Neurologist's Spike Protein

 

Do you have a cigarette?

This intrepid, if also embittered, disability journalist confesses she used to be a regular viewer of LA Law, as lightweight, cornball, old fashioned serial television. Although it slipped my mind until I searched the recall, it was here on this series that Jimmy Smits entered into his fleeting generational reign as the American Adonis, and here too that Corbin Bernsen and Blair Underwood made their initial impressions; my nostalgia, however, is particularly kind to Alan Rachins as Douglas Brackman, who formed part of the comic relief contingent. Towards the end of the series run, it was also Rachins, digesting the wrongful termination of a transgendered woman, through the show runners, who made an ingenious argument about women and body enhancement, one that seemingly collapsed gender reassignment as little more than enhanced cosmetic surgery. It is a difficult argument to refute weighed against the generational juxtaposition Brackman’s character represents, in the era just before Suits and The Good Wife.

But what recalled Noah’s Bark to me was the synchronized nature of the fictional client’s Tourette’s Syndrome as almost necessarily lending itself before the audience to the correction of social justice Brackman attempts, and then fails to wage. Concealing a condition like Tourette’s is difficult, and Brackman is called on it. The client reveals the truth, Brackman is threatened with discipline, and Steven Bochco’s conscience can sleep well at night for matriculated classes. The disabled of Riverside Senior apartments aren’t the matriculated class, and Morton’s Tourette’s is more the threatening disruption of the automaton, like the liminal figure of Jerry in Master’s of Science Fiction. This Saturday I had the distinct privilege of seeing Morton, his bouncing gait like that of a bumblebee, pacing the sidewalk adjacent to the building, with excrement on his naked toes. It was a rare moment of intervention for me, noting in bitterness that Trudy Richardson, she herself the equally afflicted lupus administrator, tortured me, with Caucasian acquiescence, for significantly less, in terms of infractions.  In letterhead after letterhead, Riverside trumpets how concerned Trudy is for the Negro Urban League women who masquerade their propriety as virtue. Nothing could be further from the truth when public health experts do not have even basic solutions for forcibly herding people with chronic conditions together in to evolving super toxins in our vapor heated indoor air.

I follow a former Planned Parenthood director named Abby Johnson on social media. She and I perhaps share a similar process of having turned rightward after having engaged our careers in the progressive limelight of Steven Bochco’s desire for universal alleviation, but she is as wrong about the fringe and its feral aspects as Bochco is in his: Morton is an aggressive imbecile, no more, no less, incapable of survival through utility. Difficult as it might be to envision how he would have fared in a pre-industrial era, the 21^st century can no longer afford his inability to intersect, just as it can’t afford the sum total of my horrific failure in abridgement with the ambulatory world.

An Air Bubble Injection Isn't a Bad Idea

"I didn't have your mother abort you because I was trying to be a good Catholic."-- the last time I saw my father, who doesn't love me, 2005

My antagonism toward Senator Sanders isn't feigned; that would be the case even if I had remained in the Clinton to Obama tent. I still respect Barack Obama on certain, narrowly defined issues, which is why the alt right probably doesn't trust me; I'm a tad too mercurial to be a methodical genocidal assassin, like Glennon Engleman-- but the Harvard Constitutional scholar, in pragmatic terms, failed us, and here we are, arguing disability and impeachment articles with the abandon and revel of Agitprop staged at the Metropolitan. We elected a celebrity real estate developer to be the 45th president. The Beltway might as well be in a life or death battle with an Ebola strain which refuses to be tamed. Racists have new found legitimacy, and this will remain the case even if Donald falls. Truth to power, my secret anarchist clings to her miserable little stasis on Race Street's dead end with secret glee-- there is no 24th block for Race, it merges with the parking lot for Riverside Presbyterian to the left, and then is cut off by freight tracks, Edgewater to the right.

I plan to stage a protest, if necessary, to get the corporation to yield on the matter of my liabilities with it, and I can imagine how many of you would willingly incite on my behalf. Be honest with yourself about how cerebral palsy makes you feel, even if Arizona cannot see McCain needs to be retired. To take the threat of a gore by the horns, Dr. Engleman is not your typical American spree killer. Even the police recounting the back breaking effort it took to implicate him wear a look of taciturn dismay with themselves over what a game of charades a midwesterner from St. Louis was able to sustain for so long. They should have given the guy a job as a wet boy in the Pentagon, not a life prison sentence. Murder for hire isn't an intrinsic immorality, necessarily. He executed enemies or contracts swiftly, efficiently, and while he certainly had an underlying misogyny, he wasn't a sadist who got off on torture, as we see in more sordid cases, and died at the twilight of my career. Unlike the protagonist on whom Dear Mr. Gacy was based, who ultimately committed suicide with a brave face-- a link to someone like Engleman would have been beneficial, after 2000, in particular. Two coolly analytical minds are better than one. As a true crime story, whatever energy I'm spending on milk already curdled, Engleman's plus 20 year life as a front bears superficial comparison to Corbin Bernsen's The Dentist (99). This movie was simply a berserk romp playing on our worst fears about the accursed occlusion of our well behaved sedate teeth-- but Corbin kept us in on the joke underlying this charming rampage.

Bernsen, arguably, had the most sustaining power of the LA Law ensemble, after Florek. Dann did what he did very well as the restraint on boomer indignation in SVU, but it was a one note gambit. Hamlin got lost in the game of a leading man to be who couldn't. Underwood, well. Sex and the City wasn't a sneeze, but Blair keeps hitting a wall. He is too smooth for the street, but just this side of too mechanized to resonate with his audience; in comparison, Bernsen is rather self aware of his range, even in his grease monkey sun shades, and made his choices well after the series went off air. He is particularly adept in The Killing Box, nearly reaching Robin Willians's sustained tensions between the wounds of evil bitten into our basic altruism.

Celebrity Modules

"I appeal to you, brothers and sisters, in the name of our Lord Jesus Christ, that all of you agree with one another in what you say and that there be no divisions among you, but that you be perfectly united in mind and thought-- 1 Corinthians 1:10

I wish I could be content sometimes, but even in a social context as casual as an LOTR eat and greet, or the Rosenbach, to which I shall not return in the near term, I rarely am out of myself and off my guard; when I try to relax I feel every inch the spastic savant. It may have been the same on campus as a student, but in my early twenties I had episodes of comfort, episodes now rare, as I'm always wound up like a cork being popped.

Though both kindle devices are old, and I would, in fact, send the 2G in for a trade if nerves were not wrought and I wasn't preoccupied with a bounce: If my viewers want to know what I want, out of curiosity, all that amounts to is temporary lodgings into which I can roll the Quantum. I'm not looking for an Ariel Castro, despite my luck. If I did run into one my wits would be bested simply via physical and emotional exhaustion. but just a place I might get into, use facilities, in this low life world wide web we inhabit, and then sterilize, through terms of service guidelines so confusing Socrates would have few sophist points to turn.

Mariska, in her first life as a successful series actor, told Ms. Gross, on air, that she created a web montage for special victims who contacted her. People can see it as a powerful rivulet around psychiatric classifications, therapeutic treatments. A little girl inside me would eat that up, to have Mariska Hargitay give me a hug and let me have a good cry-- which is precisely why I cannot become one of her followers, or offer libations to an aging woman in her last cycle as the weaker sergeant in charge. The bald Florek, who first gained prominence as the LA Law junk bond king, had more definition than Olivia as the authority figure who held the line and bent it, as necessary.

I penetrate the digital New American Bible slowly, thus far only bookmarking the table of contents in the order most Catholic know, whether or not those are nominal Catholics, or still practicing. My faith shall never return. It is not possible, after what I've been through, for more of the same. My poor old aunt, who watched her husband, and then her mother, her elder brother, slowly shrivel and die, hangs on. She believes if I give my notice I'll be put away. I have roughly 30 days to discover otherwise, as management will get my notice tomorrow, Friday, there about. I let an incorporated section 202 facility, designed primarily for the senior working class, destroy my life. Once in a blue moon they snatch a white collar. It has been so long since I cited a biblical verse I had to look up the instructions.