Locked In, the Kantian Concerns

When House was a fresh and unique network morsel, a nurse wrote a column, on Salon, perhaps, that the cast "did everything," and her complaint was accurate but ignores the narrative intent of the show, which was to examine human nature through medical detection as Doyle famously developed it for a reading Victorian audience as it headed into the 20th century, and as I professed on LiveJournal, which I am leaving in an agonized and frustrated fashion, I missed the homage to Holmes initially, a lazy ass who needs Wiki for everything but will not help them with their entries, at least not yet, but that the allusion did not sink in at first is understandable. I have read some Doyle in print, but not a great deal. His detective mostly filtered through my perception due to video, and when I think of Sherlock Holmes, I think of Jeremy Brett, who is my favorite Holmes actor. Canonical but modern. I do not readily take to Doyle's diction, and that remains the case despite free kindle downloads. Shoot me, I'll grin while you pump the bullet into me, and say that House at its best was more than an examination of the price of genius, and episodes like "A Simple Explanation" and the later "Lockdown" illustrate the alienations of our increasingly complex domesticated existence. You have to be a follower of the series to appreciate these micro moments as great dramatic episodes, but Lockdown pulls it off without a hitch, with the banal and the urgent and the tragic interlocked like a small fifty minute work of art. The give and take between Laurie and Strathairn, who is also increasingly one of my favorite character actors, is nothing short of agonizingly, hair rippingly perfect when it comes to the irony of the human condition with life swirling on about the dying and the existential in monotony. It also illustrates why I am a little weary of using shared experiences for affirmation. No, the hundreds of personal narratives that New Mobility publishes are not valueless, but they are bad journalism that distracts from reforms that would help those of us who have been wounded by the ideology that Cassie the fraud and Josie the pedestrian dike with MS tirelessly embrace. Louise wanted to share that she had crushes and dark impulses too, and gee, my experiences are not unique, just as Dr. Nancy Rubel tried to help me see that she was not perfect, and divorced, and had her parents in her head. I may still have her card where she called me a strong woman, and I am, just as she was a savvy therapist. This doesn't change the fact that disability centers, and state vocational offices, have a certain ossified sterility about them, and we need reforms.

Place Marker Laurie

Black Hole was one of the few episodes of House that I missed during its mature decline, and I got home from my run in time to catch it on my local station rerun cycle. Interesting but improbable, and now I have to go to bed, no tweeting, with the suspect for my dizzy spells being my pressure sore that emanates from my left buttock like a single zipper track and this could be dangerous and I'd care if I had my self esteem back, a paying freelance sale, and a good man's ear, and could exit senior housing and get my life back, which is impossible.

Misty Bojangles

Vinne, however, doesn't get sick, as I sit here vacillating over adopting him a new companion. The ashes will be in next week, and everyone wants me to get another cat, in a Kantian universal that unites my black handlers and my white family. I have the little one to consider, whether or not it is fair to him not to have another roommate, Fuck. If, and this is a big if, I bid to adopt another, no kitten. I'd rather rescue an older animal at risk.

I spent a small fortune on Dr. Eigner's practice  we all do on the sliding scale of limited resources. Cassie recommended her to me, and I am not complaining. Eigner kept Oliver alive until I moved ten minutes away from her offices, and then he lived too long, and had to suffer for my sake, and now Joey is dead, and only work of some sort will restore the flaming hole in my savings; I also do not have to keep manufacturing these artifices of absence. My goodbye to Joey was my butchered fused foot pressing on his rigor stiff thigh. He passed in such a way that I could not move him myself, not safely, and only the tech pressing his body in the carrier, like packing a toy, broke through my shock.

When Oliver died, the vase of ash was the stuff of literary satire. Keeping Joey's is a self-imposed sentence, but also an acknowledgement. I loved Joey best, but was too stingy to be wrong a third time in a row.

House Wrap was in keeping with the spirit of the show, even if it did not entirely subvert expectations. I am trying to stream the Wilson prognosis episode, and for our purposes was successful, but I am not sure when I will return to our deconstruction of this much touted series. So much to mourn.

Laurie's Fractures

I took the time to eat, and refreshed myself on the episode "Under My Skin," which is one of Anne Dudek's last recurring appearances on House as Cutthroat bitch, primarily because I pitied the ballerina, and needed to recall the mystery surrounding her skin sloughing off. Finished my oyster cheese omelet on cue for a change, no spills, minimum mess. This episode fooled me the first time. I thought Cuddy really was assisting House detox, and thought that the maverick actually did beat the rap, when it was the set up for Andre Braugher's entry, all the same, but even Braugher wasn't victorious, and House went from mental breakdown to prison; whatever the last episode will be, the moral of the series is that genius has a price tag, and that people don't change. I see now what the writers were doing. House was hallucinating his anti-social tendencies through Amber, and his conflicted attraction to decency through Cuddy.

I also took the time to mount my kindle drive successfully, I believe, no crash, and now I can work my article, one that is proving more difficult than I would have supposed, at first, and because I need the money, I'd prefer not to fail, but guess if I do, it is not the end of the world. You could no doubt jump into your shower, cleanse and reset, but my body will not hear of it, not tonight, not for fish oil, nor for Aleve, and I have no homeopathic remedy available for stress induced panic, surfing excepted, and I have to be online anyway, to start piecing what I have together, to see if I can emerge with the source that will coast me in over the next forty-eight hours. It has been rather educational, learning either that deaf support specialists are as insular as the Amish, or simply won't respond to a query. I am not sure just yet how far I am willing to browbeat local resources, whether making an actual roll in would shake me out an audiologist who has some seasoning.

In my sibling ruptures and on-going argument, and I'd say Stephanie and I are still fighting through non-communication, my brother told me he hopes I find closure, but I happen not to believe in it. The things that wound us may diminish over time, and yes, they have in my case as well, or I probably wouldn't be sitting here, but whereas a pedestrain double XX Slate journalist can write about losing her mother as a healthy passage through grief, losing my mother was not of the same arc, nor was losing my brother, nor my lack of a pleasurable sex life, nor the knives in my back from Linda and the disabled community around us, nor what I have been through in this city, and its home care services.

I carry a great deal more than most other able bodied female American writers, though maybe not quite as much as some African women might, not that the comparative measure matters, in any relevant sense. I argued earlier on against my twitter detractors that I was proud of my survival, but the moral of my story, whatever its conclusion, is that my price tag was simply too much, whether or not I can fairly assign blame. In many instances, I can't, even if I want to stretch, and say if my grandmother Pauline had committed her daughter after my mother's first suicide attempt, than this half-century of detail those of you with strong constitutions are actually reading, it would not be here.

Bringing Out the Dead is actually symptomatic of the American disease that most of us live, and that I firmly believed I deserved to avoid after the butchery of my youth. Perhaps my indignation will only become worse over time. The film is repeating, and I liked it so much I can reenter it that quickly, or, in other words, Scorsese finally scores in spastic's psyche!

A Simple Explanation

Meat Loaf's guest star appearance on House is one of my favorites in the deteriorated mid-season arcs. It was one of the first episodes I streamed on my damaged desktop, and is far too clever by half, troping on expectation reversal, perhaps carrying the faint whiff of  the Lazarus curse, which has its subterranean literary conceit spawned out of biblical apocryphia, anchoring this motif in a realistic character study of a monogamous pair bonding whose attachment, however genuine, led to a disappointment, unwittingly enabling demise, and the condemnation of fate following from this, namely in the husband's revival.

Penn's departure was the disruptive and jarring note, never convincing, even when the producers scripted it for 30 seconds in the last episode; the writers could argue that the implausible Kutner suicide fits the motifs of the show. House the sociopath revolves round his trajectory, destroying the more stable, but by that rationale, I'd be a millionare tomorrow funding super pacs; this doesn't cancel its high status for me, but I would have been happier seeing a Kutner scoring some kind of victory over the central character. If the suicide was the victory, it violates the dramatic tension, going too far over the edge, in terms of screwing your boss, perhaps the trajectory of the missile I seem seem to be riding as our warm weather transitions to the next season.

Requiem, mid service

One of the few pleasures of my life was settling down with a decent meal or snack on Monday nights to watch House, and the real public crisis in American culture is that this transplanted English hybrid is coming to an end. I may be mildly curious about the game being played on Awake, with Laura Innes reprising her ambiguous alien role from The Event, at which I glanced for less than twenty minutes to know I wasn't going to follow it, and I may tolerate Grimm, though it borders on mawkish cute, but I have no other attachment as I've had to Hugh Laurie's vehicle for the last eight years; when these last eight episodes air, I have no idea where my next outlet will come from, streaming cable shows aside, although, as an aside, I could dwell on the actress in her own variation on the physically impaired doctor on ER., except for the fact that the ensemble studies were not quite comparable to the arc on the aforementioned upgrade, and her struggle as a lame woman with her need for nurture from another pair of flouncy nipples was unconvincing, in the minutes given to it. ER did deal with the loss of ability, and the coping that follows it, but the show was a steroid soap, more or less, centered around the tensions of triage.

As for Hugh and his resume trail in late 20th century English farce, the genealogy not at my fingertips, this is not about accolades for the actor. However deserved, Laurie does not inspire affection, and imperfect as the show is, I'd still argue is the best the commercial networks have put out there. Utilized in this or any subsequent account I shall have it will be, even as it cycles into reruns, but I am officially in mourning for my feeble, but no less loyal rave, for eight years into my imminent senior life.

If I survive, and become affluent enough within that survival as age encroaches, I may buy all eight seasons of the series, and memorize them, and can recall, with sufficient clarity, that I thought the pilot episode of House was a rip off of the NIH medical thriller on NBC, which burnt out with the speed of a flaring bushfire. I missed the influence of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle entirely. Proof that I am a dipshit just like everyone else. Impatience tempers my admiration of Doyle's most famous caricature. My fidelity to Laurie's upgrade merely proves what I used to post on the literature network. I prefer the next generation.



I spent the morning immersed in the terms of literary theory, pushing a little, with close calls over physical instability. Lucky.