An Air Bubble Injection Isn't a Bad Idea

"I didn't have your mother abort you because I was trying to be a good Catholic."-- the last time I saw my father, who doesn't love me, 2005

My antagonism toward Senator Sanders isn't feigned; that would be the case even if I had remained in the Clinton to Obama tent. I still respect Barack Obama on certain, narrowly defined issues, which is why the alt right probably doesn't trust me; I'm a tad too mercurial to be a methodical genocidal assassin, like Glennon Engleman-- but the Harvard Constitutional scholar, in pragmatic terms, failed us, and here we are, arguing disability and impeachment articles with the abandon and revel of Agitprop staged at the Metropolitan. We elected a celebrity real estate developer to be the 45th president. The Beltway might as well be in a life or death battle with an Ebola strain which refuses to be tamed. Racists have new found legitimacy, and this will remain the case even if Donald falls. Truth to power, my secret anarchist clings to her miserable little stasis on Race Street's dead end with secret glee-- there is no 24th block for Race, it merges with the parking lot for Riverside Presbyterian to the left, and then is cut off by freight tracks, Edgewater to the right.

I plan to stage a protest, if necessary, to get the corporation to yield on the matter of my liabilities with it, and I can imagine how many of you would willingly incite on my behalf. Be honest with yourself about how cerebral palsy makes you feel, even if Arizona cannot see McCain needs to be retired. To take the threat of a gore by the horns, Dr. Engleman is not your typical American spree killer. Even the police recounting the back breaking effort it took to implicate him wear a look of taciturn dismay with themselves over what a game of charades a midwesterner from St. Louis was able to sustain for so long. They should have given the guy a job as a wet boy in the Pentagon, not a life prison sentence. Murder for hire isn't an intrinsic immorality, necessarily. He executed enemies or contracts swiftly, efficiently, and while he certainly had an underlying misogyny, he wasn't a sadist who got off on torture, as we see in more sordid cases, and died at the twilight of my career. Unlike the protagonist on whom Dear Mr. Gacy was based, who ultimately committed suicide with a brave face-- a link to someone like Engleman would have been beneficial, after 2000, in particular. Two coolly analytical minds are better than one. As a true crime story, whatever energy I'm spending on milk already curdled, Engleman's plus 20 year life as a front bears superficial comparison to Corbin Bernsen's The Dentist (99). This movie was simply a berserk romp playing on our worst fears about the accursed occlusion of our well behaved sedate teeth-- but Corbin kept us in on the joke underlying this charming rampage.

Bernsen, arguably, had the most sustaining power of the LA Law ensemble, after Florek. Dann did what he did very well as the restraint on boomer indignation in SVU, but it was a one note gambit. Hamlin got lost in the game of a leading man to be who couldn't. Underwood, well. Sex and the City wasn't a sneeze, but Blair keeps hitting a wall. He is too smooth for the street, but just this side of too mechanized to resonate with his audience; in comparison, Bernsen is rather self aware of his range, even in his grease monkey sun shades, and made his choices well after the series went off air. He is particularly adept in The Killing Box, nearly reaching Robin Willians's sustained tensions between the wounds of evil bitten into our basic altruism.