Posted 2:00 AM by sport

my sister got a call from the city medical examiner. seems they identified a leg as having belonged to my nephew pete.
his fucking LEG. does this agony ever end?
anyway, the reason they called her instead of the merry widow is that the phone number on file for regan grice-vega was no longer correct. since only the widow can decide what to do with pete's remains, they asked if maureen could contact regan for them. after all, they must be in touch, right?
regan grice-vega has continued to refuse any contact between my sister and her granddaughter.
she has had occasional (postal-only) contact with my mother and my brother, who apparently send money for ruby, the child. so my mother gets the occasional photo of ruby to weep over, provided she keeps those checks coming.
my sister, already enduring a permanent grief unimaginable to anyone who hasn't shared her experience (and there are others... more than you think... parents of victims, shunned by the spouses of their lost beloved), is newly traumatized. she contacted pete's firehouse to relay the information to regan grice-vega.

there will be no press attention or oprah winfrey appearances for this, so regan will gain no opportunity to bask in limelight. there is no financial gain for her in seeing that this body part is properly buried. her apathy towards pete's memory was evident in an obscene ny daily news article last september, wherein she remarked that she's "moved on" and that she no longer has pete's daughter wear the gold pendant with his picture on it (a gift from my sister). so what do you suppose will happen to pete's leg? the garbage heap, most likely.

while nearly every day i recall muslims worldwide dancing with glee after the towers fell, the image doesn't inspire in me half the murderous rage as the mere thought of regan grice-vega; this ugly little cunt from brooklyn has earned my special loathing. i blame her for the despair that accelerated my father's death and which has decimated the spirits of my entire family. my sister, who has been an incredible help to us with the babies, is literally sick over the whole thing, wondering what will happen to this part of her slain child. i'll bet regan grice-vega's cousin colin quinn could think up some swell jokes about all this.

in other news, for those of you who retain a mild curiosity about my continuing disintegration but who'd never think to call or write, i have finally agreed to take an antidepressant. o frabjous day!

this will probably preclude drinking, which is the one activity i still enjoy. but never fear, it will not stop me from tinkering late at night with these dire little songs you'll probably never hear. i'm attempting to write enough of them for the one-man, home-recorded album that is my only option (since i am now virtually friendless, and a stranger to the kind community of musicians - even the suburban-weekend-jerk-off contingent) for delivering the big number 4 album to krs ... i'm sure they anxiously await my newest work of genius and will do everything in their power to see that it gets noticed.

as far as the babies go, i have decided to reserve mention of them for only those people to whom i actually see or speak... those precious few who've proven they still give a fuck, and you know who you ain't. miles and lily are the only sweetness in my world.

discussing them in this blog would be, like my entire creative career, a case of casting pearls before swine.