"He actually asked me what Chief Davis had on me. He did."-- Lance Reddick, The Wire
Reddick's demise on Friday caught me off guard, which can be read as obvious in The Washington Post's rather rushed eulogy to remind us that walking tall with a stiff upper lip can be humorous. I know very little of the appearances Thomas Floyd cites, but I am aware of the ballpark: by the time I had cycled out of Dick Wolf's now somewhat careworn script formulas, I knew to keep my eyes open for the occipital center which allowed Reddick to reign in Titus Welliver and Dominic West prior to the heavy tread of Bosch for seven seasons. Why exactly did we need Bosch? To have Reddick exclaim "Bosch!" in exasperated frustration, or "Bosch." Deadpan, cryptic, knowing; if there is a hint of complaint, why didn't I drop the damn series, dragging my heels with The Wire as is. Same time, same place, we've lost the suave chieftain of the bulbous eyes, who was murdered once in the film Faults, which may not succeed in its turn on the deprogrammer. Perhaps I will return for that which I am attempting to grasp without being hypocritical, because I always respect the humanism of the solid authoritarian, from a distance, even though I've brought liberalism to its knees in distain of my voice. I'm not offering remorse amid the unexpected, only a shared mortality closing in. The man was five months younger than I. He had money, better doctors, and the standard rates still apply for minority health outcomes, sharp stabbing, and stabbing, while I pass massive stools in a commode bucket on the labor of a floor worker's eccentric jolts of poorly formed astrological tropes. James Leo Herlihy , the author of Midnight Cowboy, liked characters on the fringes. I don't, and such differentials in stature matter, however intangible.
