CSI: Miami, or how we see life through our television sets every night.

Sometime last week, I was trying out a new ink in a pen to see if I liked it. The television was on following a late dinner and CSI: Miami came on. I'd recently read this interview and had been thinking about the things said there (warning: it's a long interview, but probably worth reading). I suppose that CSI is the sort of non-challenging television that Mr. Wallace identifies as problematic non-art, a non-art in which reality is basically unidentifiable and which presents the viewer with a passive experience that delivers the pain-free just world that people desire.

In case you missed this episode (I hope you did), I took notes on the plot:

• Opening scene: Mr. Reyes, a golf instructor, convicted of murdering a woman at his country club. Pointed out by prosecution that he didn't take the stand in his defense. Guilty. QED?
• Family views girl's body in morgue, flies escape body bag by the hundred.
• Flies are known to be a tropical variety that do not live indoors, thus not at the scene of the crime -- allegedly in the clubhouse.
• Defense attorney (Puff Daddy/P-Diddy/Diddy/Sean "Puffy" Combs/Sean John, himself) says he had one witness, a drug addict who came to him the day after the trial to say she saw the woman dead outside of the club. Info not brought forward because of her reputation.
• Cops track down addict in hospital just as doctors save her life following an overdose.
• Addict tells of seeing car with woman in passenger seat in alley.
• Cops find paint from woman's car in alley, investigate car for first time. Also find the infestation of flies (the fly they found in the woman (show gives 1:12,000 as odds!) in the alley behind pile of trash).
• Find an "odd blood pattern" in car. Stumped as to what made it.
• Eureka! A golf glove!
• Cops visit convicted man in jail who tells of woman gold-digging for a husband and of how she dated Mr. X (forgot his name).
• Cops find Mr. X on golf course and question him. Mr. X's cock-sure golfing golfing buddy questions validity of officer's investigation. Cop suspects him and sends Mr. X away, glancing knowingly at golfing pal.
• Cops search car's air filter for skin cells -- the murderer must have scratched his clean-shaven face in the car, so that his skin would have sloughed off and been lodged in the filter! right?
• Cop tries to obtain golfing buddy's DNA with "here drink this water" ploy. Puff Daddy bursts in as man's defense attorney. TWIST! "Nice try, officer," says Puffy as he drinks the water confidently.
• Judge denies request for DNA from golfing buddy citing weak evidence and golfer's (his name is Sheridan) ties to the Mayor. Cop implies P-Diddy is crooked, and the audience is supposed to understand that this is the case.
• Revisit convicted man's story of the crime: he saw the woman at the club after telling her she wasn't allowed back (she was a non-member and he could lose his job!), overheard to say "I'll kill you. Get out of here!" Ironing shirt at end of shift, phone call, places hot iron on top shelf of locker and leaves it unattended for ~10 minutes, returns to find woman stuffed in locker. Dead.
• Skin on auto air filter found to match sample on the iron, which had ended up on the bottom of the locker.
• Puffy shows up at lab and announces that he knows the iron was left unattended on the transfer back to the lab, so the match is worthless. Says something about some sort of tracking monitor and phone records.... (I didn't follow this, mostly because I don't think it made sense).
• Cop pulls over Sheridan for broken taillight, sees pills in the car that were the same that the addict ODd on. Puff Daddy is there! Cop leaves in a huff, but takes pictures with his iPhone before leaving the scene.
• Pictures blown up on space-aged lab computer to show in crystal clear 8"x10" detail that the light was broken from the inside and a human being (the addict who was the only evidence against Sheridan, obviously...) is revealed to be inside the trunk because they see an eye through the broken taillight. (Nonchalantly revealed that the addict had been missing since the last spoke to her). Also, iPhone users, how crappy is the quality of those pictures...
• Search Sheridan's house for addict (including under mattresses and in his dresser drawers as ominous, dramatic music plays) is a bust. No girl. Alas, Sheridan is taken into custody anyway.
• Memory flash! There were mylar (remember that they're mylar and not cotton, which will become important later) blankets in Sheridan's car at the traffic stop that are now gone!
• Puff Daddy calls cop over before leaving the scene to say he respects the law more than loyalty to a long time client and slyly reveals that the police should search Sheridan's other property, on which he wanted to build a par 3 golf course (easily 20 acres or larger).
• Search happens at night with assistance of infrared camera in order to identify voids of heat because mylar is a thermal insulator (coincidence? not in the script).
• Police find small amount of mylar sticking out of dirt pile, uncover manhole in middle of field (what?) and discover still breathing but traumatized addict essentially buried alive and gagged in the sewer.
• Golf pal confesses for deal. Cold and without emotion. He dated the woman, broke up with her because he was married, and decided to kill her when she threatened to expose him to his wife. He says, "I remembered the fight she had with Alfonso Reyes and I figured he'd be good to pin this on, so I called in a favor...." Remember: the locker was unattended and unlocked for only a 10 minute window while Reyes was on the phone.
• Scene cuts to faceless man helping Sheridan cram woman's body in locker (which just happens to be accessible for the exact ten minutes during which Sheridan arrives back at the club and wants to stash the body someplace).
• Scene cuts to cop approaching Judge on a bridge: "Sometimes the water's just not deep enough, is it Your Honor..."
• Judge confesses saying that he "didn't want to help," but he "didn't have a choice" because the man had helped him rise to his position on the Bench.
• Innocent man released and credits roll.

So here's my gripe. All of that nonsense is so far removed from anything that could even be considered close to the world that we experience as human beings, that I don't even identify the show with reality. Miami might as well be the year 7,251 on Mars and David Caruso might as well be some sort of talking space slug. These are not human beings, chance does not factor into life, there is never disappointment or evil, and Justice is always meted out appropriately. The man feels no shame for having cheated on his wife, but rather, the only reaction he has is a amoral calculation that if he murders the adulteress, she can't tell his secret. The judge is shown to embody the corrupt mindset of those who seek positions of power, yet takes no responsibility for his actions -- he "had no choice." We loathe the smug golfing pal and the judge in the end and feel guilty and bad for the woman who was murdered -- I bet you can't even remember why she was at the golf course to begin with, can you? I'll give you a hint: fancy country clubs have rich men who like pretty young women.

So, what? I sat in front of the television for an hour and watched the screen blink at me furiously (fast cuts, light flashes, bright colors), heard music that tickled my soul and told me which scenes were foreboding and which optimistic, and left the whole experience understanding that the bad men were locked up, that crooked judges get theirs, that lawyers who defend murderers actually have a conscience, and that the Law always... ALWAYS gets its man.

Sure, sure. CSI is notorious for this sort of low-level drivel -- it and Law & Order are all but mocked for how they always wrap up some insanely complicated plot neatly -- but it goes beyond that: all of today's popular television is this way. TV isn't all upbeat and ignorant of difficulties in human life, but all of it tells us that everything will work out and that we don't have to feel any pain. The same is true for movies. Think of the last romantic comedy that you saw in which Girl breaks up with Boy, Boy feels devastated and eventually realizes that Rebound Girl is the one he truly loves and not Original Girl, that Original Girl was a mistake of which he is lucky to be free -- pain followed by pleasure and fulfillment. Well, that's just not how life is.

Some films have done a better job of presenting a situation in which happiness is seemingly impossible due to social strictures (think Richie Tenebaum, who loves his step-sister and is unable to be with her). Yet, even these characters are difficult to identify with because they often take the most severe course of action in their grief. Many of us have been, or will be, heartbroken at some point in time by a love that we desperately want to work but ultimately realize can't, or won't. But, we don't contemplate suicide let alone attempt it. The gulf between the character's actions and what we see ourselves to be capable of in such a situation make identification with their experience difficult if not impossible. Moreover, such severe action is rarely an acceptable solution. I don't mean to attack Wes Anderson here. His Steve Zissou character actually is quite accessible, despite the absurdity of the pirate plot, the shark-eating-friend premise for the whole movie, and the generally silliness of the film. He has marriage troubles, a career on the rocks, experiences the loss of his beloved (best friend AND estranged son), and is hounded by an unshakable sense that he lacks a purpose in life. His course of action does provide an example for the way in which human beings can deal with the tragedy of human life: accept the loss one can't control and take solace in love and therein find a renewed sense of purpose -- note that he doesn't kill the shark, but cries while trying to identify with it, while trying to situate himself in the World. It's hard and it hurts, but sometimes it's all there is.

More often than not, however, television and film present the viewer with a passive experience more in line with what we want than what is. I don't mean to suggest that the largest entertainment outlet should be filled with unwed teen mothers faced with raising a child on their own, and who have lost the desire to be participatory in the World. Television isn't needed to show us that such a situation exists; we know and experience this, to varying degrees, ourselves. However, writers, directors, and producers aren't doing anyone a favor by papering over the fact that sometimes this experience is ineradicable, especially now that television and film has come to play such a prominent role in the daily lives of modern America, and the West more generally.

We need tragedy because a large part of our life is tragic. Perhaps all of it. We live and can't ever possess for ourselves what we truly want -- provisionally I believe this to be eternal requited love. Possession is one question, but eternal is not. We die. Largely we've stopped reading -- for those that do read, I'm not sure if contemporary fiction has a better record on this score than television -- so television and movies are the mirror to which we turn to understand ourselves in an abstracted sense. True introspection seems to be a lot harder and, if our taste in television is any indication, something in which we are becoming less and less apt to engage.

Television gives us what we want, but perhaps we want the wrong things. Difficulty and pain are a part of what it means to be a human being. To look at life as a game, one can't win if winning is understood as eliminating pain. Perhaps it's better if we don't medicate ourselves with images and stories that suggest we can. Rather, it would be better to understand this intrinsic difficulty of life and concentrate on finding a path to happiness within the bounds of the tragic element. Art is helpful. CSI is not art.

Perspecives on love, in a story

I've been reading The Broom of the System, by David Foster Wallace. It's rather disjointed, but intermixed in the story are tellings of stories submitted to a character's literary review. I found this one quite intriguing. I warn the reader now that it's a long story, but also feel that it's worth reading. It's told in a dialog, and -- for context -- the characters are flying in a plane from Ohio to Massachusetts, thus the references to ear pain.

[…]
“Ironically enough, a man, in whom the instinct to love is as strong and natural and instinctive as can possibly be, is unable to find someone really to love.”
“We’re starting the story? Or is this just a Vigorous pithy?”
“The story is underway. The aforementioned pre-sarcastic-interruption fact is because this man, in whom the instincts and inclinations are so strong and pure, is completely unable to control these strong and pure instincts and inclinations. What invariably happens is that the man meets a halfway or even quarterway desirable woman, and he immediately falls head over heels in love with her, right there, first thing, on the spot, and blurts out; I love you; as practically the first thing he says, because he can’t control the intensely warm feelings of love, and not just lust, now, it’s made clear, but deep, emotionally intricate, passionate love, the feelings that wash over him, and so immediately at the first opportunity he says ‘I love you,’ and his pupils dilate until they fill practically his whole eyes, and he moves unself-consciously toward the woman in question as if to touch her in a sexual way, and the woman he does this to, which is more or less every woman he meets, quite understandably don’t react positively to this, a man who says ‘I love you’ right away, and makes a bid for closeness right away, and so the women as an invariable rule reject him verbally on the spot, or hit him with their purse, or worst of all run away, screaming screams only he and they can hear.”
“Look down for a second, Rick. Out the window.”
“Where?”
“Right down there.”
“Heavens, I know her! That’s …”
“Jayne Mansfield.”
“Jayne Mansfield, right. What’s she doing as a town? Is that East Corinth?”
“I’ll explain later.”
“My God, will you look at that west border. That 271. That’s the Inner Belt. I’ve driven over that.”
“Meanwhile, back with the lover whose love drives the lovee away with silent screams.”
“Right. So the man is understandably not too happy. Not only is he denied the opportunity to love, but it’s the very strength and intensity of his own love-urge that denies him the opportunity, which dial thus understandably causes him exponentially more sadness and depression and frustration than it would you or me, in whom the instincts are semi-under-control, and so semi-satisfiable.”
“More gum?”
“And so the man is in a bad way, and he loses his job at the New York State Department of Weights and Measures, at which he’d been incredibly successful before the love-intensity problem. got really bad, and now he wanders the streets of New York City, living off the bank account he’d built up during his days as a brilliant weights-and-measures man, wandering the streets, stopping only when he falls in love, getting slapped or laughed at or hearing silent screams. And this goes on, for months, until one day in Times Square he sees a discreet lithe Xeroxed ad on a notice board, an ad for a doctor who claims to be a love therapist, one who can treat disorders stemming from and connected to the emotion of love.”
“What, like a sex therapist?”
“No, as a matter of fact, it says ‘Not A Sex Therapist’ in italics at the bottom of the ad, and it gives an address, and so the man, who is neither overjoyed with his life nor overwhelmed with alternatives for working out his problems, hops the subway and starts heading across town to the love therapist’s office. And in his car on the subway there are four women, three of them reasonably desirable, and he falls in love in about two seconds with each of the three in turn, and gets hit, laughed at, and subjected to a silent scream, respectively, and then eventually he looks over at the fourth woman, who’s conspicuously fat, and has stringy hair, and Coke-bottle glasses, and an incredibly weak chin, weaker even than mine, and so the fourth woman is prohibitively undesirable, even for the man, and besides she’s very hard to see because she’s pressed back into the shadow of the rear of the car, with her coat collar pulled up around her neck, which neck is also encased in a thick scarf. Did I mention it was March in New York City?”
“No.”
“Well it is, and she’s in a scarf, pressed back into the shadow, with her cheek pressed against the grimy graffiti-spattered wall of the subway car, clutching an old Thermos bottle that’s jutting half-way out of her coat pocket, and she just basically looks like one of those troubled cases you don’t want to mess with, which cases New York City does not exactly have a scarcity of.”
“You’re telling me.”
“And then on top of everything else the fat stringy-haired woman with the Thermos has been watching the man telling the other three women that he loves them, and making bids for closeness, out of the corner of her eye, as she hugs the wall of the car in shadow, and then so when she sees the man even look at her, at all, she obviously flips out, it really bothers her, and she bolts for the door of the subway car, as fast as she can bolt, which isn’t too fast, because now it becomes clear that one of her legs is roughly one half the length of the other, but still she bolts, and the car is just pulling into a station, and the door opens, and out she flies, and in her excessive hast she drops the old Thermos she’d been clutching, and it rolls down the floor of the subway , and it finally clunks against the man’s shoe, and he picks it up, and it’s just an old black metal Thermos, but on the bottom is a piece of masking tape on which is written in a tiny faint hand a name and an address, which he and we assume to be the woman’s, in Brooklyn, and so the man resolves to give the woman back her Thermos, since it was probably he and his inappropriate emotional behavior that had caused her to drop it in the first place. Besides, the love therapist’s office is in Brooklyn, too.”
"And so the man arrives at the love therapist's office, and actually wouldn't ordinarily have gotten in to see the love therapist at all, because she's apparently a truly great and respected love therapist, and incredibly busy, and her appointment calendar is booked up months in advance, but, as it happens, the love therapist's receptionist is a ravingly desirable woman, and the man immediately and involuntarily falls head over heels in love with her, and actually begins involuntarily reciting love poems to her, then eventually sort of passes out, swoons from the intensity of his love, and falls to the carpeted floor, and so the receptionist runs in and tells the love therapist what's happened, that this is obviously a guy who really needs to be seen right away, out here, on the rug, and so the love therapist skips her lunch hour, which she was just about to take, and they pick the man up off the reception-area and carry him into the office and revive him with cold water, and he gets an appointment right away.
"And it turns out that one of the reasons why this love therapist is so great is that she can usually hew to the bone of someone's love-problem in one appointment, and doesn't keep the patient stringing along month after expensive month with vague predictions of breakthrough, which we are both in a position to appreciate the desirability of, I think, and so the love therapist hews to the bone of the man's problem, and tell the man that surprisingly enough it's not that his emotional love-mechanism is too strong, but rather that some of its important features are too weak, because one of the big things about real love is the power to discriminate and decide whom and on the basis of what criteria to love, which the man is very obviously unable to do -- witness the fact that the man fell deeply and intricately for the receptionist without even knowing her, and has already said 'I love you' to the love therapist, herself, about ten times, involuntarily. What the man needs to do, the love therapist says, is to strengthen his love-discrimination mechanism by being around women and trying not to fall in love with them. Since this obviously will be hard for the man to do at the start, the love therapist suggests that he begin by finding some woman so completely and entirely undesirable, looks-wise and personality-wise, that it won't be all that hard to keep from falling in love with her right away, and then proceeding to hang around her as much as he can, to begin to strengthen the mechanism that lets men hang around with women without necessarily falling in love with them. And the man is dazed from the one-two punch of the ravingly desirable receptionist and the wise and kind and obviously exceedingly competent and also not unerotic love therapist, but the back part of his brain, the part that deals with basic self-preservation, knows things cannot keep going as they have been, and he resolves to give the love therapist's advice a try, and then he happens to look down at the Thermos he's still holding, and he sees the piece of masking tape with the name and address of the Thermos woman on it, and he has an epiphany-ish flashback to the subway, and sees that the Thermos woman is just a prime candidate for non-love, stringy-hair-and-uneven-leg-wise, and clearly-troubled-personality-wise, and as the scene ends we see him looking speculatively at the Thermos and then at the love therapist."
"How's the gum doing?"
"New piece, please."
"Here."
"…."
"Is the gum working?"
"Do you hear me complaining yet?"
"Good point."
"And so as the next scene opens it's a few days later, and the man and the Thermos woman are walking in Central Park, or rather walking and limping, respectively, and they're holding hands, although for the man it's just a friendly platonic hand-holding, although we're not sure what it is for the Thermos woman, and it's made clear that the man had gone to the Thermos address and had talked to the woman and had, after a reasonably long time and many visits, broken down some of her really pathological shyness and introversion, though only some. And they're walking hand in hand, although it's inconvenient, because the woman clearly has a pathological need to always be in shadow, and so they keep having to veer all over Central Park to find shadow that she'll be able to walk in, and she also has a pathological need to keep her neck covered, and keeps fingering at one of the seemingly uncountable number of scarves she owns, and she also strangely always seems to want to have only her right side facing the man, she keeps her left side turned away at all times, so all the man ever sees of her is her right profile, and as he turns from time to time and moves relative to her she keeps moving and positioning herself like mad to keep only her right side facing him."
"…."
“And she also seems really aloof and not emotionally connected with anyone outside of herself at all, except her family, who live in Yonkers, but as the man works to exercise his love-discrimination mechanism and starts hanging around the woman and beginning to get to know her better, it seems clear to him that she actually wants to be connected with people outside herself, very much, but can't for some strange reason that he can't figure out, but knows has something to do with the shadows, the scarves, and the profiles."
“….”
"And a funny thing happens. The man begins to like the Thermos woman. Not love, but like, which is something the man has never experienced before, and finds different, because it involves directing a lot more emotional attention to the actual other person than the old uncontrollable passionate love had involved, involves caring about the whole other person, including the facets and features that have nothing whatsoever to do with the man. And now it's implied that what has happened is that the man has for the first time become really connected to a person other than himself, that he had not really ever been connected before, that his intense-love tendency, which might at first glance have seemed like the ultimate way to connect, has really been a way not to connect, at all, both in its results and, really, as a little psychological analysis is by implication indulged in, in its subconscious intent. The inability to bring the discriminating faculty of love to bear on the world outside him has been what has kept the man from connecting with that world outside him, the same way the Thermos woman has been kept from connecting by the mysterious shadow-scarf-and-profile thing.”
"Which thing, by the way, really begins to bother the man, and makes his intensely curious, especially as he begins to feel more and more connected to the woman, though not exactly in a passionate-love way, and things he feels her yearning to connect, too. And so he gradually wins her trust and affection, and she responds by starting to wash her hair, and dieting, and buying an extra thick shoe for her obscenely short leg, and things progress, although the Thermos woman is still clearly pathologically hung up about something. And then one night in very early April, after a walk all around the quainter of the parts of Brooklyn, the man takes the Thermos woman back to her apartment and has sex with her, seduces her, gets her all undressed -- except, compassionately, for her scarf – and he makes love to her, and it's at first surprisingly, but then when we think about it not all that surprisingly, revealed that this is the first time this incredibly passionate, love-oriented man, who's about thirty, has ever had sex with anybody, at all."
"…."
"Um, first time for the Thermos woman, too."
"…."
"…."
"What's the matter?"
"My ear! Shit! God!"
"Try to swallow."
"…."
"Try to yawn."
"…."
"…."
"Good God. I so hate airplanes, Lenore. I can think of no more convincing demonstration of my devotion to you than my coming on this trip. I am flying for you."
"You're going to get to see Amherst in the very early fall. You said early fall in Amherst used to make you weep with joy."
"…."
"You're less pale. Can we assume the ear is better?"
"Jesus."
"…."
"So they have sex, and the man is able to be gentle and caring, which we can safely intuit he couldn't have been, passion-wise, if he'd really been hopelessly in love with his old way with the Thermos woman, and the Thermos woman weeps tears of joy, at all the gentleness and caring, and we can practically hear the thud as she falls in love with the man, and she really begins to think it's possible to connect with someone in the world outside her. And they're lying in bed, and their limbs are unevenly intertwined, and the man is resting his head on the little shelf of the thermos woman's weak chin, and he's playing idly with the scarf around her neck, which playing pathologically bothers the woman, which the man notices, and curiosity and concern wash over him, and he tries tentatively and experimentally slowly to undo the scarf and take it off, and the Thermos woman tenses all her muscles but through what is obviously great strength of will doesn't stop him, although she's weeping for real, now, and the man gently, and with kisses and reassurances, removes the scarf, throws it aside, and in the dimness of the bedroom sees something more than a little weird on the woman's neck, and he goes and turns on the light, and in the light of the bedroom it's revealed that the woman has a pale-green tree toad living in a pit at the base of her neck, on the left side."
"Pardon me?"
"In a perfectly formed and non-woundish pit on the left side of the Thermos woman's neck is a tiny tree toad, pale green, with white throat that puffs rhythmically out and in. The toad stares up at the man from the woman's neck with sad wise clear reptilian eyes, the clear and delicate lower lids of which blink upward, in reverse. And the woman is weeping, her secret is out, she has a tree toad living in her neck."
"Is it my imagination, or did this story just get really weird all of a sudden?"
"Well, the context is supposed to explain and so minimize the weirdness. The tree toad in the pit in her neck is the thing that has kept the Thermos woman from connecting emotionally with the world outside her: it has been what has kept her in sadness and confusion, see also darkness and shadow, what has bound and constrained her, see also being wrapped in a scarf, what has kept her from facing the external world, see also staying in profile all the time. The tree toad is the mechanism of nonconnection and alienation, the symbol and cause of the Thermos woman's isolation; yet it also becomes clear after a while that she is emotionally attached to the tree toad in a very big way, and cares more for it and gives it more attention that she gives herself, there in the privacy of her apartment. And the man also discovers that all of the scarves the woman wears to cover up and hide the tree toad are full of tine holes, air holes for the toad, holes that are practically invisible and that the woman herself makes via millions of tiny punctures of the cloth with a pin, late at night."
"My ear even hurts a little. We must be really high."
"So that the very thing that has made the woman unconnected when she wants to be connected and has so made her extremely unhappy is also the center of her life, a thing she cares a lot about, and is even, in certain ways the man can't quite comprehend, proud of, and proud of the fact that she can feed the pale-green tree toad bits of food off her finger, and that it will let her scratch its while throat with a letter opener. So now things are understandably ambiguous, and it's not clear whether deep down at the core of her being the Thermos woman really wants to connect, after all, at all. Except as time goes by and the man continues to hang around, exercising his non-love mechanism, being gentle and caring, the woman falls more and more for him, and clearly wants to connect, and her relation with the tree toad that lives in the pit of her neck gets ambiguous, and at times she's hostile toward it and flicks at it cruelly with her fingernail, except at other times she falls back into not wanting to connect, and so dotes on the tree toad, and scratches it with the letter opener, and is aloof toward the man. And this goes on and on, and she falls for the man on the whole more and more. And the man begins to be unsure about his formerly definitely non-love feelings for this strange and too pretty but still quite interesting Thermos woman, and so his whole love-situation gets vastly more complicated than it's ever been before."
"Listen, would you like a Canadian Club? I can get Jennifer to bring you a Canadian Club."
"Not too tasty with gum, I'm afraid, of which I would however like another piece."
"Coming right up."
"And so things are complicated, and the man earns the Thermos woman's trust more and more, and finally one night she brings him to her family's home in Yonkers, for a family get-together and dinner, and the man meets her whole family, and he knows something's up, because they all have scarves around their necks, and they're clearly extremely on edge about there being an outsider in their midst, but anyway they all sit around the living room for a while, in uncomfortable silence, with cocktails, and Cokes for the little kids, and then they sit down to dinner, and right before they all sit down the Thermos woman looks significantly at the man, and then at her father, and then in a gesture of letting the family know she's clued the man into her secret condition and initiated some kind of nascent emotional connection, she undoes her scarf and throws it aside, and her tree toad gives a little chirrup, and there's a moment of incredibly tense silence, and then the father slowly undoes and discards his scarf, too, and in the pit in the left side of his neck there's a mottle-throated fan-wing moth, and then the whole rest of the family under their scarves, too, and they all have little animals living in pits in their necks: the mother has a narrow-tailed salamander, one brother has a driver ant, one sister has a wolf spider, another brother has an axolotl, one of the little children has a sod webworm. Et cetera et cetera."
"I think I feel the need for context again."
"Well the father explains to the man, as the family is sitting around the table, eating, and also feeding their respective neck-tenants little morsels off the tips of their fingers, that their family is from an ancient and narratively unspecified area in Eastern Europe, in which area the people have always stood in really ambiguous relations to the world outside them, and that the area's families were internally fiercely loyal, and their members were intimately and thoroughly connected with one another, but that the family units themselves were fiercely independent, and tended to view just about all non-family-members as outsiders, and didn't connect with them, and that the tiny animals in their necks, which specific animal-types used to be unique to each family and the same for each member of a particular family, in the old days, were symbols of this difference from and non-connection with the rest of the outside world. But then the father goes on to say that these days inbreeding and the passage of time were making the animal-types in the necks of the family-members different, and that also, regrettably, some younger members of the fiercely loyal families were now inclined to resent the secrecy and non-connection with the world that having animals in their necks required and entitled them to, and that some members of his own family had unfortunately given him to understand that they weren't entirely happy about the situation. And here he and all the other members of the family stop eating and glare at the Thermos woman, there in her glasses, who is silently trying to feed her tree toad a bit of pot roast off the tip of her finger. And the man's heart just about breaks with pity for the Thermos woman, who so clearly now stands in such an ambiguous relation to everything and everyone around her, and his heart almost breaks, and he also realizes in an epiphany-ish flash that he has sort of fallen in love with the Thermos woman, in a way, though not in the way he'd fallen for any of the uncountable number of women he'd fallen in love with before."
"Look down a second, if it doesn't hurt your ear. I think we're over Pennsylvania. I thought I saw a hex sign on a barn roof. We're past Lake Erie, at least."
"Thank God. Drowning in sludge is one of my special horrors."
"…."
"And so things are complicated, enormously complicated, and the man feels he's now experiencing the kind of strong discriminating love the love therapist has been recommending, so he's pleased, and also maybe I neglected to mention he's long toned down his head-over-heels-in-love-in-public inclinations, things are now much more under control, and with all his professional weight-measure experience, plus his new-found amorous restraint, he manages to land a fairly good job with a company that makes scales, and he's doing pretty well, although he does miss that exciting head-busting rush of hot feeling he used to get from being madly, passionately, non-discriminatingly in love. But the Thermos woman is clearly undergoing even more complicated changes and feelings than the man; she's obviously fallen in love with him, and her nascent connection with him is obviously arousing in her a desire to begin to connect emotionally with the entire outside world, and she gets more concerned with and attentive to her own appearance; she loses more weight, and buys contact lenses to replace the Coke-bottle glasses, and gets a perm, and there's still of course the problem of chinlessness and leg-length, but still. But most of all she now noticeably begins to perceive the green tree toad in the pit in her neck as a definite problem, and ceases to identify herself with it and non-connection, and begins instead to identify herself with herself and connection. But now her perception of the tiny toad as a definite problem, which is, remember, a function of her new world view and desire to connect, now paradoxically causes her enormous grief and distress, because, now that she feels a bit connected to the world, she no longer feels that she wants to stay in shadow and present only profiles -- so far so good -- but that now even though she doesn't want to hide away she feels more than ever as though she ought to, because she's got a reptile living in a pit in her neck, after all, and is to that extent alienated and different and comparatively disgusting, with respect to the world she now wants to connect with."
"Aren't tree toads amphibians, really?"
"Wise-ass. Amphibian in a pit in her neck. But she suddenly and ominously get even more fanatical about being in shadow and wearing the scarves, even though these are obviously alienating things: the more she wants to be accepted by the world, the more she's beaten back by her heightened perception of her own difference, amphibian-tenant-wise. She becomes absolutely obsessed with the green tree toad, and gives it a really hard time with her fingernail, and cries, and tells the man she hates the toad, and the man tries to cheer her up by taking her out dancing at a nightclub that has lots of shadows. Gum, please."
"…."
"And things get worse, and the Thermos woman is now drinking a lot, sitting in her apartment, and as she's drinking, the man will look at her sadly, as he sits nearby working on the design for a scale; and the tree toad, when it's not busy getting flicked by a fingernail, will look at the man and blink sadly, from the lower lid up, there in the pit in the Thermos woman's neck."
"…."
"And now, disastrously, it's late April. It's the height of spring, almost. Have you even been around someplace that has tree toads, in the spring, Lenore?"
"Oh, no."
"They sing. It's involuntary. It's instinctive. They sing and chirrup like mad. And this, I rather like to think, is why the tree toad looked sadly at the man as the man was looking sadly at the drinking Thermos woman: the tree road has it's own nature to be true to, too. The toad's maybe aware that its singing will have a disastrous effect on the Thermos woman, right now, because whereas in the past she always just used to keep herself hidden away, in the spring, in the singing season, now she's clearly torn by strong desires to connect, to be a part of the world. And so maybe the tree toad knows it's hurting the Thermos woman, irreparably, by chirruping like mad, but what can it do? And the singing clearly drives the Thermos woman absolutely insane with frustration and horror, and her urges both to connect and to hide away in shadow are tearing at her like hell, and it's all pathetic, and also, as should by now be apparent, more than a little ominous."
"Oh, God."
"And one day, not long after the toad began singing in the apartment, as the air is described as getting soft and sweet and tinged with gentle promises of warmth, with a flowery smell all around, even in New York City, the man gets a call at work from the Thermos woman's father, in Yonkers: it seems that the Thermos woman has thrown herself in front of the subway and killed herself that morning in a truly horrible way."
"Sweet Jesus."
"And the man is obviously incredibly upset, and doesn't even thank the father for calling him, even though it was quite a thing for the Eastern European father to do, what with the man being an outsider, et cetera, and so but the man is incredibly upset, and doesn't even go to the funeral, he's so frantic, and he discovers now -- the hard way -- that he really was connected to the Thermos woman, really and truly, deeply and significantly, and that the severing of an established connection is exponentially more painful than the rejection of an attempted connection, and he wallows in grief, and also disastrously his old love problem immediately comes roaring back stronger than ever, and the man is falling passionately in love with anything with a pulse, practically, and now, disastrously, men as well as women, and he's perceived as a homosexual, and starts getting regularly beaten up at work, and then he loses his job when he tell his supervisor he's in love with him, and he's back out wandering the streets, and now he starts falling in love with children, too, which is obviously frowned upon by society, and he commits some gross though of course involuntary indiscretions, and gets arrested, and thrown in jail overnight, and he's in a truly horrible way, and he curses the love therapist for even suggesting that he try to love with his discriminating-love-faculty."
"May I please ask a question?"
"Yes."
"Why didn't the Thermos woman just take the tree toad out of her neck and put it in a coffee can or something?"
"A, the implication is that the only way the animal-in-neck people can rid themselves of the animals in their necks is to die, see for instance the subway, and b, you're totally, completely missing what I at any rate perceive to be the point of the story."
"…."
"And the man is in a horrible way, and his old love problem is raging, together with and compounded by his continued grief at the severed Thermos-woman-connection, and his desire never ever to connect again, which desire itself stands in a troublingly ambiguous and bad-way-producing relation to the original love problem. And so things are just horrible. And they go on this way for about a week, and then one night in May the man is lying totally overcome by grief and his roughly twenty-five fallings in love and run-ins with the police that day, and he's almost out of his mind, lying in a very bad way there on the rug of his apartment, and suddenly there's an impossibly tiny knock at the apartment door."
"Oh, no."
"What do you mean, 'Oh, no'?"
"…."
"Well he opens the door, and there on the floor of the hall outside his apartment is the Thermos woman's tiny delicate pale-green tree toad, blinking up at him, from the lower eyelid up, with it's left rear foot flattened and trailing way behind it and obviously hurt, no doubt we're to assume from the subway episode, which episode however the toad at least seemed to have survived."
"Wow."
"And the story ends with the man, bleary-eyed and punchy from grief and love and connection-ambiguity, at the door, staring down at the tiny pale-green tree toad, which is still simply looking up at him, blinking sadly in reverse, and giving a few tentative little chirrups. And they're just there in the hall looking at each other as the story ends."

(Wallace, David Foster. The Broom of the System. 1987. p. 180 – 194)

Boom. You just got phazed.

Do you know the difference between one dollar and one penny?

The company's policy seems to be $.002/kb, or, alternatively written, .2¢/kb. For some reason, the workers don't understand fractions?

The Second Coming of the Infomercial

Remember the good old days when you could flip the channels on television and see Tony Little advertising that "gazelle" running thing, or the Juice Man with the eyebrows telling you that it was now possible to juice a radish whole!?  Well, those days are back!  

Have you noticed the recent surge in commercials selling items like the SlapChop (and Gratey), the diet program sponsored by Jillian Barberie and Marie Osmond, and Snuggie (King of them all)?  Apparently all of this is because corporations don't have any money.

The Slow Death of Good Commercials

Have you noticed lately on your television that there are a stunning number of crappy infomercial-quality ads running during prime time? That is because the fancy advertisers are broke. We live in Snuggie's world now.

The Simpsons last night was replete with ads for 5 Hour Energy that seemed to have been filmed in one take, in a locker room, with a Handicam. Fortunately the NYT today confirms that this isn't my imagination. The collapse of ad sales, and the decline of the auto industry, means that even regular networks—and even, sometimes, in prime time—are increasingly forced to plug empty spots with cheap ass infomercial standbys.

“I like to say that we’re getting beachfront property at trailer park prices,” [Infomercial guy] said. “We’re clearing stuff at prime time, which we almost never do.”

Print, radio and Internet companies also filled space with these ads. For example, a full-page ad for an Amish room heater has been running in USA Today and The Wall Street Journal.

Christ it's true, we've totally seen that! We're in for some dark days in television advertising, particularly. The lead story onAd Age's website right now: Snuggie. It's the hot new thing in marketing. We'll all be couch-bound Druids soon enough.

And there's also a real story on Snuggie:  Marketing's New Red-Hot Seller: Humble Snuggie. The point is that we'll continue to be inundated with commercials for sleeved blankets and decorative plant watering bulbs until corporations get money again.  Damnit.

Jesus H. Blagojevich!

Oh man, this guy makes me miss Kwame.  It's absolutely one of the worst thought out stunts in a long time, but he has decided to boycott his own impeachment trial, electing to take a media tour to proclaim his innocence instead.  I hope that the Illinois Senate gets cable.  

Rather than taking a path to prove his innocence, it seems he recognizes that he's done for and is attempting to martyr himself.  I bet it doesn't work.  He doesn't have much of a cross to carry, I don't think.

ONE of NPR's stories

But Blagojevich has been able to take some solace from his predicament. He told the network that when he was arrested on federal corruption charges last month, he was comforted by thinking of other jailed leaders, such as Nelson Mandela, the Rev. Martin Luther King Jr. and Mohandas Gandhi.

He also compared himself to the Jimmy Stewart character in the Frank Capra classic, Mr. Smith Goes to Washington, saying he's fighting against a "political-industrial complex."

I'm not sure where "industrial" fits into his complaint.  Maybe he was just trying to compare himself to Eisenhower as well.  Honestly, could this man's head get any bigger?  He appears to be an idiot to boot:

The governor told ABC he had considered the possibility of nominating Oprah Winfrey to fill Obama's seat."

She seemed to be someone who would help Barack Obama in a significant way become president," said Blagojevich, who had been discussing a replacement since before the November election. 

"She was obviously someone with a much broader bully pulpit than other senators."Blagojevich, 52, said he worried the appointment of Winfrey might come across as a gimmick and that the talk show host was unlikely to accept. In the end, Blagojevich appointed former Illinois Attorney General Roland Burris to the vacant seat.

The guy's trial is probably bogus and a stunt in itself.  And, it looks like he might have a legitimate complaint about the fairness of his trial rules:

Adam's outline also complains that trial rules bar calling anyone as a witness if federal prosecutors object that it would interfere with their criminal case. Blagojevich says that will keep him from calling witnesses who would help his case, such as President Obama's chief of staff Rahm Emanuel, who has said he talked with Blagojevich about Obama's U.S. Senate successor and the governor didn't suggest anything improper.

That being said, I don't think that Larry King has much of a say in the rules.  He probably shouldn't be removed from office even if he did talk about selling a senate seat unless there's proof that this happened. But, he's going to be because he's more concerned with making a scene than arguing his case like a grown up.  Instead of watching a government official justify his actions, we're going to watch a fool try and nail himself to a cross.

Local News = Stellar!

Don't worry.  The heroic veterinarian who volunteered his services "treated it with euthanasia."

Eulogy for a woodchuck
From Dori Pullan, Waterford Township:

December 24, 2008

Nov. 20, at 4:15 p.m., west of Decker on Maple Road, an inhumane coward ran over a beautiful young woodchuck and kept going. This driver is not worth the dirt that the blood spilled upon. My husband and I did not see the impact, just what followed. Several cars in front of us swerved to avoid hitting the animal again as it staggered and flipped about in pain.

We then blocked traffic with our car. Over 200 vehicles passed us. Many offered obscene gestures, language and frowns. Few stopped to help. Six heroes with true kind souls freely offered help.

One man stopped, took his toolbox, threw his tools onto his front seat and offered the box as a bed for the woodchuck. Two men came out of local businesses west of Decker offering help; both called 911. A woman stopped and gave us a very nice sweater for a blanket. A Walled Lake police officer arrived and escorted us to the Walled Lake Veterinary Hospital, where Dr. Steven Burns volunteered his services. He tenderly examined the woodchuck and treated it with euthanasia, sparing the agony it would have endured.

So, eight people out of several hundred thought to help. What does that say about people in general? To the people who truly helped, you give me hope. To the 96 percent who kept going, annoyed by this ordeal, shame on you. Your behavior and disregard for life is an example of one of the ills our society faces.

(link to Spinal Column article)

I too have gotten out of my car to get a woodchuck out of the road, but I don't think that was heroic nor that those who drove past were to be ashamed.  I just wanted to handle the whistle pig.