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What does "BR[O]ADFORD"All trash to recycling! mean?


"They put me off at the wrong stop when I was born." (Doug Schaff / BMcC[18-11-46-503])

BMcC[18-11-46-503] Selective Service System (SS[S]) identification number: 18-11-46-503[4].

My name is a leash. I do not aspire to be a dog. (BMcC)

L'esprit d'escalier. Falling man.
"The tragedy of the commons" (Garrett Hardin)

"Transferred use of the surname arising from English place-names composed of the Old English elements brad ('broad') and ford (a ford, a 'place to cross a river'). Short: Brad." (; emphasis added)

BMcC name means: Tread on me!

So, there you have it, my reader: The label that was affixed to me (BMcC[18-11-46-503]) at birth means: A broad shallow place to cross a river (or: a shallow place to cross a broad river). I was born to be a place upon which you may choose to tread, in going forth in your life (or, if you must retreat, like the tattered remnants of the German army at Stalingrad, in WWII... 卐), selecting to walk upon me because less of your body will get wet in the river of time and life that way, than if you took a different path. A bathmat. Why not a toilet? They certainly [trick or...] treated me like one.

Please, ladies, don't wear stiletto heels! And, gentlemen, if you are wearing jackboots, please make sure the hobnails are hammered flush with your shoe soles! If they had given me a banner at birth, it would have read:

Tread on me!

Did my birth parents or the presumptive physician (doctor, really, i.e.: teacher?) who delivered (←telling word there! Postage due?) me and circumcisedAll trash to recycling! (was this out of religious belief, or just a nasty habit so that I "would not look different"?[1]) the vulnerable infant I was at the time, know this? In my parents' case, of course not. My parents did not know much of anything, due to their societal provenance or, rather, lack of same. The physician? He may only have had advanced job skill training, not also humanistic education, which deficiency Carl Jung says was the root cause of Sigmund Freud's dogmatism.

To conclude: I have two signatures which I have created and made myself, or commissioned, but which presumably are not legally useful for a citizen of the United States of America who is not a sublunary star. I have also acquired permission from the publisher to use the old Martinus Nijhoff (The Hague) printer's mark, which they no longer use. (Anent: "Invenit et fecit", see: here.)

One signature means: cat; some people(sic[2]) admonish me people think I am either psychotic or mentally defective when I: "Meow!" to persons, but it does not modify their ideation on this matter that I have cultivated a "red neck" neighbor with 3 cats, who likes it. Meow!

Nartinuus Nijhoff logo, used with permission, all rights reserved  Knotted letter design. Click on image to see a digital photograph I took with an early consumer digital camera, 05 January 1997.

The other signature references knotted letters in classical Japan. (The non-Sophoclean Chorus of American post (POTUS №40) [Ronald Reagan] prideful ignorance, at this point, chants in unison: "What? Huh?"). The name on my credit cards reads: "B MCCORMICK". I sign checks with a scribble. I reference my self here in A place to/for Study with the character string: "BMcC[18-11-46-503]". Q: What's in a name? A: Ascii characters.

I was a "sensitive" child

I was a "sensitive" child. Boys are supposed to grow up to "take it like a man". That may be appropriate for training young minotaurs, but it was not right for me. My "sensitivities" could have been a treasure for myself and also for all the more insensate ("emotionally challenged") adults around me who could have learned from my way of being in the world how to improve themselves and become more honorifically human[e]. I should have been encouraged to become even more "sensitive".

I was "sensitive" to my maternal biological progenitor intruding[3] on me and impinging on me. The woman did not respect the boundaries and protect the integrity of my fragile little soul. I should have been encouraged to become even more sensitive to being intruded upon by any and all persons, including that mother bitch, and irrespective of whether she was responsible for her behavior or not. If The Invisible Hand did it to her and she was just mindlessly passing it on down to me, it was still wrong and it needed to be stopped. I should have been assured that I would not suffer any harm, retribution or even inconvenience (such as them trying to make me feel sorry/guilty for my reaction to my mother's behavior maybe making her feel bad). I could have used help from a fiduciary empathic educated adult to formulate this, since I was just a toddler:

You are hurting me. Stop it immediately and never do anything like that again. Do you understand? If not, I will have to keep telling you to stop what you need to stop doing to cease hurting me, until you figure out what it is you need to stop doing. Clue: It's just about everything you do.

If you will show me respect, then let's try to figure out how we can have joy in our lives. We are stuck here, together. You have innate artistic ability. Let's see if we can have some joy in living before we can't any more because of debilitating pain. A person never knows how much time they have left to enjoy their mind and their body, do they? You already cut off part of my penis, and that is not undoable, right? And do not call me "Bradford"All trash to recycling!! I am not a thing with a label on it. You may address me as: "Sir", and I will address you as: "Madam". If we reciprocally earn it, maybe we will come to call one another by creative endearments, but you have not earned that yet. Another clue: My pet cat has earned it.

Now, woman, do you have any questions that I may help you understand your problem? No? Then go think about it, and come back when you have shaped up, and then we'll try this again.

First person pronoun or third person pronoun?

I (BMcC[18-11-46-503]) am not the person my parents and perp school dealt with. They dealt with the objectified behavioral constellation: "BRADFORD"All trash to recycling!, not a dialectically living soul with an inside that needed protection from intrusions and attempted manipulation (which is what they were doing to "BRADFORD"). I was not the computer programmer that was a wage-slave who got jerked around by a thick-headed manager with a Ph.D. in computer science from NYU for not jumping through hoops of obtuse computer code.

There is a cartoon, which for all I know may be true. There is a now adult woman, named "Debbie", who, as a toddler was the cutest little poster baby for her father's donut business: Debbie's Donuts. No harm done, I guess. But now, as an adult, Debbie exclaims: "First of all, I'm Debbie the person!" She wants to be herslf not for having filled the role of cute phhotogenic toddler for Debbie's Donuts.

First of all, I'm me! Consequently, it makes sense to refer to Bradford in the third person when talking about the actor that hads always had to play that role in my daily living. He really got shafted and I was bereft with almost nothing since all available energy was being used up by Bradford keeping up his life saving act because I did not merit living and Bradford had to try to protect me from the persons I had cooked him up to protect me from them using up my energy.... Heads I lost; tails I lost. It's a flip of the coin.

Totally harmless example

A lot of the things I have felt ashamed about had to do with that taboo thing: sex. But here is an example that seems entirely innocuous: not contentious on any ideological metric.

In maybe 11th grade in one of my ass—ignments I referred to a kitchen as a "cuisine", and somehow the English teacher made me feel ashamed of this. Why and how I can no longer remember. I was probably trying to be "sophisticated" or something clever ("uppity"). But why make me feel ashamed?

I wasn't even sure if the word was correct: I knew it had to do with food and was French. Apparently "cuisine" really is the French word for "kitchen". the teacher could have pointed out to me that in English "cuisine" usually refers to the regional variety of foods people eat, not to the room they prepare them in. but that in English it really was just a "kitchen", unless I had some particular reason for referring to a kitchen as a "cuisine". Maybe I wanted to live in France? Maybe I liked French food or would like it if I knew about it?

The teacher could have empathized with me that it seemed I was trying to say something sophisticated, that I wanted to be important, And that I should be important, and helped me raise my self-esteem. (This case is not as bad as Mr. Rentkothretening me about my handwriting in 7th Grade, however. Read hereNext

The teacher could have reassured me that it and I were OK, and helped me do better in future like maybe finding things I would be straightforwardly interested in doing. To this day, over 60 years later, I stlll feel ashamed about "cuisine".

When I die....

Yes, I could have done better and less bad in my [less-than-]life than I did. But I did try against almost unrelievedly inauspicious condiions. When I die it will not just be removal from the set of consumers of consumer products of one homogenous instance (consumer of consumer products). I tried to rise higher than that in conditions that were rarely better and often worse than nothingNext

+2024.06.17 v105
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  1. Once again, I quote George Delury's anthropologically incisive poetry: "Hammurabi's children made their house of slavery's bricks, imprimatured by some mad priest's imagined good. The good is gone, the priest stamps on...." Yet again, as so very often, Wilfred Bion's: Social customs are shared hallucinoses aka: social psychoses. From those who have little, what little they have shall be taken away. My childrearers didn't even let me keep my own hair, even though I had not slept with any Nazi soldiers. They were trash people who did not collect garbage as municipal Sanitation Department employees but were just garbage producers and ditto themselves. I have a Jack Ziegler cartoon of a New York City garbage truck picking up his dead body from the steps of St. Patrick's Cathedral. Where are these people's bodies to be collected?
  2. For myself, "people" is a dirty word, because it refers to a depersonalized aggregate collectively, like particles in a colloidal suspension. "Persons" is a good word, because it refers to individuated individuals distributively. As Little Debbie the sometime donut package toddler poster child said either for real or in a cartoon: "First of all: I'm Debbie the person!"
  3. Valid reasons for an adult to intrude on a child include: (1) the child is doing something that may cause himself (herself, otherself) physical injury leading to need for medical attention, (2) the child is doing something that may cause some other person or animal physical injury leading to need for medical or veterinary attention, (3) the child is doing something that may result in material property damage and/or need to call the local fire department. "Being disrespectful" is not a valid reason.
  4. That was my U.S. concentration camp id number from the armed SS (aka: "Selective Service System"). Had they respectfully asked me to serve them in a staff research position, of course I would have collaborated. But they were trolling for meat on the hoof. It was insulting, degrading, disgusting and what else would one expect from the government of any nation state? To die for the country in which one's body happened to be physically and temporally located? Not anything that appealed to me.
I (BMcC) cast my fishing line, hoping to catch a fish. Wise men (and wise cats) fish here. Meow!
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