Funny Thing on a Timothy Hutton Tether

"Who would want to live in a world without pharmaceuticals?"-- Peter Strauss

The dowager saw just enough (1.7 hours) of American Crime in its first season to now be confused by its second, until reading enough entertainment news allowed Ridley Scott's reprisal role strategy to dawn on a wearied mind; in essence meaning I shall have to stream season one, realizing how much I missed out in my enthusiasm for Felicity Huffman, whose work on Sports Night remains sorely under-appreciated, even to the point that her Desperate Housewives director allowed her to echo her savvy sports channel executive.

While too cautious to offer Scott's bravado a raving endorsement, and perhaps too old, as well, spastic is slowly supplanting NBC's Code Black with Scott's consciously jacked torque ratios. Paid critics call the series brave, spastic calls it catching up with cable television as the models for content slowly collapse and merge, but instead of staying by Tom Reid's battle worn contrivance of a desk to watch the episode, I sat up in bed, writhing in pain most of the evening, and yes, this is the fault of my obstinacy, trying to stay abreast of the online privileges to which I've become used to, and could not get my legs back up on the Jazzy cushion for a significant length of time when I tried to lie back down. I got where I was going, but part of the problem was the metal plate seating of the Jazzy cutting the surgically fused arch of my foot; this would not happen with the Quickie P-200.

Hutton is at once ubiquitous and exceptional as the Everyman American inheritor of Protestant moral sensibility. Those of us who grew up with him cling to the raw repressive exposures of Ordinary People, because it manages to cut across the value systems between the sprouting denominational folly of the Reformation and the Catholic imposition of rational hierarchy. Some of you no doubt laugh at these vulgar descriptions I deploy, as opposed to with me. Is it okay? Perhaps sometimes, and perhaps sometimes it's okay to be undercut. Writing a furious scold to minority ethical lapses in my head juxtaposed against a furious struggle to control my posture with aging furniture and bad equipment. A personal care attendant wouldn't have been around that time of night just because I wanted to use my daybed like a lounge chair, and yet, even a nearly perfect talent like Felicity gets lost in our streaming rush to be in all places at once. In the dowager's estimation, she's a great actress, and nobody's beating the drum.