Requiem, mid service

One of the few pleasures of my life was settling down with a decent meal or snack on Monday nights to watch House, and the real public crisis in American culture is that this transplanted English hybrid is coming to an end. I may be mildly curious about the game being played on Awake, with Laura Innes reprising her ambiguous alien role from The Event, at which I glanced for less than twenty minutes to know I wasn't going to follow it, and I may tolerate Grimm, though it borders on mawkish cute, but I have no other attachment as I've had to Hugh Laurie's vehicle for the last eight years; when these last eight episodes air, I have no idea where my next outlet will come from, streaming cable shows aside, although, as an aside, I could dwell on the actress in her own variation on the physically impaired doctor on ER., except for the fact that the ensemble studies were not quite comparable to the arc on the aforementioned upgrade, and her struggle as a lame woman with her need for nurture from another pair of flouncy nipples was unconvincing, in the minutes given to it. ER did deal with the loss of ability, and the coping that follows it, but the show was a steroid soap, more or less, centered around the tensions of triage.

As for Hugh and his resume trail in late 20th century English farce, the genealogy not at my fingertips, this is not about accolades for the actor. However deserved, Laurie does not inspire affection, and imperfect as the show is, I'd still argue is the best the commercial networks have put out there. Utilized in this or any subsequent account I shall have it will be, even as it cycles into reruns, but I am officially in mourning for my feeble, but no less loyal rave, for eight years into my imminent senior life.

If I survive, and become affluent enough within that survival as age encroaches, I may buy all eight seasons of the series, and memorize them, and can recall, with sufficient clarity, that I thought the pilot episode of House was a rip off of the NIH medical thriller on NBC, which burnt out with the speed of a flaring bushfire. I missed the influence of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle entirely. Proof that I am a dipshit just like everyone else. Impatience tempers my admiration of Doyle's most famous caricature. My fidelity to Laurie's upgrade merely proves what I used to post on the literature network. I prefer the next generation.



I spent the morning immersed in the terms of literary theory, pushing a little, with close calls over physical instability. Lucky.