her phone number. There are no steps and no Higher power, just the bond of shared grief. I wish the group met more often.   I have problems up ahead, like ordering a gravestone and Mother’s Day. Lucky for me, I have a supportive husband who never says to hurry up and Get Over It.

Today I stared at tumblr images for five hours. I’ve stopped caring about Libya, fashion, and Mrs. Palin.  Sometimes  I sleep in my clothes so I don’t have to get dressed the next day. I even forgot to blog about how I smashed my finger with the trash can and had to have the ENTIRE NAIL REMOVED.

I am still sort of me, though. We watched a new episode of New York Housewives and I cursed at them aloud with the same happy contempt. Is there a German word for that?

*photograph via here.

I didn’t watch The L Word, but The Real L Word, a new show about Real Lesbians, is providing plenty of excitement at my house. My husband finds it for me on the Showtime channel, and I sit back and talk to the TV for the whole 30 minutes.

My favorite Real Lesbian so far is Whitney, a tough white girl with dreadlocks who acts just like a horny stud. She insists that she’s a slave to her “chemistry” with nearly every woman she meets. She keeps saying “chemistry” like it’s a scientific fact and an iron clad excuse for making out with someone. “I have to admit there is chemistry,” she confesses to a needy girl in a bar who wants to know where they stand. In short, Whitney is just a dude whose balls will explode if you deny him sex.

I also like Mikey, a swaggering blond hipster who can’t get over her own awesomeness. She revels in telling us how stressful her high-powered job is. She loves to boss people around and flaunt her tattoos.

The only time I’ve had to scream out loud was when Tracy revealed the names of her girlfriend’s three children: Nickos, Daughtry and Jagger.

Why isn’t there a fine for saddling your children with awful names? I don’t think I could even be friends with someone who would name their kid ‘Daughtry’. Some things are unforgivable.

As long as the Real Lesbians don’t make me watch them have sex, I’m in. I don’t plan to follow their blogs or tweets, or to buy their special Lesbian iPhone App, but I like all the posturing and soul-searching and unusual facial piercings. I’m also convinced that if Whitney met me, she’d feel the chemistry.

A dead “swimsuit model” in a suitcase doesn’t seem very interesting at first glance. I remember another one they found out in the desert somewhere, murdered by some guy on craigslist.

But now the story has branched out in several directions, promising a perfect storm of sensationalist trash.   The murder suspect is a former reality show contestant who has just finished filming another reality show.   And not only that, but the cops have revealed that the victim’s teeth and fingers had been “removed.”

That is where I draw the line, and I hope you agree.   If you have to kill someone and stuff them in a suitcase, so be it. But the teeth removal, no fucking way. It’s just too awful and unfair. It’s such an insult in every way.

Now VH1 will have the choice of scrapping season 3 of “I Love Money,” out of concern for the murder case, or going ahead with some inane excuse that there’s a moral imperative to air the show.   They must be flipping out at VH1, thinking, “God, what a break! Our ratings will go off the chart!”

I don’t know where this will lead,   in terms of creating a frenzy to distract us from the lack of new Michael Jackson minutiae.   But for now we can all be grateful that we’re not stuffed in a suitcase somewhere without our teeth.

And when we watch a reality show and marvel at how crazy those people are, we will know there’s a chance theyr’e even crazier than they look.