Momentum of Validation on a Swell

And the one thing we know the federal government cannot do is locate illegal aliens-- Kyra Sedgwick, not in Georgia anymore

As a matter of technicality, it was meningitis which killed my brother Nicholas, and not the HIV he injected into his bloodstream, but all I know about the disease is that it is prevalent among college age adults because college age adults live in close quarters and sneeze on each other with unguarded nonchalance, and Bre Payton was close enough to this sybaritic out of control age group to make her sudden demise from its attack on her brain-stem comprehensible, if otherwise unfortunate. I had a distant relative of similar age die in an accident at a skateboarding company where he worked. Brian was probably closer to being a millennial than Bre, but the suddenness of youth taken before its time makes me wonder why old age such as mine can malinger into bitterness, and others are snatched in nearly incidental fashion, as in MRSA or virulent cancer eating alive Mexican carpenters and eight year olds while others are merely hamstrung into inhumane predicaments. My novelist friend Gretchen Laskas has had a difficult time since returning from Ireland with her husband. I am unsure what it is Karl Laskas does, but it is high octane, like a client in Alicia Florrick's law firm, higher up than anything in my family short of my father's high rolling real estate deals, and while that affluence is certainly more secure than my vulnerable, withering indigence, it did not shield his wife, Karl's, from nearly unimaginable travail, which struck Gretchen like hobo's hopping the rails in pairs. Her uncle committed suicide while she was still in West Virginia, and then her son was in sudden mortal jeopardy when meningitis through a strep infection attacked her son's brain. Although the samples of Grechen's early novels which I read at the turn of the century were on the maudlin side, somewhat over - dramatized, her Facebook posts illustrate the maturity of a nearly Tolstoyan focus on family dynamic and medical crises: Brennan's brain surgeries, the scars on his skull like Frankenstein, chicken noodle soup day at the San Diego hospital, the purported city of a band musician named David Owen, who trolled me on Twitter

and just as quickly vanished on Twitter, like something out of a mariachi band in Creole culture. I was going to write a post about his charming screenshot fit of my tagline. No particular reason except that I won the shouting match. All of you, (as in Krugman, Douthat, Kathleen Parker) feel guilty about my existence. Gretchen doesn't. She was merely considerate enough to ask how I was the day I did not do my grandmother's birthday celebration in the rain, not doing as well as I should, despairing in chest pains from lack of proper ability to defecate of ever having true personal autonomy again, keeping my chin just above water in static pain in my godfather's ill begotten Quantum, and no, the fact that Bre and Brennan and Brian and my long spiritual underworld shyster brother of a vanished gen Y milieu exude reversal by epidemic and folly, these instances of decease are too variable, as yet, to point to apocalyptic wariness, what they do illustrate, beneath the seams, like the sordid exceptions in certain NFL clubs, is modern medicine progress is being stonewalled, in the breach, by evolution's powerful insistence, and its ineptitude, as well, in being able to adapt the independence of those such as I, whom it once trained into defiant ability. Kyra Sedgwick's perspective about honest coming of age dysfunction is a truism, after a fashion, even if what seasons The Closer as your standard ham and cheese is somewhat mystifying.