The
only thing Bosch brings to the table
as a procedural, in my estimation, is hard luck forming its central character
as a stickler with his own honor code, (something with which I identify) but
the second season opened with something which threads through the history of
civilization: using human frailty as a form of masking. The first thing this
wizened detective does after a six month suspension for flipping a pissant
captain, fraudulent as that felt, is expose a suspect as not his father with
emphysema in a wheelchair on oxygen. Chair gets violently thrown, (not that this doesn't happen to actual users) suspect
flees, and our star of course lassos him in. Hugo makes the same distinctions
in The Hunchback of Notre Dame, when the unfortunate poet Pierre Gringoire gets corralled
by beggars of a 15th(?) century Paris in upheaval. They only pretend
to be lame and crippled. The gruesome operatives of Slumdog Millionaire, if you recall, take no chances with such
fakery, and blind destitute street kids to beg for what must be an unstable
currency. Although I can feel Jason Dorwart’s raised eyebrows behind me,
nothing has truly changed in the world. Why do I assert this? Because Erik von
Schmetterling, for all his transsexual ADAPT zealotry of yesteryear, is senile,
his troops dying in Riverside Presbyterian’s lobby, while I’m literally quaking
myself to death in an incompetent mechanic’s contraption because I can no longer
pivot to take a damn dump in the toilet and the medical professionals around me
are going berserk bilking Medicare without doing a damn thing to restore my
function, and a west African minority has me running around doing her job
because she’s too tired. So I have to criss cross center city buying supplies I
cannot afford. I can, conceivably, explore suing Mr Wheelchair for product
liability, but by the time that needle moves a stroke will have probably hit me,
my body actually fighting the disposable adult wear for hours until discharge
necessarily takes place, in pain regardless of her masks and gloves and her
physically brutal ignorance. I allowed Dana to see too much of this, my racial
hostility. It preys a little because she is morally decent, but her provider,
TLC, is “cheap immigrant labor,” once removed. Karina is little better, white
as she may be. I wasn’t planning on a yodel about entitlement metastasis this
morning, however, but since I’m here, from what I am able to observe, millennials
and the adolescents coming up behind them may well end up living in much more
poorer standards than those I’ve had; I just have to find the right entryway to
broach the topic without causing undo friction to my family in their hardships,
but it does alarm me. Karina is 38 and she has an adrift life. At that age, I
was earning between 250 and 400 on commissioned articles, working, in other
words. Nevertheless, let me uplift my percussion with an upbeat rhythm, as transitory as social media can be, I was heartened by Svetlana's discovery of my account, dare I consider her a spiritual sister in arms!
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