Sang Froid of Death by Cop

In the Martin Beck adaptations, the actor who facilitates Haber's comic relief does it in a naturalistic way which seems to accurately depict Swedish eccentricity far better than other dramas in the same mold, always in his neck brace, a bit faggotty  within the confines of the Hollywood sissy; in The Weak Link, one of the later movies in the series, he upgrades his interesting fashion statement to a lighter blue teflon type material, and voila, the pieces to the puzzle fall into place for Haber's dilatory concern, and Sweden's wolf pack rape problem, an issue seemingly integral to Scandinavian immigration issues, is mitigated by mystery novelists, the pair of whom should obviously be governing the European Union.

Sometimes too much realism does have an undue impact; even though we know it's television, and see the interplay between Haber and Persbrandt as something familiar, even comforting, there are evenings when the immensely complicated mechanics of broadcast signals and film frames seem repellent, necessary to unplug, as urban life is strenuous enough, and though The Weak Link seems to be one of the later Beck's I missed, I'm sorry for the experience; it seems we all become discontent in our village, after so many years, by choice, or not, and if we cannot find some way to relieve the frustration of letting go, we become monsters. Not every person who lives under this corporate Presbyterian umbrella is mentally ill. Most of the residents are old, black, poor, an occasional veteran and sick whites physically on their way to hospice, but there is, as well, the mental health contingent, and I know of a few suicide attempts here at Riverside, and cannot tell you why public housing is like this in America.

My desire to flee is so strong I may just obey, take the bus to my stepmother's, say a prayer I don't kill my father, and camp out on the fucking lawn while it's still summer, and just go. I could apply to writer's retreats, but they are exhaustively competitive, and primarily serve graduates who still have the energy and longevity, even the assumed placid temperament. If I voluntarily roll myself out of Riverside Presbyterian, I am probably too old to play roulette once more with another section 811 landlord, but it is the leaving, just walking the fuck away, that makes me stop hurting. It is just a fucking beige ten story slab, a leaning tower cheaply painted and cheaply maintenanced with bad plumbing, whether or not this is fair to do to an old man who institutionalized me for 16 years. I threw in a few months of my own, back in the day, for good measure, and forthwith swear off Swedish programming for the next six months, even though this particular episode had a studious lesson to teach about the domino effect, castigating aggression, Persbrandt's Gunvald was still Gunvald, plowing through with the force for coup de grace.

If you need to become a writer, don't do it the way I did. I often wonder if I had to be one because being a quadriplegic would have been otherwise intolerable, but I never truly thought the damn thing out, and equated it early in youthful exuberance with the prophetic. I decided to make it my life, with nonchalant assurance things would fall into place, within my own obstinate bovine traces: think of other vocations of interest, and make a plan. My IQ may be very high, but in many ways, I'm also a fucking moron beneath my own contempt, and don't know how to repair the damage, with what I allowed Pennsylvania to inflict on me, just taking it. The novelist Jennifer Weiner set me thinking on this. She's produced, made her splash, certainly resonates with my sister, and held my interest about 30 seconds. I staked my life on my talent, and I'm all but a pretentious sociopath. Weiner makes fun of her social status and her sex life, and has enough recognition to play on video. No matter how much we stake, not finding a sustaining audience by the age of 40 is a pretty good gauge of how far to throw in the towel.

Fiberglass Insulation

By implication, older people who use personal social services have been subjected to bureaucratic procedures and assessments that have increasingly focused on what they cannot do or achieve in order to identify their eligibility for services. These kinds of assessment procedures have contributed to the construction of older people using services in a language of dysfunction and problem states [....] Opportunities for narrative approaches have declined, Baars and co-authors, page 143, Aging, meaning, and social structure

My poor aunt gets combative with me when I verbally point to affinities, aggressive without understanding I am referring to acceptance. I have to find other supports than a cancer stricken 75 year old half out of her mind, and if cousin Richard is occasionally perusing mio postio, my advice to my cousin is to start spending it down. It isn't easy Richie, never is. Stephanie and I have poppa, and I'm 3/4ths in the sewer. Apply pressure before she spirals into hospice. "Yeah, and you?"

The difference between me and tu mere, my cousin, is I haven't been diagnosed with additional disease other than molar cavies, already tied to cerebral palsy as a symptom. I'm pugilist, and show obvious wear and tear no employer would look past to give me a chance-- except as a radical author, but that is still a niche doorway; I'm otherwise stable except for Ken Cantrell's  compassionate malevolence putting an end to a miserably secure environment (sigh). Now I'll face bowel movements and disturbing the peace, and other flags. The police operator who took my call Thursday morning was courteous. The emotional armor of a seasoned practitioner in play in our Orwellian U-verse, she was even, sonorous, like Peter Haber, the Swedish variation on Ian Flemming.

Sjowell, like Dick Wolf's screen writers, gets the conflation right in "Boy in the Glass Bowl", illustrating how crime and abuse ripple in concentric circles around impairment until they fall back inward. An autistic boy who cannot articulate is easy prey for a sodomite who then makes him an orphan. Sjowell emphasizes solving the puzzle is its own reward, and Beck's team can return to the rewards allotted to camaraderie among those close to Arctic climates. Only with Vincent D'onofrio of yore are viewers taxed a bit more. The Terri Schiavo episode was searing, so dark and cruel in conclusion that I winced; the husband's capture was more horrible than the brain death he caused, Goren almost functioning as a yawl, raking rivulets of exposure in a triumph of materialism.  Wait until I confront Trudy's boss. He is the real prick, the tour de force toward whom a tongue lashing would be a pleasurable offense. Trudy is deft, and evasive, but displays her weakness, Louis Armstrong eyes with their genetic inclination to dissemble. I want her supervisor. Ken Cantrell, the thick ape, just vibrating for castration. 30 years ago such hate would have never been a pleasure.