#FreeFuelGrannie’s Screenshots, Aaron Carr

#FreeFuelGrannie’s Screenshots, Aaron Carr

Which is it, Aaron Carr?

Because Twitter would like to know, too.

Is it “over a hundred” screenshots you have of my alleged homophobic racist behavior?

Or is it just those three old tired screenshots you keep hauling out as some deep, repeated and proven evidence of my consistent and thickly bigoted behavior?

Because there is no seething hatefulness or prejudice in any of those screenshots, including that one single tweet of mine, the one which you keep deploying as concrete, definitive demonstration of my raging homophobia: that tweet, which is now hidden due to the suspension of my account, describes “twinks + bears = yimby force.” This tweet is shady as all hell, it’s flat out rude, for sure, but it’s not, by any definition, hateful.

The overwhelming optics of yimby show young, white men, many with beards, many with glasses: Zach Galifianakis and Where’s Waldo.

If you’re going to refer to your opponents as the lead paint caucus, then we’re going to refer to you as twinks and bears.

Which I only did that one time, Aaron.

And which I had acknowledged had offended you (an acknowledgment you yourself had even liked👇) yet you have always, conveniently, omitted this tweet’s existence. You pretend it never happened.

So I have a screenshot, too.

I tweeted out the below apology to you (after hours and hours of enduring a typical endless Aaron A. Carrversation) where you had called me a “con,” a liar who habitually deletes her tweets and a racist, despite not having brought with you even one receipt to demonstrate any truth to any of these accusations.

I have a screenshot, too, Aaron👋

In fact, you had defiantly refused to produce any evidence, as if substantiating your indictment against me was somehow beneath you.

The only “proof” you were able to provide (which was curiously not in reference to me being a con or a liar or a deleter of tweets or a racist) finally arrived at 12:22am, almost six hours after you had initially accused me of being a “con” at 6:41pm: it was just that one “yimby force” tweet, via a screenshot of a purposefully unlinked tweet.

And I suspect the photograph of that tweet was, in fact, not on your phone as a screenshot, as you had teased yet never delivered, but rather was texted or dm-ed to you as our 6-hour marathon dialogue dragged on.

This all raises suspicion.

You had made so many claims, declaring you had screenshots (now a familiar yet empty refrain from you) but the sole substantiation of it all was just one single screenshot, not the “many” tweets you had hissed about having.

And that one single screenshot was finally produced many hours into our conversation.

Why didn’t you provide that allegedly damning screenshot much earlier in the conversation? Why did it take you six entire hours to finally cough it up?

And why have you never supplied any other screenshots? You had alleged taking screenshots of my feed that very day, just about a year ago, January 27, 2021, but the screenshot you provided was from two months earlier, from mid-November 2020.

Odd.

You now claim that you have over a hundred of screenshots of me acting all racisty and homophoby and hatery in general: so, where are they, Aaron?

Where are those screenshots, Aaron?

They would add context to that one screenshot, wouldn’t they?

And I gave you that apology, almost immediately, which resulted in you blocking me, likely because you were caught. You got what you hadn’t expected to get from me, something the rest of us never get from you: accountability.

The fact that you yourself liked my apology also strongly implies you read the tweet: liking is an acknowledgment. But then you immediately blocked me, within seconds. You then blocked me via your Housing Rights Initiative account: I screenshot both of your blocks and tweeted them out.

Your action of using your HRI account to block me (and thus evade any confrontation) is just one reason why I block people who work for you at HRI: I don’t trust you, I don’t trust your yimby organization and I don’t trust the people you pay. That also includes the politicians you give money to: following your money is always an eye opening tell.

You wasted 6 hours, Aaron, accusing me of things you literally could not prove and then you blocked me on your two separate accounts for taking responsibility for the one sole offense you were able to produce.

What do you think that looks like, Aaron?

What do you think you look like?

Because you lie all the time.

You lied about me and the existence of all those screenshots (I mean, unless you have them: it’s ok, we’ll wait).

You lie about Manhattan being 30% landmarked when in reality “historic districts cover less than 4% of the lots and lot area in” NYC.

You also lied about the SoHo NoHo rezoning creating “700+ units of affordable housing at $900 a month for a family of 3.”

In fact, that fantasy has turned out to be a huge lie, and was likely bandied about in a lobbying effort to city council members as concrete truth so to sway the vote for the SoHo NoHo rezoning, and you told it many, many, many times.

So are you also lying about those 97 other screenshots you supposedly possess which can better document my racism, my bigotry, my homophobia, my hatefulness and my violence?

I mean, if you still have those screenshots, that is, as I know how much my content fully annoys you and remains beneath you to even research. But, just in the case that you might still have those scores of screenshots of my behavior, I reckon Twitter would want to see them, too, as I move forward with my appeal.

You’re selling “free fuel grannie” t shirts: the rest of us just want you to free the fuelgrannie screenshots.

Victory Yap

Victory Yap

Shake off your black veil and grab that baby bottle, kids: we have a funeral to attend.

Fuelgrannie is dead.

Ok, maybe not in real life, but I have croaked on Twitter which just might be better than passing away in real life, which Twitter isn’t, amirite?

Ding dong that witch is dead: RIP to a real one.

Emilia Defraudin apparently has died from joy.

Rebel with Good Cause Aaron Carr is selling #freefuelgrannie t-shirts.

Ceiling-gazer Meeeeelar puts me in a league of my own: save a seat in the front row for him, pweeeese.

Ben Wetz, however, is muting both the fuelgrannie funeral and any of its related keywords: SpiderYim is already over this particular trip to six feet under.

But Ben Wetz is amplifying me as he tweets about muting me.

Which presents the conundrum of the yimby victory lap: as they all howl for their opponents to just take the L, yimbys draw almost too much attention, sometimes even inadvertently positive, to their enemies, while also revealing their own bloodthirst for overkill.

Dresden, anyone?

The gloating may go over well in their limited bubble, but even a dead person like me can see the optics and downside of such off-putting bragging. The victory lap can bring its own backlash.

Yimby, as a movement, remains unpopular in New York City: it may be politically protected; it may garner obvious puff pieces from big press; but it struggles to attract much grassroots traction as many New Yorkers remain wary of a group of arrogant, condescending eye-rollers, who publicly infer to private jokes while struggling to connect with anyone outside their tight, mocking clique.

Housing is tapas to them: they move every year, tasting new apartments, trying on new neighborhoods, a living game of SimCity which can only be played by individuals making enough disposable income to crib-hop. Aka, not how the other 70% of us NYCers live.

And I have been calling out that inability to connect for years now: yimby doesn’t partner well; they don’t get their boots on the ground in any meaningful way, sticking mostly to their own closed meetings and whenever they do dare to show up for live, in-person public engagement with other humans, they are sorely outnumbered and jeered.

Because New York City can always smell insincere opportunism: we shudder at fake smiles; we know a scam from ten blocks away; we’re not dumb. We know when we are being excluded and when we are being played: a braggart’s pyrrhic victory does not win us over.

But whaddo I know? I’m dead.

So dance it up with my casket on your narrow shoulders, boys: no fuelgrannie in your backyard.

I’ll be here instead: in real life.

“On This Day, We Are All Fuelgrandchildren😤🍼😩”

“On This Day, We Are All Fuelgrandchildren😤🍼😩”

News of the suspension of my Twitter accounts @fuelgrannie and @QueensStomp gassed up the Twittersphere yesterday, prompting not only the name fuelgrannie to trend (continuing into today, even) but also sprouted a new parody alt, the slyly monikered @fueIgrannie (“the ‘L’ is ~*secretly*~ an upper case ‘i,’ bruh!!!”), a peppery complement to the already existing saliferous parody @gruelfannie.

Relief and delight upzoned the spirits of density bros and their few fellow avocadgals: fuelimination got uninformed boyfriends talking, created bright revelry in a dark Omicron world and hatched Fuelkanda forever as a tender memorial to the demise of my presence on Twitter.

Memes about worshipping at the church of fuelgrannie just might go to my head and the curious support of folks who hate me and had blocked me years ago is coconut-pecan icing on a German chocolate cake.

Yimbys are understandably concerned about the social media censoring of sarcasm: after all, salty, spicy, sarcastic takes stack on top of each other as vertebrae to form the spine of yimby engagement: if my unwell, homophobic, whack job racist self can get banned for irony, well, then maybe we are all at risk for such consequences.

We’re all fuelgrannie now.

(Or is it fuelgrandchildren?)

But more yimbys than not still decry the whole “defend fuelgrannie” thing, with the more savvy ones obscuring my name so to discourage any topic trending; the most important result for them is that I have been banned and I need to stay off and away and silent. They had tried once before to permanently shut me up and hopefully this time it will ackshually stick.

Yet I’m not really silent, at present, not like I was the last time around. I wasn’t blogging much in 2019 and my name certainly never trended back then. I’ve had more traffic on this particular site in the past 48 hours than I had for most of last year and my relevance on Twitter oddly persists, despite the fact that my account is hidden and I am unable to engage.

So I’m not really gone, am I?

I mean, you’re reading me right now, aren’t you?

Fuelkanda forever, baby.

My Year of Blocking Dangerously

The New York Architectural Terra Cotta Works Building, built in 1892 and landmarked in 1982; on Vernon Boulevard, in the shadow of the Queensboro Bridge, taken Jan 18, 2021 by yours truly

It has been one year since my Twitter account was suspended. It was a jarring experience for me which unfortunately changed my behavior and engagement on my favorite platform.

It also turned me into a blocker.

Before this incident, I had prided myself on not blocking back those who had blocked me so to keep my content available for view to anyone, especially to those who had obstructed my view of their content.

And I had been blocked by some high profile pork: Pulitzer Prize winning New York Times investigative reporter Serge Kovaleski, perhaps best known for having been disability-shamed by Donald Trump; Amazon’s Global Head of Public Policy Brian Huseman; Yimby blogger Market Urbanism, aka Stephen Smith; and xenophobic Trump supporter and onetime comedienne Roseanne Barr. Roseanne had blocked me for calling her a racist and the other three had blocked me over my anti-Amazon HQ2 stance.

But I never had blocked back. I had no reason to.

Until my account got suspended.

I had realized something might be wrong in the late afternoon of Friday, October 4, 2019 as I scampered out my front door for a meet&greet I had organized for New York District 12 congressional candidate Lauren Ashcraft: the Twitter app on my phone wasn’t loading. I closed it and reopened it several times. It was frozen.

At first, as I raced down towards Northern Boulevard, I had wondered if Twitter itself was down but a quick check on a separate browser confirmed my daunting suspicion that nothing was wrong with the site itself and that my account seemed to have been suspended.

I had been suspended once before, a few months earlier during the summer in 2019 but it was more of a “limitation:” a 12-hour timeout doled to me for my tweet to a white nationalist, threatening to report their racist rhetoric. That tweet of mine had somehow got *me* reported instead and I was placed in Twitter jail where I had received an explanation of the “temporary limitations” I would endure for the determined half day sentence, along with an ever-present countdown of when my account would be reinstated.

I knew what I had done and was given an end time.

This time around though, I was given no explanation, no time sentence, no information whatsoever.

“what’d i do?” I typed in the offered pop-up to Twitter as I hauled across to 40th Avenue, “i don’t even know what i did!”

Frowning, I turned on 23rd Street to head south towards the LocalNY hostel on 44th Avenue where I was hosting Ashcraft’s event in their lobby lounge: what exactly did I do?

 As well, I realized to my horror that a few of the people attending this event could only communicate with me via Twitter: it wasn’t just my feed which I could access, I also lost the capacity for direct messaging and interpersonal contact.

As the group arrived, we checked their newsfeeds: my throat tightened as we all saw my account definitely had been suspended. And in the moment, with nothing to be done about it, I parked my worry to the side of me, like a brick formed by hardened turds, even though I am sure my freakout patina was palpable.

We had a great night: a rousing conversation about how we could make our borough and city a more fair and equitable place to live over a few rounds of five dollar locally-produced Queens draft beers; our loud voices full of passion and hope as we sat in what was formerly an elevator factory and was now a budget boutique hostel. It was what I have become accustomed to here in my magical industrial Long Island City neighborhood: a typical Queens evening.

Ashcraft caught my deer-in-headlights eye as the night wound down and the look of abject anxiety crawled back on my face, newly distracted by my resurging thoughts on how I was going to handle what was happening and wondering anew what had set it off.

She said to me, “you got this.”

“Do I? Ugh. It’s my name, I just want it back, waaahh” I whined.

“I know,” she laughed. “You got this.”

I knew she was right; I knew I was going to figure it out, I was thankful she could see me freaking out, I was thankful to not be alone in it. I remain grateful I had something to do that night and that it was with people who support Ashcraft’s campaign, a gathering of smart and caring folks, good company.

I exhaled. She made me feel better. I put on my jacket and hugged my thanks; our night had been a success.

Ambling home in the dark and back in my thoughts, I had no idea what to expect with Twitter and still no idea what I had done.

I was already thinking what name would I have to concoct up, what variation on fuelgrannie I would have to use: fuelgrannienyc? fuelgrannietragicreturn? fuelgreatgrannie? I didn’t want to lose the perfect simplicity of my already ridiculous name, one I had been using for decades, since the internet’s inception.

And I had a suspicion, already, as I traced through the familiar streets back to my apartment building: I was starting to wonder if I had been strategically attacked.

I had certainly made a lot of enemies on Twitter but most of them were accounts I had been dealing with for months at that point, who were pro-Amazon, conservative and neolib local Yimbys. I reckoned that if this was their doing, they would have already attacked me by now, wouldn’t they have?

And the hate I have received over the years has remained thick and gooey: to this day, I am regarded as a “kook;” “fauxgressive psycho;” “spinster;” “delusional;” “bitter angry job kill[er];” “biggest liar;” “Scottish Slaveowner;” the “White Female Micro-Aggression that gave us Trump;” a veritable “Karen in the wild” with “inner ugliness” who needs to “get help.” I have often been purposefully misgendered: one user went as far, snidely, to ponder if I was transgender. My family has been mocked, including my deceased parents. After I had addressed the mocking, I was then accused of using their deaths to “gain sympathy” In two separate tweets.

I was used to being hated on Twitter but I wasn’t used to being silenced.

After all these denunciations which have been tweeted to me, and are still tweeted to me, just what was it that *I* had said which would have caused my account to be disabled at this juncture? I could not even report most of the insults tossed at me because they did not violate Twitter’s terms of service: I mean, “White Female Micro-Aggression Scottish Slaveowning Karen in the Wild” isn’t a threat. It’s untrue but there’s, oddly, no classifications for falsehood on Twitter reporting, only for threats and racial slurs.

So what, specifically, had I done or said? It was consuming not to know.

After arriving home, I announced my news via a late night pity party post on my Instagram stories, a screenshot of my greyed-out Twitter page, the avatar now an egg; my very moniker looking suspicious, like I was guilty; “account suspended.”

I pasted a sad face on the screenshot; I felt so oddly disconnected, not having access to Twitter. It was like my second mouth. I had nowhere to go to vent, other than my Instagram stories; I wasn’t about to whine about what happened on a permanent post because the more I thought about it, the more deeply I suspected that I had been targeted. For the moment, though, I wanted to keep that to my chest and not make my thoughts public.

I was exhausted, defeated and very much needing to express myself, a habit I never realized how much meant to me until it was frozen away from me.

What am I going to do? What will this adjustment look like? What name will I have to pick?

I still had my blog websites, although they had lain dormant of late. But the thought of them, of fleshing out my longform once again, felt like a future to me. And I still did “own” the name fuelgrannie, that personality is permanently linked to me, yet now I faced the odd hurdle of zero entry to the largest platform for that moniker. It was a loss to me; I didn’t understand how much of an assumption I had made that I would always have access to Twitter and to the content which I had created. My suspension earlier that summer had affected none of that: the only restriction then was a privately delivered chastisement declaring I could neither post nor like tweets for 12 hours.

This night, though, I couldn’t even open the app.

What, specifically, had caused this suspension? And, perhaps more importantly, why was it happening now? Why this week? Why this timeframe?

Because this week and timeframe did hold a significance regarding a particular faction of my adversaries, which is why I had my suspicion. My suspension had been activated less than 48 hours after a certain NYC pro-Yimby group had held their monthly meeting on Wednesday, October 2, 2019 in downtown Manhattan, the very same week this same Yimby group’s board members and members had started blocking me on Twitter. The timing to me was telling.

But I had no proof that it was them who were responsible for getting my account suspended.

And I could not rule out that all of this may in fact be due to one of my own tweets: but which one?

I was so curious. The dearth of information and explanation was a major part of my anxiety and added to my feeling of having no control. How do I fight something I am not sure of?

After a few more hours, Twitter emailed me with a copy of my own pop-up plea and instructions to write back with any other pertinent information so to appeal my suspension. Immediately, I wrote back with another “but like what did i do?” short message.

After I sent it, I dawned on me to fight more.

Another email came back from Twitter, acknowledging my recent correspondence and the same instructions to follow up.

I had a new distraction: what I would say, what I would write, to get my account back. I wanted my content back, too, not just my name and followers and I needed to construct an argument to get all that back, via this one open door. I had to plea for all the work I had done which was essentially stored and visible via my account: my tweets and threads were buckets of information; I didn’t want to lose any of the research which I had already presented. At the very least I was going to beg for a printed version of the 10 years of content I had created.

The following afternoon, Sunday, I finished and emailed my plea. Less than 36 hours later, on Tuesday morning, I got my account back.

Unshooketh.

Once I was finally able to access my profile, I immediately started blocking all the emeffers who had blocked me along with anyone else who had danced on my grave during my suspension or any accounts which had the word “Yimby” in the bio or who had pathologically supported gentrification or who had threatened violence or who had mocked my family.

Frankly, I would rather not block people. Over the course of 2019, I had gotten to a point where I had already stopped directly communicating with accounts who I had caught in lies or who had insinuated bodily harm towards me. Some of them had still tried to goad me into conversation but I ignored them. I was already comfortable and practiced in paying no heed to these few people.

Before my suspension, I had had no need to block people: I was proud not to block; proud to be visible, proud to be found, proud not to hide.

But when my voice on the platform had been shut down and silenced, with me having no idea what had happened or who had been involved, the only action I knew to take to protect my account and ultimately my voice was to block troublesome accounts.

So that’s why I block other users: that’s the reason and only reason.

Not because I “hate” those accounts or am “scared” by them or am “weak with no spine” or “can’t take discourse.”

Nope: I block people because I “do not want them fucking with my account.” Very simple.

I don’t want my voice taken away from me: that’s my priority on Twitter now. My priority used to be just expressing myself and it is, obviously, still that but it is also about just keeping my account safe from people who want to silence me and would prefer I not have or use this platform.

I used to view blocking differently: now I find it to be a fair move.

I do believe, especially now over a year’s passage of time, that my account had indeed been targeted. My understanding is that any account or tweet which receives 70 to 80 reports in a short amount of time is automatically flagged and the account suspended until further investigation. Perhaps that week where the Yimby group members had started blocking my accounts and had coincidentally also held their monthly meeting, there may have been some organization of their membership, their board and whatever sock-puppeted comrades and fellow fuelgrannie haters they could muster up. The timing is significant and telling; I cannot ignore it. Equally telling is the fact that I directly named and specifically accused that group to Twitter and got my account back less than two days later with nothing missing, neither content nor followers. It makes me suspect that Twitter found this to be a valid, cogent and potentially provable hypothesis.

And to this day, my account remains Twitter-wonky.

I still receive the same message every time I check my tweet stats: “Looks like there was a problem with your account,” along with its prompt to follow up with Twitter Ads; it is the exact same message I got that night when my account was frozen and has never stopped appearing since.

looksliketherewasaproblemwithyouraccount
“Looks like there was a problem with your account

I have even followed up a few times on that prompt which then led me to this stilted sort of appeal process, several occasions ending with an instant rejection of my appeal along with a vague reprimand to watch my language (I mean, there is literally porn on Twitter but please tell me again how offensive my account is) but to date, I have never been given any reason or detail on any specific issue I had caused or what I can do to amend it. So I have just learned to live with this chronic ad prompt.

And yes: my chronic blocking.


Monday, November 10, 2014: Live Tweeting Gotham, Denying Self of Beer and Ice Cream and a Plus-Sized Love Triangle on Judge Judy

MAYBE one day I will actually post a Monday entry on a Monday night. Not tonight. It’s already tomorrow afternoon.

LIVE tweeting is a challenge, especially for a meticulous slowpoke like me (hi, it’s Tuesday): I’m a tippy-tap typer to begin with (I correct via the backspace button, like a lab rat pressing for more crack) and my real-time writing is made all the more slow when time is of the essence, which it certainly is during a one-hour show. I am also compelled to read my tweets out loud to myself before I post them #amwritingandtalkingtomyselfatthesametime which putters me down even more: live-tweeting may be a fast game but this girl still has to be meticulous.

And the heat is on when you live-tweet: it’s all done in real time, as it happens, so your tweet becomes redundant within less than a minute, and since Gotham was quite lively last night, the tweeting storm was as punchingly furious as the episode itself. Despite my lack of speed, I love the involvement: it’s like watching a sport and being a part of it all at the same time.

It’s not just about the tweets I write myself: it’s also very much about what other people are saying, whether it’s trending en masse or not. I think some of the greatest tweets don’t necessarily get insane attention but still add to the landscape of what people are thinking; thus, for me, a huge aspect of this sport of live-tweeting involves watching #gotham refresh on my search feed so I can see what people are saying, hundreds of ideas at a time which I scan feverishly, looking for tweets I might retweet or just favorite (favorite as verb, not adjective). I don’t steal tweets: I don’t want to, I don’t have to. Plus why miss out on the fun of sharing and supporting someone else’s brilliance? That’s part of the fun of Twitter: you’re not alone. My retweets add to the patchwork of my own timeline: I love my retweets in the same way I love my original thoughts because they speak for me. They show anyone looking at my profile who I am because of what I like, not just what I say. Ourselves in thought: that is Twitter.

SOME of the funniest and tightest tweets for me last night featured #YungGotham, offering cogent analysis from a vox populi that is very urban, very smart and very, very funny. And as a gal who will retweet or favorite an incredible, tight tweet with little hesitation, it is a connected experience to read something better than what you would have written yourself and to then be able to use it, giving credit to its creator, as a means of expressing yourself. It’s a concept of “respectful concurring,” if you will: it waters the seedling of the actual thought for the person who expressed it. When a concept, a tweet, goes viral, it’s essentially a resounding chorus of WhoVille residents yopping: “This is what I’m thinking, this speaks for me.” It’s glorious to see: humans agreeing on a particular thought. It is philosophy and democracy in action and it is a beautiful dance to behold.

And that is what I truly love most about Twitter: how its posts create one living, breathing thing, real-time thinking, which is an organism that communicates while it grows, and it grows solely from its input, its ever-expanding data; it continually evolves, it is never static. The 140-character limitation for posts lends to the creation of quick, tight poetry, in clean, gymnastic one-liners. Twitter has restored my faith in humanity because I can find content that is so funny and so real and so insightful. My fellow humans speak their mind and, when their voices fully resonate with me, it makes me feel so much less alone in my own experience.

I’ll do a more proper entry on Gotham itself very soon. Gotham, yung and old, needs its own space: I just love that show and could go on and on. Gorgeous, violent Gotham seduced me with its first commercial, some several months ago during this past summer; I think I may have even drooled. It’s so NYC, so Queens, so steely, dark and divine. But today I am just writing about live-tweeting during Gotham, not the show itself even though it’s one of the only shows I try to watch live, to watch along with Twitter.

I ABSOLUTELY had to indulge in one taped episode of Judge Judy, just one, because I must behave and one half hour of pure fantastic awfulness makes me feel less guilty than a whole hour. Yesterday’s episode involved a rivetingly stubborn woman who beat her husband’s lover: even Judge Judy reprimanded the wife to punish the husband, not the husband’s lover but the wife, in front of us all, refused to accept the screaming truth: some people are so watchably moronic, it is television gold. The icing, or let’s say the Velveeta, on the cake was that each party, husband, wife and lover, were all very tall and quite large. I love characters in action, a love triangle that tips the scale at 900 pounds: there is symmetry to it, a visual sensibility.  The beaten up lover was rewarded the maximum settlement of $5000: justice.  The wife remained belligerent during the exit interview: injustice.  It’s still all fabulous because it’s La Judy.

TONIGHT 11/10/14  I am amazing: instead of inhaling a pint of ice cream, I am on my second can of seltzer for dessert (and some Vanderpump Rules) and we all know how I feel about seltzer, it’s bubbly manna from heaven. My best friend tells me seltzer makes bones brittle: after a pause, I say I’ll take my chances. Bubbles apparently put bubbles in bones, according to her. But I love bubbles, never champagne, only seltzer and beer and I do have to have them on occasion. Tonight I am pretending to be one of those people who have seltzer instead of a full pint of Ice & Vice ice cream for dessert. I have been incredibly good on the ice cream front: only one pint last week and it was the first one I had had in weeks and I only had it (Three Twins’ Mint Confetti) to help me recover from a previous night’s love affair with four cans of Sixpoint’s The Crisp. I am officially too old to manage more than two cans, may the lesson finally be learned.

Today also is my dear friend Cary’s birthday, we’ve known each other since we were tiny, the best kind of friend to have. It is also Sesame Street’s birthday, the 45th anniversary of the first episodes airing. Some of us, Cary and me included, remember this event so well that we readily recall Sesame Street’s pre-debut promotion and being excited to see the first episode. I am dating myself: I was the ultimate consumer for Sesame Street. I was the perfect age for this show that revolutionized aspects of television way beyond the realm of children’s education: at five years old, I ate it up, jumping into that easily accessible and yet magically unattainable world of Muppets who were more real and fully drawn than actual humans. Bert and Ernie, in retrospect certainly are suspicious live-in bachelors, but they are also both sides of me: the furious nerd who always comes in last (and is funny looking) and the squatty clown who always sees the upside (and is equally funny looking). Me and me.

OKAY and this woman who hit this guy with her high heel shoe on the F train? No one deserves to get knocked down but why did she aggravate and bully him? What a nasty person: she pushed and pushed and pushed. Shame on her, I hope she learned something about herself but maybe not, if her friends were egging her on. That’s a tough brutality which cannot be easily changed.

DRITA and Karen back for next season of Mob Wives, on December 3.  Girl, I do not know how much I got to give to the Mob Wives this time around, but I do love me some Drita: fierce Drita Drita, she ain’t no meter maid. And I am curious about Miss Karen, Miss Junior Female Bull, and what she’s been up to. But I wonder how much juice is left, though, in this franchise and I am growing less interested. I have to limit my reality TV: can’t waste too much of my precious time watching the fluffyfluffy.  Mob Wives is the fluffyfluffy.  Vanderpump Rules is the fluffyfluffy.

Gotham is not the fluffyfluffy: I can’t focus too well on anything when I first watch it: Gotham is something I always have to watch twice. I’ll tell you why soon.