the sloppy copy

Go ahead, snicker at the dramatic “sunglasses moves” of David Caruso, or the slurred Spanish spoken through the Southern drawl of Emily Procter, or Khandi Alexander’s mother-hen approach to medical examining…

…and claim that the original CSI (“Vegas,” as you people like to abbreviate it to) is superior to “Miami” and “New York,” (“but especially Miami,“ you’ll likely add)…

…and throw in there, for seemingly good measure, that the CSI “franchise” really just diluted the entire thing, but that “Vegas” came out strongest in the end because it lacked the gimmicks of “New York” and “Miami” (“especially Miami…”).

Go ahead. I don’t care. I’d be lying if I said that, at one point, I didn’t agree with you (at least about the sunglasses thing, especially after watching this: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=glvGfQnx3DI

But I recently started digging into this show, and can now offer at least 398 reasons why Miami is not the trashy stepchild of Vegas (okay, so I’ll narrow it down to 3, in random order):

You can watch Miami with the lights off in your living room.
Vegas is so damn dark, all the damn time. Every crime happens in the middle of the night, and every investigation of a crime scene involves walking through a house, searching for clues by flashlight. I understand that there’s some kind of “science” behind the flashlight thing, but even in the middle of the day, in the middle of the freaking desert, the interior of every building is pitch black. Are the citizens of Nevada required to purchase black-out curtains? It pisses me off when I have to lean in closer to the TV to see what the hell is going on, which makes me wonder how people with poorer vision watch the show.

CSI: Miami, on the other hand, is sunny (as I assume Miami actually, you know, is). Even when investigating for evidence using flashlights, there’s at least some natural light coming through these things called windows. Amazing, I know. I don’t feel like the entire show is filmed on some giant soundstage in Vancouver, which is the impression I get with Vegas.

The CSIs are just cooler.
Don’t get me wrong, I am by no means “cool.”  (Case in point: I had dinner with friends a few nights ago: 6 out of 9 of them work in some form of IT. The conversation naturally gravitated toward some kind of certification one of them is seeking. He showed me the book he was studying from (oh yeah, he brought his backpack into the pub). It seemed intense). But I watch TV to escape, not to see how my friends would be if we all ended up going into careers in forensics. I like to see the unreal (a stunningly gorgeous, blonde-and-perfect ammunitions expert, for instance). Even the “cool” characters on Vegas are big dorks. (Yes, I know Catherine Willows is a former exotic dancer. I’ll give the Vegas writers points for that one).  But other than ex-stripper Catherine, Warrick Brown was the only actually cool character…and they killed him off. Figures. 

David Caruso
As I said earlier, I can understand one’s irritation with David Caruso’s Horatio Caine. Overly dramatic? Yes. Hard core bad ass? Oh hell yes. Dapper in his suits, always packing heat, H is just fun to watch. Are his vocal inflections bizarre? Of course.  But have you ever really listened to Jorja Fox’s Sara Sidle? Every single sentence sounds the same. At least there’s an element of surprise in Horatio’s speech–where will he choose to pause? What strange syllable will he emphasize? And how will he use his sunglasses as an extension of his body?  David Caruso has made this character so much his own that I can’t imagine him as anything else.  Watch Jorja Fox in old episodes of ER or The West Wing and she’s pretty much the same: CSI, doctor, Secret Service. She’s just a vaguely masculine chick with a chip on her shoulder. And why the hell was Sara chasing Gil Grissom? Ew.

Let me state for the record that I’m not trying to incite a riot. Everyone’s entitled to their opinion, and opinions change. If you want to poke a hole in my arguments, go ahead, but don’t expect me to care that much. I know that my tastes aren’t always in the mainstream (I once told someone that I preferred Stargate: Atlantis to SG-1 and they were shocked–and possibly disappointed in me. I’ve since kept this information to myself, until, you know. Now).

The point of this post (at least, I think there’s a point) is that your least-favorite, gag-inducing, headache-causing tv program (or band, or movie, or song, or actor, or…) is always, always, always gonna be someone else’s personal favorite.

So don’t hate. Haters. Never. Win.

pause.

pause.

Music.*

(*cue “Won’t get fooled again” / The Who)

"The hair," as requested...

Well, there it is, folk(s). I’m not generally photogenic on demand (“good pictures” happen spontaneously, outside the bounds of my control, and never when a professional is behind the camera), and this was taken in PhotoBooth, but this pic gives a pretty good idea overall of what I’m dealing with here. 

A friend wants to give me a faux-hawk. If this happens, you can bet there will be pictures of that, too.

And now back to regularly-scheduled ranting…

I don’t care if they’re offering free haircuts and giving out $100 bills: DO NOT GET YOUR HAIR CUT AT GREAT CLIPS. It took me 3 or 4 truly heinous haircuts to really realize this, and I feel it’s my obligation to pass it along. 

I’m willing to admit that it could just be the Twin Oaks, Missouri Great Clips location, but I’d rather be safe than sorry (again).

I ended up going to another place, pleading with them to fix my most recent hair disaster. You’re probably asking yourself why I didn’t more clearly express my displeasure while I was getting my hair cut the first time around. I’m asking myself the same question (while kicking myself–hard). Part of me just assumed that the stylist was just styling it differently than I would: she used about a pound of mousse, then wax, THEN hairspray to finish it off. I figured I could go home, wash all the shit out of my hair, and fix it the way I wanted. 

No such luck–so off to Custom Cuts I went. The stylist did a tremendous job of salvaging the over-razored poof ball but had to go short…like WAY short… in the process.

I normally don’t really give a shit about my hair. I mean, I want it to look nice, but I usually don’t care if I get a so-so haircut. “It’s just hair,” I think. “It’ll grow.” So I just brush it out or pull it back or do whatever I can to make it look okay. 

But now my hair is short. Like middle-aged woman who wears snowman sweaters short. Like hairy armpitted lesbian human rights protester short. And there’s not much I can really DO with it. 

There are worse things (much worse things, just ask the aforementioned hairy- armpitted lesbian), so I really ought to just get a life and move on. Except every time I walk past a mirror, I don’t even recognize myself. “Who is this fifth grade teacher looking back at me?” I wonder. “And why the fuck did she let someone do that to her hair?”

Maybe I’ll just shave it off and start over.

*Hair, that is.

Update: No more text messages from Dustin, though I did get a “Merry Christmas” from someone in Maryland Heights (Mo). Not quite as interesting.

I could really go for some ice cream. I could actually really go for anything that is not currently in the kitchen at my parents’ house (where I’m currently staying). This is not a diss to their grocery choices. There are many delicious things therein, but, as is always my case–nothing that I want. And really, all I want is some ice cream. 

I am a horrible grocery shopper. I always carefully plan out my shopping list, and I always leave it at home. I always keep a mental note of the things I need to pick up when I’m out, and I always forget every single item when I’m actually at the store. 

This condition extends beyond supermarket shopping. I found a Target gift card that I got as a gift last year from my supervisor and decided to spend it a few days ago. I knew there were things that I had been eyeing at this consumer oasis, but couldn’t remember what these things were as I left the house. “I’ll just look around until I remember,” I thought to myself. 

Right. 

When I have no money to spend, I can take hours in Target compiling mental lists of all the lovely things that I will purchase when next I will allow myself to do so. Mostly extraneous junk, yes. But some of it is (at least kind of) necessary. But when I have $50 burning a hole in my pocket, I wander aimlessly, amazed at how supercilious all of these items are and wondering who would pay for any of this junk? 

So I shouldn’t bemoan the lack of ice cream. “Is there anything special you want from the store?” asked my mom earlier this week. “No, I can’t think of anything,” I said.*  Oh well. 

*I know what you’re thinking. “You probably didn’t want ice cream when she asked you, don’t beat yourself up.” But this is fundamentally wrong. ANY TIME is a good time for ice cream. You must understand this. I can think of very few instances when this statement is false (“immediately before undergoing major surgery” or “after already eating three gallons of Rocky Road” are two that come to mind, though the latter is a stretch).