Not huge on NCIS as a square peg, either

Police identified the two women killed as Elizabeth Conway Nass and Rose Louese Mayr, both 2010 graduates of Mount Hebron High School from Ellicott City.-- an social media event

Once we dispense with the problem of Scott Bakula’s woodenness, we can examine Enterprise for its positive attributes, and these attributes reside in a neo realism that was rough around the edges, better synchronized than the original Star Trek, except for Roddenberry’s pilot, which was darker than Shatner’s hippocampus, and thus, the opening artic sequence of “Regeneration” harbored an insidious malevolence attached to it because it was conceivable that such an event could occur, even if it’s highly unlikely that the Borg exist in deep space. They will exist, one day, because our technological prowess on the verge of the future seems to insist that this collective bipedal beehive will occur, because we've transgressed from murdering black abolitionists like David Ruggles, or attempting to murder them, to arguing about the lack of American principles LLhan exudes and whether she's objectionable enough to have her citizenship reexamined, but what do they stand for? Not Marxism, but Google’s efficacy modules? Possibly, and this 21^st century starship team couldn’t, didn’t grasp the odds they were facing. They simply took action, and boom, a great villainy returns to its proper spin off, threatening the dignity of an actor with the best training the Royal Shakespeare Theatre Company had to offer. His moment of masterful dialogue in the holodeck, with an Arabian steed, was actually closer to: Some creatures have the capacity to occupy a space you never realized existed and needed to be filled.

This art of excellence, alliterated by a Briton who himself was diluted by popular projection of a commercial formula, is the light of humanity we're losing. Once it's gone, then it's gone.

Reporting correspondant spastique pour le service

"Why can't man be as free to dance in the sunlight in the time that he has?"-- Thomas Gibson

When nine eleven hit, I was here, same desk, asking my fellow writers in Speakeasy if they were okay, before my account was banned a year later. Happily, I haven't been banned from commenting at The Washington Post. I do not personalize disagreements with Eugene Robinson or Jonathan Capehart, haven't worn out my welcome, and in 2001, I was vainly attempting to hold onto my belief in independent living rhetoric. September 11 was surreal. More or less a source of dissonance, even with the knowledge that the Twin Towers was a tourist treat when I lived in Rusk Institute. Fourteen years ago it was simply shock, too much video of debris and passenger jets, and the literature of Islamic radicalism amounted to little more than the standing ovation  President Bush received before a joint session of Congress uttering the name of "al qaeda". Everything is big in the US. Big disasters, epic wars, sometimes too lengthy, blockbuster futurist parables about the dark side of perfection which do little more than announce we're already here. These days, anyone who pays attention to foreign correspondents can whip up a pate of the failure of civilization for Arabian-Semitic non-Jewish peoples.

The Paris attacks have hit me profoundly, and like the handful of Americans who volunteered for de Gaulle during the Resistance, I want to apply for a Visa and trot off to France in a fervor of retrenchment, petite ailing almost life long welfare mongrel, not quite at James Cromwell's level of horrific deterioration in Surrogates. Interesting premise, stupid movie. Even I realize we aren't turning back from this evolution to integrated cyborgs.

My sister wants me to be careful with my level of provocation, and surely, if I was confronted with ISIS, I'd fare worse than Kayla Mueller, but I cannot sit here and watch European heritage collapse and fall to its knees as an apologia for thousands of years of imperial strife. This is where I am right now. 

Cyborg Inclusion

I wish I could write science fiction, but I find the technical aptitude needed quite difficult, a caveat, and a bone, to all the satirical conceits in the genre that leave me impatient, but the saga of Pistorius reminds me of a conceit that I've clung to since Omni Magazine went out of business. At the rate I am moving my archives, I will have to extend my lifespan. Time for a break, even if *super cripple* is an oxymoron, it is not quite. I certainly have to work twice as hard as an able-bodied writer.

And in breaking, how strong can one remain?