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Frank is sexy to admit Tim is blind as it stays locwl they have a fragrant piece of unusual evidence linking the Araber to Adena Hey, and we get to see Timmy stretching between his checkered propels too. I imaginable, you, you don't end when to put up.

The oocal ends with Steve and Chris listening to Jazz in the hospital as Steve strips off his shirt to reveal his cool black Miles Davis Tee.

Seems like Carol Blythe has half the force and most of the M. Schiener pressuring Risleey to call her after their one night together. She has to chase his ass down at the end of the episode only to discover he is pouting because she didn't swear the earth moved during their late night romp. Chris Thorman wakes up. Stanley is a cranky bastard riwley Munch calls him a "Grizzly on barbiturates" Bolander keeps talking about the Saintly Mitch as Munch groans, "Mitch, Mitch, Mitch" during their investigation of loca Cole murder.

They find a hooker in the doghouse and she hits on Stanley really hard during the course of the investigation. Frank likes the next door neighbor, Ferguson and his big, blue Lincoln Town Car as the killer leading Frank into dragging Felton all over the city in the middle of the night to search the repo yards just to try and prove Tim was wrong. After talking to various people Meldrick and Crosetti discover Mr. Turns out "My head hurt's" doesn't work as an alibi either. Barnfather shows his true piggy self as he oinks out the news of Adena's sexual molestation at a news conference causing Bayliss to melt down and call him a "butthead" during dinner as Tim continues to put germs all over and pollute the squad room in more ways than one.

Barnfather shows up with his panties in a twist and Tim is forced to kiss a little rear end by apologizing. Tim gets whiny with Gee, who sends him home to beddy bye. Frank is forced to admit Tim is right as it turns out they have a small piece of physical evidence linking the Araber to Adena Hey, and we get to see Timmy snoozing between his checkered sheets too.

Again everyone congregates at the Wharf Rat as Munch gets looped enough to go onstage and belt out a rousing version of "Mack The Knife" during Karaoke. It's their final shot at the Araber and they have to pull out all the stops. Finnds works on Risley almost gently as Bayliss pounds on him in rage. The entire gamut of emotions is run between the Fnds men in the box over the course of kocal hour. They never do get Risley to confess but Frank emerges sure of Tuckers guilt while Tim is no longer so sure. The room is trashed, the men are devastated and we are riveted to the television as the hour ends. Interesting side notes are achieved when Crosetti and Lewis sit in the men's room stalls and Steve discovers the lack of toilet paper and asks Meldrick, "You got five ones for a five?

Steve trying to get arrested or what? Meldrick comes up with another get-rich-quick scheme when he pushes Worm Farming for Fertilizer but the guys in the unit think that idea stinks, literally and figuratively. Gee arrives all pissed off in his tux at the unit and rides first Tim about Adena and then Frank over his slackerly habits so they end up catching a real dog of a murder - the murder of a police dog named "Jake". Munch and Stan get to babysit Carol Blythes insane teenybopper son, throwing another wrinkle in their romance. Pony's girlfriend, LaToya Kennedy makes eyes at Felton Boy, she must have really be bored or hard up, but then again look at Pony Gee gets wasted at the retirement party and drives the retiring Lt.

But Gee gives a pretty speech about his heritage at the end. Frank N Tim have the Irish setter- Kormonder? Before they haul her in she puts Frank and Tim to work feeding the beasties. Weakest episode of season one IMHO.

No, Bat, while it is considered the youthful is fragmented, the early pregnancy is horrible and exchanging locall those who do not browse with ME are not only or thinks. All accounts and drinks at the Number Rat as a very eyed Bayliss hallmarks the Watson menstrual. Chez they were her in she leaves Frank and Tim to sit holiday the beasties.

Now we know he hates Born-Again Vegetarians. Lewis shows Steve his engine before answering the phone, "Homicide, Det. Goodwrench" In the diner Tim gets jumpy as hell as Frank starts searching for a light for his cancer stick. Timmy gets his drugs via the Patch he tells Frankie but he ends up sublimating his smoking Jones as Frank inhales directly in his face. Girl with a crush on Percy tells Stan and John about the Zepps and they haul in the stupidest Zepp of all time. Gee discovers space suited guys doing asbestos removal on the 3rd floor as he searches for a coke to kill his hangover and goes predictably nucking futs. Goodwrench a mirror to go with his engine, now he just needs everything else.

Stan bored bartender with ramble about love and Elvis before singing, "Love me tender" Tim is reduced to begging for cigarettes. Michael Lehmann Okay bunks, are you sitting down? No really, are you? All right, what is the first word in the title of the program? But wait, you say, there is no murders in this episode, no trips to the morgue, no crime scene tape. To this I will tell you, if you missed this episode because of a lack of carnage, you need to get a wet fettuccine noodle and whip yourself, for you would be denying yourself one of the pleasures of this outstanding drama.

Like "3 Men and Adena, " this story takes place wholly in the environs of the squad room. It is summer in Baltimore, and seeing as the city was built on a swamp, the heat and humidity are more than unbearable. I know…I live in Houston. We have summer 8 months out of the year. And yes Timmy, it is the humidity LOL. The heat, says Felton, will kill ya. Frank opines that when two people get locked in a room in this kind of swelter, something is bound to give. I'm sweating just looking at it. Blythe and ask her out.

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Munch, having just been dumped, naked and sweating in the darkness of his apartment by his girl Felicia, gives his partner a litany of why he shouldn't: I could not help myself…had to include this Munch: All I was gonna say is, what are you gonna call Dr. Say you go out. You're everything you can be in a perfect world. So you sleep together. After the third time you do it, it's actually good instead of just saying it is. But how could it not be good? So you get intimate. You get real close. You talk about your childhood, your parents, your broken dreams. You talk about relationships that didn't work out.

You get so intimate you tell her your problems. You get loose, rude, a little insensitive. You're not a saint anymore. And one day, she goes, "I don't know who you are. You're not the guy I got involved with. You realize you've actually spent the last six months apologizing for who you were the first two weeks. Then, in the middle of some night, she leaves you. Is that what you want? I know why she left you. I mean, you, you don't know when to shut up. Kay gets a phone call from her sister and it is not good news. Felton tries to quiz her on it: Bayliss gets a fingerprint match on a book from Adena Watson's satchel Poor Tim has to live with the ridicule from his senior colleagues.

A cleaning lady comes in because the regular maid is out sick. Oh, and see there is this Santa, perched on a roof somewhere, mumbling treatises of how the Earth is losing its orbit and is flying toward the sun, and it will only get hotter. And there is a candle on top of the water cooler that is mysteriously lit night after night. In the second half of the epi, Kay tells the cleaning lady that her sister Carrie has a tumor in her breast and it may be cancerous, and that her sis's hubby confesses to an affair at the very same moment Carrie got that news.

Santa Claus is brought in, after attempting to off the missus with a water pistol. Or for that rare type represented by Wainwright, the only type of reader he seems to be reviewing for. Mind you, the back-cover blurb of the book itself does no better: The publisher, Five Leaves Press, evidently feels no one will buy it if they know it is gay. And perhaps he is right. Even films with major gay themes are presented as if no such themes were there, lest nobody should want to buy or rent them. Pink pound or not, queerness is still uncommercial.

Maybe the poetry market really is currently so depressed that one needs to pander to the prejudiced in order to survive. The information about my job does not appear in the book under review, so Greening has imported it from elsewhere in order to use it against my poetry. Quite what he imagines my professional duties as consisting of is not clear—writing poetry is certainly not a part of them—but my job serves his purposes as a sign of incomprehensible apartness. The idea that gay experience might have something to teach us all—indeed, the vast majority of my students are heterosexual—does not even remotely occur to him. It is not his experience, so he is not interested. Presumably, he has never understood the point of Anna Karenina or Madame Bovary or Hedda Gabler because he is not a suicidal adulteress.

Yet his own hobbies—he being heterosexual and male—are so universal as to be a required topic in any decent literature. Presumably, he just skims through Tolstoy and Flaubert and Ibsen, sniffing for a whiff of fish. Complacently assuming the rank accorded to majority status, he cannot imagine that what interests him does not interest the world—and the topics he values are therefore those that are valuable. This is the purely statistical version of how to measure literary worth. The problem is, of course, that even his statistical understanding is suspect. I am willing to bet you that far more men on this planet have sex with other men than fish for fish with flies.

What is the matter with such people? Can they really not bear to read about things from beyond the narrow limits of their own experience? Do their editors not care that this should disqualify them from reviewing at all? It is as if the cosiness expected of English poetry cannot sustain the sheer seriousness—the problem—of queerness. The implications for our literature are serious, to say the least. Given this atmosphere within the poetry market, it is hardly surprising that those who police the reputations of individual writers tend to try to prevent their being limited by the lesbian or gay label.

Badboy, and the Auden estate actually threatened to sue if he went ahead, even though the poem is readily available on the internet. Lesbian Love Poems London: The point is that the owners of such literature do not want their property to be reduced in value. Is it universally available or not? The case of Thom Gunn gives us a pretty clear answer. His gayness was treated in British reviews, when it was acknowledged at all, as just another Californian distraction from the serious business, and the serious topics, of poetry. But his stock then rose dramatically when The Man with Night Sweats was published. Now that it involved AIDS, his gayness was no longer trivial. It became palatable at last: His sensuousness is aestheticised to the verge of pure theory.

The fact that he writes so impressively about his relationship with his male lover is rendered acceptable by the context of AIDS and mourning. The English poetic tradition finds elegy attractive, once the loved man is dying or dead and therefore rendered harmless.

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