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.

The Lone Ranger Evokes Brexit

"Life clung to me like a disease."-- Javier Barden

One of the Sjowall and Wahloo Beck novels which resonates our universality to a slightly more authentic degree is The Scorpion, which puts two cases of domestic violence on parallel tracks, one working class, the victim of the first case a woman abused by an evidently suicidal cop, the other, drawing heavily on Mikael Persbrandt, letting Peter Haber recede into the background, the top billed actor giving way to his scene stealing sidekick, involves Gunvald's sister and her troubled husband, who hangs himself before his tough love brother in law can shrink his prostate gland with a crowbar. Persbrandt has a limited range, but like many talented actors whose gifts align with the correct habitation, viewers bond to his invitation to join him in ironic complicity. 
Swedish actors are not my type, but Persbrandt cuts to the heart of my vulnerability. He represents what I've always wanted as a lone disabled woman: the protector, the one who will make it stop hurting, and the screenwriters for the Beck series play with this conceit, and upend it powerfully in this adaptation. The white knight can't always stop the pain, even though he risks life and limb, takes a bullet, trench coat billowing outward. Here comes superman, or the Pinkertons. Granted, this is still televised entertainment, and not all males provoked who slap women around opt for violent incremental, or sudden suicide. My father is a case in point, though before Shriners Hospital butchered me, maybe when I was eleven, I thought he was going to kill us all. My mother would not stop; let's face the fact that in episodes of discord women are verbal aggressors, and my mother wouldn't stop. She was like oil on fire, and I thought my fireman father, my hero, was going to kill his entire family. His rage and broken arm imprinted itself.
We survived. My mother moved on to worse men, really dangerous sick men, and my father married Louise, my mother's friend from college, who my father is keeping alive through extraordinary rendition, which I suppose isn't so remarkable, as love doesn't keep me tethered to Frank, but guilt refuses me the courtesy of obliteration to his ghost, much as the 2012 Skyfall is an endearing tribute to Ian Fleming, though we may roll eyes at the formula. This modernized installment on the franchise gets a great deal right about why we need melodrama and Judy Dench as the defender of the Union Jack. "No no, don't kill off mother!" We cry out, but what makes Craig absolutely the right man in the right casting for the reboot after Brosnan and Roger Moore, made him wrong for Enduring Love. McEwan's story is distasteful to me, but putting this in context, Craig was miscast. What makes him right for a super spy bordering on disbelief and immortality makes him wrong for a slice of life personality disorder stalker. But Javier's face, isolated in his glass pentagon, offers those of us systemically brutalized the same self-recognition The torture he took, which turned him, is representative of what hides behind this smiling face, the price she made loyalists pay. I don't live it anymore, not like I did, and taking her out when I myself am near the end would only reverberate within the culture for a brief period. Analysts would say tunnel vision prevented me from my own reconciliation, that this is the price of the game, as we call it. Yet that damage also liberates us, calculating the price.

Istanbul

7.99 is not a bad price to be inundated with the state socialist model which controls most of the world. In my cable deprived free broadcast zone, WYBE runs Mhz feed, when not broadcasting the Russians in English, on 35.5, and I've no idea how this new streaming package will affect my droll allegiance to Mikael Persbrandt as the sole conservative in Sweden, or a parody of one, barring Johan Norberg, who has earned liberal critiquing rights, along with Niall Ferguson, with the seal of approval from the American left. But European procedurals bore me too now, and I really only watch to see how those corrupt souls who didn't emigrate manage themselves in the world, weighing in my mind Roman tolerances over my current non-compliance in Philadelphia's African shadow state. I do not know that it would necessarily be worse. Italians know my type, and deal with the abrasions of the social outcast with a thousand years of theatrical absurdity behind them. 

This model is damaging my health, and that because of a Medicare bean counter. I give my notice in July, assuming I live that long, and take Septa to my proverbial stepmother's home and camp outside a block in Springfield. Enough to provoke an eighty year old padre over the edge?

What I fail to understand is why Presbyterian Homes doesn't evict me. I've all but labeled myself a reactionary racist, brimming with ferocity. I hate nearly all the tenants, and cannot think of many exceptions. I've satirized Trudy Richardson as a google-eyed fool, and Debra Horne is a Neanderthal dredged from the Mississippi River. Their parent employer all but treats me like a rabid zoological specimen, utilizing the carrot and stick approach. The interior of this studio is a deplorable statement on a nearly lifelong battle with indigence, and nothing moves, as I've stated in the past, until something does. By the time the motherfuckers who run this company decide to litigate my competency, I'll be out on the street, shifting the parameters. I made contact with one wheelchair company, one, and I simply don't have the time to play the single payer option system for a tilt chair design disaster. I let Magee do this to me, and I have no strings to pull.

If I thought it would do any good, I'd have myself arrested for assaulting Democrats.