I learned about the professional insurance policy taken out by Peter Gabriel and Yoko Ono when a man with an autistic child jumped on me for complaining about their rape of my deaf advocate Jeannie in their war rampage over John Lennon; the man subjected me to the knife of his convoluted hatred for me, sneering that Gabriel was so nice to his child he couldn’t imagine him doing anything evil.  If I were him I wouldn’t leave a child alone with the cannibal.

     Not everyone in Pittsburgh was as in awe of Gabriel as I was when I interviewed him for my school paper.  Pittsburgh has regional authorities who serve as their own brand of petty celebrity, operating at large in newspapers, radio and television.   Norman Schwab of Guerilla Theater in Squirrel Hill, a Jewish Holocaust Survivor Community where I grew up, was present when Gabriel showed up for his sound check and agreed to a short talk with me.   He saw how happy I was. At my college we have published writers.

    I noticed Stewart Onan at Dan Lowe's publication party, a point of interest, since Onan grew up with Stuart Sheppard and knew Shawn Brooks who Rosa, the fairy goddess who Gabriel sent to cover for the AIDS war game on Mt. Desert Island by targeting my fidelity and to punish me in their rampage, ended up working with in my dead father’s former department at PITT.  Did you know that Shawn Brooks locked me out of a church at the age of 12 when an armed gang chased me inside threatening to kill me? Yup, he threw me out into their hands and not one teacher in the school, where I had cried for my life in the office, reported my absence, even after Mr. Matey sent me to them for biting my fingernails bloody in his class and pleading with him to walk me home.  Absence, ... for a month. They attacked me as I walked blindside, kidnapped me in a stolen car, molested me, tortured me, gassed me, and force fed me the nerve agent that Rosa targeted for them with the help of Wilma Coon. My question then is, wasn't Wilma Coon really already working for Dr. Proctor on Operation: Humiliate Jimmy? She was the co-worker who worked on my vulnerability as a deaf employee, writing prurient, prying notes that she used to blackmail Rosa, snickering to me, “Somebody’s going to control her.”

         Yoko Ono and Proctor were working together out of Warhol Museum.  Yoko Ono’s myth thrives under rumors of being criminally insane, quenching the laughter of hardened gargoyles whose names she was given by the men who hired them to kidnap and torture me as a child, a ragdoll to serve for bleeder art of the AIDS victims in Hustler Society.   They were powerhouse depredators who had constructed a persona of me as a jealous possessive to cover the truth. The letter to Leslie Katz, which served to unite peers behind a Christian Conflict Theory group at WQED, with Matt Marcus in charge of my reputation, shows exactly what was going on, my resistance to arguments that were selling their catastrophic hostage taking, sexual violence, and ongoing terror.  They are very lewd people, and when my language lacked the skill to handle what they were doing they used this mirror of their souls to project into me and extend their pornography manufacture under the claim of race redress research. Proctor’s drug alibi, a notion about Pittsburgh streets, was racially skewed as revenge on a white symbol, a sissy.

          AIDS became sociology, they let it spread, theorizing as they went along.   Yoko Ono announced that giving me AIDS, which they haven’t yet, would be justice, shrieking, “I want him diseased!”  Yoko Ono is running a military licensed newtype case study of acceptance of my negative status, and like Gabriel’s autistic child, she has as insurance AIDS victims who refuse to accept it.   It’s galling that Zappa put on a show protesting AIDS in defense of those who authored the crime but they needed a play to channel the feelings that the on the macro-level was all taken care of.  “I’m running the show!” is the war cry of the assassins. How perfect to have slipped to them the script they planted, of Lennon’s closet Danielle, the kooter girl the authorities once found isolated in a house away from all humanity for years.  A child, battered, in my case, deaf, brain traumatized, hiding in the closet, not so fast, Ringo said, I’m hardcore, he chuckled, there’s money in Hustler; kids are kids, the tough ones know how to fight. Lennon’s peace tripping was always stylish with British pervy.

      Rosa came onto me as a prism of their acceptance and rejection, yet keeping life simple and sweet, honest and fair, by all cherry blossom appearances, but hardwired to attack the neuroplasm they had injected into the queerbait.  Norman Schwab would appreciate the game, his old friend Cathy Abel did it before shipping me to the Governor’s School with a Book of Practical Jokes, for a going away present. At the gig she made off with a Gabriel looking type named Jury.

        It’s not that I didn’t report torture or that the evidence isn’t obvious.  The evidence is so obvious in fact that the doctor who examined me lives in terror for being identified with stating the obvious, a professional obligation no other doctor seems to oblige.  Psychiatric Society, I learned at Seattle’s Navos Detention house does not in point of fact increase in competence as it gets more official, only in authoritarianism. They are, after all, the champions of a world class chauvinist pig named McCartney for whom might makes right and lying on the charts is all part of his social enigma.   Union privilege is sort of obligatory corruption. They had Eric Slagle going, “watch out for glass in your food,” while laughing about making off with my fiance, “MUH MAN!”

         Stripped of life, and destroyed by them, I managed to keep my chin up, but they went on to rape the deaf girl who finally taught me sign.  Pittsburgh Schools not only refused, but never once reported my absences. Sean Lennon just basks in the idea of himself as young and evil, smaller, and with less visibility than his old man, but with grievance to burn.   The situation was kept devoid of professionalism for the accused, routinely shitting on my rights, while following me with shoplifter detective types. The F.B.I. look out for Penis Gabriel, Tenth Earl of Mar, who promised HitlerReagan he would be blessed.

           The idea of a last stronghold of Aquarians facing the Empire in the AIDS attack was a lost cause because the Christian Conflict Theorists had worked undercover creating the commune houses which they kept affordable until evil hour when they closed them.  It became a food fight of the living dead. Obviously with infidels at stake there is no common cause to hold onto among the other victims of the new exterminationists from Britain, America, Israel and Russia, meaning Yemen and Arab Spring. Muslims aren’t in it for hippies or the stupidities of pop art satire.   Paeons of hate like King Crimson creamed with this mess.

        Ming Na Wen’s faithful dacoit, Tom O’Connor, who would wrestled me to the floor in a pre-seizure state, shouting into my head, “You work like a fucking nigger Crary,” had a favorite joke, “You like Peter Gabriel? Hahahaha.”   “HE DON’T LIKE YOU! Hahahahahahaha.” It was a joke in the script where paeon King would sing, “Don’t make no difference what you think about me, make a whole lotta difference what I think about you, yeaugh.” To think I liked them.  The crime persona is their sanction, which is why they will never let it go. It is the social construct of a persona invented about me to cover that I was brutally, brutally tortured, and is the ragdoll of a white sacrifice that is the consortium of the denial.  Music IS the handmaiden’s tale.