The generation gap is pronounced enough, in the dowager's circumstance, to illuminate the archaeological aspects of comfort in following a program schedule, but ever since Hugh Laurie wrapped up House, yours truly has a deficit reduction. If she wants a cable show like Six Feet Under, it needs to be purchased and streamed, or scavenged on You Tube, not that binge watching is necessarily conducive to mitigating tinnitus and the agitation of stress piss. As weary as video is, the will to discipline crumples, easier to eat and view, as room for eating and reading is crimped. In that vein, American Gothic has the expected level of eccentric exaggeration enlarging upon complicity, in a tinsel level homage to the actual Hawthorne, who resonates yet with great power-- not that the dowager has been faithful to the series. The back story of Garrett's log cabin years sang to my soul up until the suffocation, even though I endorse euthanasia in my radicalized fashion. In trying to ease the strains of mio poppa, I suggested home hospice care for the pathological stepmother. The only reason I can place before me as to why my father is killing himself over this vile snake (mutual antipathy toward Louise unites the sister and I yet) is that he doesn't want to be alone. I made the mistake of informing the cancerous aunt, and enter in the pyrotechnics. How would I like it if someone put me in hospice? I started to argue that Presby has been trying to make me the state's problem for years, as Marie herself so recently threatened through Trudy Richardson's instigation, but she did not want to be reminded of our familial sparring match, indicating I could do with other alliances.
I love Marie, but she needs to prepare to die, as does Louise, my remaining paternal uncle, my father, as do I, for that matter, just not at Inglis House, hence stark options, as the storm dampens the end of summer, leaving me not too disheartened about skipping festivities, as the Rosenbach, so many years ago, was my last grasp toward revitalization. No regrets, but there is no longer much interest, even if I had the money. Hearing loss strains the populist lectures, and the quasi-academic atmosphere doesn't offer enough to meet my intellectual demands before my synapses fail, as they will if I can't get the fuck out from under this landlord, carping away.
I may vaguely recall the docu-drama on which Code Black is based, but the show is little more than a tapered version of ER, harsher, slightly messier in some respects, but still television, soft pedaling the truth about modern medicine, offering resolution, didactic salves, because people want gauze on reality, and my reality is my cynicism. I'd toss the Western medical paradigm straight down into our depleting fossil fuel reserves. Saying I don't believe in it is too simple. It is more about quality of care and difficulty of access simply to get the technology for non-terminal prognosis. Stable quadriplegics such as I should not have to jump through hoops to upgrade. Even for an individual with my acumen, at my poverty level the red tape is too much, and with me, even when I have a treatable instance, physicians cut corners, precisely because I'm a cripple. Why mince words? Next to Saving Hope, Code Black is a comparative Hamlet, as network discovered, since the former is now an ION retread in my area. The series tries to circumvent the generic pretty people syndrome by acknowledging a metaphysical realm of mystery in the movement toward entropy, with all our angst and hang ups, but even in reruns, there is no compelling reason to sacrifice my dwindling time constraints, though I'm watching it this evening, since the storm stonewalling its way up the coast applies itself to my bio-genic rhythms, managing my stool earlier, not that such fortunes will last. Another urinal stint, then bread and butter. Joyce Carol Oates, the fierce novelist whom I no longer read, imposed unremitting violence on her characters, in an exposition still posited in a civilization not threatened with imminent collapse, while the visual apocalypse has run its course, starting with Lost, culminating in The Walking Dead relocating to AMC. More than likely, civilization will blip a little here, a little there: like Philippine death squads, the continued erosion of superpower status across the board, the death clinics from Soylent Green come to life, this even though we ignore the inconvenient fact that they thrive at a lively pace, not quite on the free market terms that gave Milton Friedman a hard on.
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