Did Hollywood North create Eric Harris?

"Sandy, God is not a democracy."-- Reverend James Liddell

Television is not very good with science fiction. Paid critics assert this is because the genre is about ideas, so most Americans trade on aesthetic quality to enjoy this camp, this American included, with her taste for junk food, of which the original Outer Limits is representative. The late 90's revamp pushes it however, even if the production values are a significant upgrade on Robert Duvall transforming into an enemy alien. It is obvious that the Vancouver reboot of the series was plagued by budget problems, resheathing other episodes into conspiracy theories. I happen to remember them all, but Final Exam seems to be a virtual transcript for Columbine, and indeed, before I checked my dates, I thought the CBC was scolding its rebel cousin with an extended metaphor about alienated American males. The show aired a year before the Columbine boys acted, however, and though nothing can be proven, if you substitute the fictional cold fusion bomb for Goth and machine guns it comes down to nearly the same event.

I'd rather go out that way than go the route of Ezra Pound's grandiose insanity and death in a Fascist prison, never having forgotten this foot note of the fabled modernist. I lost one of my canvas bags Saturday and strolled out to see if it was perchance on the sidewalk:

Senile transsexual Erik von Schmetterling: "Hi," with its naturally subversive smirk.
Me: "Leave me alone! I hate you and everything you stand for [this on 4/02]."

I rather meant it, though it would be pointless to smash its face in. My ex died, unknown to me, smack on the day I drained my battery transversing University City to visit and do my updates at Joe Coffee. It was a bad day. I did not belong there, and couldn't differentiate their espresso brand from that Starbuck's offers, while Frankie died with near lightning speed in hospital, from end stage renal disease. His full name was Frank Versante. It no longer matters if I write it, sick fat and stupid bastard, skin pitted with blisters, gout. I used to think he was just a simple fuck who misinterpreted a bad sexual experience, but later came to believe he used his stupidity to ambush me into an engagement which made me miserable, and left me disgusted, and yet I feel it, within the layers of my obsidian cooked lava. He's gone.

And on the morning I'm actually posting this, a fierce April squall disturbs my sleep.