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Sure, True Detective’s second season sucked, but Fargo’s more than made up for it, and with Game of Thrones arguably reaching its zenith, Mr. Robot thankfully returning in a month and the implausible takeover of a network by comical DC characters, it begs the question, why return to a relic that was itself put to pasture by the very Law and Order franchise which has been a season from retirement for the better part of a decade? Syndication, of course, and though there’s a lot less of it, my stubborn refusal to (re)join the Netflix generation but forgo further investment in hard copies has created an interesting delivery model that’s representative of most my preoccupations as of late.

Dreamed I had made it through the mountains on foot and reached some exclusive vacation destination by myself. Others were there, but not alone. So I returned to retrieve the wife, whom I had to leave at the point where the crossing had become perilous: small platforms hung by ropes over a thousand-foot drop to the ocean, and the challenge was to make it from one to the next with your physically-less capable partner. I thought maybe the safest way was to secure the line to one tied to a basket, swing her across, then have her help with my turn; considering how many of times we’d have to do this, I wondered why no one thought of just building a bridge. With the assistance of a man the impressive size of Gerard Butler, this film ended, the damsel saved and the couple together; after the titles, it returned to the moment they split up, and she was left helpless and naked, alone on a pier. She fainted and her attractive figure laid there in public. An older inspector, also unclothed, for this was a pre-industrial society, came by and retrieved her to keep her for himself and his Gerard Butler-like penis, but when she came to in his small home, she thanked them and left with some supplies on her back, and sunglasses, to set off on her own. The name of the movie changed to “Little Miss Avenue Nonsense” (it was sense before, and had road or smaller street) to celebrate her self-reliance.

Sandwiched between ads for senior medications with the usual side effects so frightening they can’t possibly make up for the benefits, and offers for legal representation to products liability victims who surely must not have survived their ordeals, were two episodes of this rather sleepy series I’d forgotten had originally aired in time slots for livelier audiences, then into syndication where it kept me company for a decade of lonely late nights—

[Sent: Fri Jun 28 04:46:08 1996] Speaking of religion, I’m up right now (at, what, 4:30 in the morning–I woke up a couple of hours ago after this weird dream that made me question my feelings for couple of women from my past), watching late-night TV, of course, and find myself flipping between a number of different programs, one of which happens to be the Jack Van Impe Ministries, somewhat reminiscent of the 700 Club in format and content. (The other is Dear John, not only because Kate’s tits look bigger than ever before in this particular episode, but also since this local channel airs the phone sex ads featuring my beloved 1-800-510-SEXY woman. I make no bones about my damnation.) Seems like the Christians are foretelling doom and gloom, but then again, what else is new: now they’re predicting the Second Coming before the Millennium, preceded, if you recall your New Testament, by the rise of the Anti-Christ. Oh, geez. I wonder if they’ll wipe out past credit problems after Armageddon?

Looking at them again, no, they weren’t that big (I’ll clean up my act whenever the church proves themselves right), but she was the sort of vulnerable character that would ultimately shape my interactions with women, for better or worse. Surprised to realize it is the same Isabella Hofmann now with the recurring role as Martin “Firestorm” Stein’s wife on The Flash and Legends of Tomorrow.

Took 14 years, but I finally found this commercial:.