1. I read The Hunger Games. I know, I'm like four years behind the times, but GUYS, that book is RIDICULOUS. I'm so addicted I'm a little ashamed of myself. Prepare for an onslaught of references in any upcoming blog entries.
2. Blogger changed its format. My quasi-luddite self is having some issues adjusting. This is just like when they changed facebook that one time...and that other time...and last week...and probably next week.
3. With this change of format came some stats about where my traffic is coming from. This led to two surprises, the first being that this blog actually has traffic aside from my parents and their friends (!!!). The second was that a chunk of my traffic is coming from Ivy Gate, which was...puzzling. Come to find out, there's a link there to my "In Defense of Dartmouth...and Greek Life" entry because, hey, I've been quoted extensively on Ivy Gate. Would've been lovely if someone could have dropped me a line about this (I'm looking at you, J.K. Trotter), especially since I was the only person called out by name. If only blogger had some sort of commenting function to facilitate that kind of stuff!
Anyway, although I'm still undecided as to whether or not the article is mocking me mercilessly, I'm rather tickled. Someone found my blog without me having to send them a link in an email titled "READ THIS, THANKS, MOM." So thanks for the traffic, Ivy Gate readers. Hope you've also enjoyed my thoughts on Christmas music and my haikus detailing my life as a supermarket cashier.
Wednesday, May 2, 2012
Friday, April 13, 2012
Five Things I Will Never Do If I Become a Famous Novelist
1. I will not give my novel two names , e.g. Pretension or Why This Must Be Great Literature or Blood Meridian or The Evening Redness in the West. I will have the gumption to pick one title and stick with it. On a related note, I will not make the title longer than the novel itself.
2. I will not subtitle the name of my book with the phrase "a novel." I will trust that any reader of mine will be able to deduce that a book they find in the fiction section is, in fact, a novel. If they cannot figure this out for themselves, my book will probably be too advanced for them, as it will involve sentences with up to ten words and perhaps even multiple chapters.
3. I will not dedicate my book to a fictional character, pet, or abstract concept, because Elizabeth Bennet, Fluffy, and love cannot and do not read novels. No one else cares about the dedication.
4. Regardless of what the book is about, I will not allow my publisher to include any of the following phrases on the back-cover blurb: "twenty-something," "forty-something," "unlucky in love," "looking for escape," "Mr. Wrong," "Mr. Right," "adventure of a lifetime," or "sometimes the answer is right in front of you." There will also be a blanket ban on all rhetorical questions ("Will Character X be able to put everything right?").
5. I will not heed any rules, self-devised or otherwise, for novel-writing. Because I'm a famous novelist. Screw you, what have you ever done?
2. I will not subtitle the name of my book with the phrase "a novel." I will trust that any reader of mine will be able to deduce that a book they find in the fiction section is, in fact, a novel. If they cannot figure this out for themselves, my book will probably be too advanced for them, as it will involve sentences with up to ten words and perhaps even multiple chapters.
3. I will not dedicate my book to a fictional character, pet, or abstract concept, because Elizabeth Bennet, Fluffy, and love cannot and do not read novels. No one else cares about the dedication.
4. Regardless of what the book is about, I will not allow my publisher to include any of the following phrases on the back-cover blurb: "twenty-something," "forty-something," "unlucky in love," "looking for escape," "Mr. Wrong," "Mr. Right," "adventure of a lifetime," or "sometimes the answer is right in front of you." There will also be a blanket ban on all rhetorical questions ("Will Character X be able to put everything right?").
5. I will not heed any rules, self-devised or otherwise, for novel-writing. Because I'm a famous novelist. Screw you, what have you ever done?
Friday, March 30, 2012
The Week in Review, Haiku-Style
Sunday
Two good meals at home
Return to Dartmouth dining...
Dinner? Who needs it?
Monday
No classes today
I am a scheduling champ
Senior spring: the best!
Tuesday
Taking an art class
Learning how to draw straight lines
Tuition well spent!
Wednesday
Thesis is on track!
But draft's due in just four weeks...
Breakdown imminent.
Thursday
Scheduling crisis
Dropping history major
Senior spring: the worst.
Friday
Weekend's almost here!
Could get caught up on homework...
Nah. Let's watch TV.
Two good meals at home
Return to Dartmouth dining...
Dinner? Who needs it?
Monday
No classes today
I am a scheduling champ
Senior spring: the best!
Tuesday
Taking an art class
Learning how to draw straight lines
Tuition well spent!
Wednesday
Thesis is on track!
But draft's due in just four weeks...
Breakdown imminent.
Thursday
Scheduling crisis
Dropping history major
Senior spring: the worst.
Friday
Weekend's almost here!
Could get caught up on homework...
Nah. Let's watch TV.
Wednesday, March 28, 2012
In defense of Greek Life...and of Dartmouth
Dartmouth has got some problems.
Eight months out of the year, the weather kind of sucks. The new meal plan is all but highway robbery. The administration is often unresponsive to student concerns. The college laid off 76 workers to cut the budget but then proceeded to needlessly redecorate Baker Main Hall (before / after)and install a bazillion flat screen TVs in the newly-renovated dining hall (most of which display only one or two alternating screens...why not just get signs made?!). Most of these issues are only noted by members of the Dartmouth community, but recently one of Dartmouth's bigger problems has made headlines.
I'm talking of course, about hazing.
After Andrew Lohse's article in The Dartmouth was leaked the night before its publication, it was simply everywhere. Jezebel, Gawker, and The Boston Globe have all run stories about it, and an exclusive Rolling Stone article was published today. So it's safe to say that everyone in the world now knows that Dartmouth is hellish hotbed of dehumanizing criminal activity. Down with the frats! Down with the Greek system!
Except wait. I've been in a sorority at Dartmouth for the last three years, and the horrors described in Lohse's article could not be any further removed from what my own Greek experience has been.
Look, I'm not saying that hazing is not a problem. It is. It's a horrible, ugly, pervasive problem and it is one that the Dartmouth community must solve sooner rather than later. Our Greek system is flawed. Our sexual assault rates are far too high. Let's be blunt: our campus has a reputation as an alcohol-saturated breeding ground for privileged dumbasses. And to be sure, I have met people in my time here who do such a good job of confirming that stereotype that they seem more like cartoon characters than real people. But the truth is that the majority of the people I have met at Dartmouth--and, more particularly, through my Greek experience--are kind, conscientious, thoughtful, driven, intelligent, community-oriented, and genuine.
Greek houses on Dartmouth's campus are not just bizarre underworld dens of debauchery and sin. Fraternities, sororities, and co-eds co-sponsor panel discussions and community events; they fund raise for different charities; they put on events for the campus and the community. Yes, some of these houses do have a much darker side once it's a Friday night or a big weekend. That's unfortunate, and I'm not going to pretend that Greek houses are all pure as the driven snow. To do so would be an insult to those who have been adversely affected by hazing or by the other not-so-admirable aspects of the Greek system. The atmosphere surrounding Greek life certainly needs to change. But fraternities and sororities (and co-eds!) are not just one-sided forces of evil.
It seems that Greek organizations only get press when they've done something wrong. I've seen no major news articles picking up stories about AZD's White Rose Benefit, or APhi's Red Dress Gala, or Tri-Kap's holiday parties/carnivals for local kids. When my sorority raised $3,300 for the prevention of child abuse last year (and the governor of New Hampshire issued a proclamation to be read at the event), it didn't make headlines. When we raised almost $3,000 this year for the same cause, I didn't see any bloggers patting us on the back for a job well done.
Last spring, when Dartmouth's eight sororities drafted a resolution that punished fraternities for ignoring assaults that involved either their brothers or their houses, there was no media firestorm. The article was picked up by a few off-campus publications, like Jezebel and the Chronicle of Higher Education, but no national news outlets were offering Panhellenic officers an exclusive interview deal. No one really wants to see houses taking a stand and combating the stereotype of Greeks as irresponsible, shallow partiers. The sensational stories, the ones that make people shake their heads and say "I told you so"--those are the stories that make headlines.
Don't get me wrong, I'm not saying that this article is entirely wrong: the discussion about hazing is one that needs to happen. But it is not a problem that plagues only Dartmouth. It's not even one that affects just Greek houses. Hazing is a problem that is pervasive throughout our society, from adults right down to young kids. It goes hand in hand with bullying, sexual assault, hate crimes, and other acts of violence. It is one symptom of a larger problem in our society--indifference. Indifference to the feelings of others, indifference toward the consequences of one's actions, indifference even toward one's own self-worth or self-respect.
And this is perhaps one of the things that upset me the most about this article: the way it portrayed Dartmouth students. I'm not talking about the ones involved in this whole hazing scandal, or even those involved in Greek life. I'm talking about the thousands of undergraduates who weren't exclusively interviewed by Rolling Stone.
True, most of us have never struck a deal with a major media outlet to dish on our Dartmouth experiences. But just because we haven't managed this feat (yet...?) doesn't mean that we don't have anything to say. Because if I could choose one word to describe the Dartmouth student body, "apathetic" would not be it. In my nearly four years at Dartmouth, I have discussed the College's many problems in a variety of contexts: in classes, at dinner, over drinks, and even in sorority meetings. When a violent or demeaning event occurs on campus, student initiatives often spring up even before the administration can respond. This could easily be read as a damning statement on the College's administration (and maybe, in some ways, it is) but it certainly isn't a condemnation of student activism. The people I know here care. They often care even more than I do myself, and let me tell you, no one in my life would describe me as apathetic about social justice.
But the part of the article I found even more ridiculous than the alleged apathy of the student body was the needless attack on freshman trips. Dartmouth's pre-orientation program consists of (completely optional) five-day long trips into the wilderness. The trips all end up at the Moosilauke Ravine Lodge, which is owned by the College, where members of different trip groups all come together and meet each other. Pretty innocent stuff. Not if you're Rolling Stone, though:
Wait. You're kidding me! They're EVEN ASKED TO SIT ON THE FLOOR AND LISTEN TO GHOST STORIES! The nerve! You know what else freshman are EVEN ASKED to do? They're even asked to wake up before 10 am to attend Matriculation! They're even asked to get involved in campus activities! Would you believe it, these kids are even asked to show up to class and turn in work for grades! What kind of a toxic environment is this?!
Look, my freshman trip was fun at the time. It's not the shining memory for me that it is for some people, and I'll even grant that Lohse has a point when he remarks that "[t]here is a very specific message you get on Trips...which is 'We're all your friends, you're part of this awesome new world of Dartmouth, and if you're not having the absolute best time of your life, then there's something really wrong with you.'" Yes, the tagline of Trips could be "OMG, you guys! Isn't this just SO FUN?!" but honestly, I doubt that freshman orientation activities at any other school are really any different. You're trying to get a bunch of eighteen-year-olds to bond with each other. You're going to have to play some of those awkward ice-breaker games that everyone hates, but it's a bit of a stretch to call that hazing. From the perspective of someone who's been through Trips, this unnecessary digression did nothing more than weaken the article's argument and trivialize the ACTUAL hazing issues on campus. Serving freshman a Green Eggs and Ham-themed breakfast is not a crime. Eating a "vomlet" and eating some scrambled eggs dyed with green food coloring are two completely different things. And, in the interest of setting the record straight, I ate green eggs (but no ham) two weeks ago at a Saint Patrick's Day brunch. Quick, alert the presses, I've been hazed and I want to share my exclusive and heartbreaking tale!
That last snarky sentence aside, I don't want to comment on Andrew Lohse personally. I don't know him. I can't tell you anything about him other than what I've heard from news stories or word of mouth. He might be an upstanding crusader for justice; he might be the devil himself. Experience has taught me that he, like most of us, probably falls somewhere between those two extremes. Whatever his life story, I'm not really interested in him. I'm interested in the issues he's raised--both the legitimate and the non-legitimate ones.
At the end of the day, Dartmouth has its problems. So does any other school. When I graduate in a few short months (!!!) I will not be planning my immediate return to Dartmouth. I'll never be the alum at all the football games, hanging around town, partying on Frat Row. (Yes, there are alumni that do that. It's a Dartmouth thing, I guess.) Basically, I'm done with Dartmouth. It has not been the greatest four years of my life. But despite my problems with Dartmouth (and, as you can tell, I do have a few), it would be unfair to pretend that my time here has been miserable and unproductive--quite the opposite is true, actually. The Rolling Stone article is terrible PR for Dartmouth, but what's worse is that many of its accusations and implications are largely unfounded or grossly overexaggerated.
Dartmouth used to be the Ivy no one remembered. Now it's the one that will be remembered for all the wrong reasons. And for a school that, despite its problems, has so much to offer, that's truly a shame.
Eight months out of the year, the weather kind of sucks. The new meal plan is all but highway robbery. The administration is often unresponsive to student concerns. The college laid off 76 workers to cut the budget but then proceeded to needlessly redecorate Baker Main Hall (before / after)and install a bazillion flat screen TVs in the newly-renovated dining hall (most of which display only one or two alternating screens...why not just get signs made?!). Most of these issues are only noted by members of the Dartmouth community, but recently one of Dartmouth's bigger problems has made headlines.
I'm talking of course, about hazing.
After Andrew Lohse's article in The Dartmouth was leaked the night before its publication, it was simply everywhere. Jezebel, Gawker, and The Boston Globe have all run stories about it, and an exclusive Rolling Stone article was published today. So it's safe to say that everyone in the world now knows that Dartmouth is hellish hotbed of dehumanizing criminal activity. Down with the frats! Down with the Greek system!
Except wait. I've been in a sorority at Dartmouth for the last three years, and the horrors described in Lohse's article could not be any further removed from what my own Greek experience has been.
Look, I'm not saying that hazing is not a problem. It is. It's a horrible, ugly, pervasive problem and it is one that the Dartmouth community must solve sooner rather than later. Our Greek system is flawed. Our sexual assault rates are far too high. Let's be blunt: our campus has a reputation as an alcohol-saturated breeding ground for privileged dumbasses. And to be sure, I have met people in my time here who do such a good job of confirming that stereotype that they seem more like cartoon characters than real people. But the truth is that the majority of the people I have met at Dartmouth--and, more particularly, through my Greek experience--are kind, conscientious, thoughtful, driven, intelligent, community-oriented, and genuine.
Greek houses on Dartmouth's campus are not just bizarre underworld dens of debauchery and sin. Fraternities, sororities, and co-eds co-sponsor panel discussions and community events; they fund raise for different charities; they put on events for the campus and the community. Yes, some of these houses do have a much darker side once it's a Friday night or a big weekend. That's unfortunate, and I'm not going to pretend that Greek houses are all pure as the driven snow. To do so would be an insult to those who have been adversely affected by hazing or by the other not-so-admirable aspects of the Greek system. The atmosphere surrounding Greek life certainly needs to change. But fraternities and sororities (and co-eds!) are not just one-sided forces of evil.
It seems that Greek organizations only get press when they've done something wrong. I've seen no major news articles picking up stories about AZD's White Rose Benefit, or APhi's Red Dress Gala, or Tri-Kap's holiday parties/carnivals for local kids. When my sorority raised $3,300 for the prevention of child abuse last year (and the governor of New Hampshire issued a proclamation to be read at the event), it didn't make headlines. When we raised almost $3,000 this year for the same cause, I didn't see any bloggers patting us on the back for a job well done.
Last spring, when Dartmouth's eight sororities drafted a resolution that punished fraternities for ignoring assaults that involved either their brothers or their houses, there was no media firestorm. The article was picked up by a few off-campus publications, like Jezebel and the Chronicle of Higher Education, but no national news outlets were offering Panhellenic officers an exclusive interview deal. No one really wants to see houses taking a stand and combating the stereotype of Greeks as irresponsible, shallow partiers. The sensational stories, the ones that make people shake their heads and say "I told you so"--those are the stories that make headlines.
Don't get me wrong, I'm not saying that this article is entirely wrong: the discussion about hazing is one that needs to happen. But it is not a problem that plagues only Dartmouth. It's not even one that affects just Greek houses. Hazing is a problem that is pervasive throughout our society, from adults right down to young kids. It goes hand in hand with bullying, sexual assault, hate crimes, and other acts of violence. It is one symptom of a larger problem in our society--indifference. Indifference to the feelings of others, indifference toward the consequences of one's actions, indifference even toward one's own self-worth or self-respect.
And this is perhaps one of the things that upset me the most about this article: the way it portrayed Dartmouth students. I'm not talking about the ones involved in this whole hazing scandal, or even those involved in Greek life. I'm talking about the thousands of undergraduates who weren't exclusively interviewed by Rolling Stone.
True, most of us have never struck a deal with a major media outlet to dish on our Dartmouth experiences. But just because we haven't managed this feat (yet...?) doesn't mean that we don't have anything to say. Because if I could choose one word to describe the Dartmouth student body, "apathetic" would not be it. In my nearly four years at Dartmouth, I have discussed the College's many problems in a variety of contexts: in classes, at dinner, over drinks, and even in sorority meetings. When a violent or demeaning event occurs on campus, student initiatives often spring up even before the administration can respond. This could easily be read as a damning statement on the College's administration (and maybe, in some ways, it is) but it certainly isn't a condemnation of student activism. The people I know here care. They often care even more than I do myself, and let me tell you, no one in my life would describe me as apathetic about social justice.
But the part of the article I found even more ridiculous than the alleged apathy of the student body was the needless attack on freshman trips. Dartmouth's pre-orientation program consists of (completely optional) five-day long trips into the wilderness. The trips all end up at the Moosilauke Ravine Lodge, which is owned by the College, where members of different trip groups all come together and meet each other. Pretty innocent stuff. Not if you're Rolling Stone, though:
This is a Dartmouth tradition, where students hike, kayak, mountain bike or otherwise explore the White Mountains for a few days, winding up at the Dartmouth-owned Moosilauke Ravine Lodge, or the "lodj," where they gather for a communal dinner, followed by song-and-dance routines, and they are even asked to sit on the floor and listen to ghost stories.
Wait. You're kidding me! They're EVEN ASKED TO SIT ON THE FLOOR AND LISTEN TO GHOST STORIES! The nerve! You know what else freshman are EVEN ASKED to do? They're even asked to wake up before 10 am to attend Matriculation! They're even asked to get involved in campus activities! Would you believe it, these kids are even asked to show up to class and turn in work for grades! What kind of a toxic environment is this?!
Look, my freshman trip was fun at the time. It's not the shining memory for me that it is for some people, and I'll even grant that Lohse has a point when he remarks that "[t]here is a very specific message you get on Trips...which is 'We're all your friends, you're part of this awesome new world of Dartmouth, and if you're not having the absolute best time of your life, then there's something really wrong with you.'" Yes, the tagline of Trips could be "OMG, you guys! Isn't this just SO FUN?!" but honestly, I doubt that freshman orientation activities at any other school are really any different. You're trying to get a bunch of eighteen-year-olds to bond with each other. You're going to have to play some of those awkward ice-breaker games that everyone hates, but it's a bit of a stretch to call that hazing. From the perspective of someone who's been through Trips, this unnecessary digression did nothing more than weaken the article's argument and trivialize the ACTUAL hazing issues on campus. Serving freshman a Green Eggs and Ham-themed breakfast is not a crime. Eating a "vomlet" and eating some scrambled eggs dyed with green food coloring are two completely different things. And, in the interest of setting the record straight, I ate green eggs (but no ham) two weeks ago at a Saint Patrick's Day brunch. Quick, alert the presses, I've been hazed and I want to share my exclusive and heartbreaking tale!
That last snarky sentence aside, I don't want to comment on Andrew Lohse personally. I don't know him. I can't tell you anything about him other than what I've heard from news stories or word of mouth. He might be an upstanding crusader for justice; he might be the devil himself. Experience has taught me that he, like most of us, probably falls somewhere between those two extremes. Whatever his life story, I'm not really interested in him. I'm interested in the issues he's raised--both the legitimate and the non-legitimate ones.
At the end of the day, Dartmouth has its problems. So does any other school. When I graduate in a few short months (!!!) I will not be planning my immediate return to Dartmouth. I'll never be the alum at all the football games, hanging around town, partying on Frat Row. (Yes, there are alumni that do that. It's a Dartmouth thing, I guess.) Basically, I'm done with Dartmouth. It has not been the greatest four years of my life. But despite my problems with Dartmouth (and, as you can tell, I do have a few), it would be unfair to pretend that my time here has been miserable and unproductive--quite the opposite is true, actually. The Rolling Stone article is terrible PR for Dartmouth, but what's worse is that many of its accusations and implications are largely unfounded or grossly overexaggerated.
Dartmouth used to be the Ivy no one remembered. Now it's the one that will be remembered for all the wrong reasons. And for a school that, despite its problems, has so much to offer, that's truly a shame.
Thursday, December 29, 2011
Post-Christmas Rundown, Part I: The Music
So, Christmas 2011 is behind us. Well, sort of. I'm still coming up with odd combinations of leftovers (hot dogs + frozen corn + cheddar cheese soup = two minutes away from lukewarm microwaved perfection), gorging myself on Christmas candy at least once every hour, and wondering where I put the $50 check from my cousins (seriously, where is it?). But other than that, we're pretty much done here.
Except for the fact that I keep catching myself humming those catchy-ass (and, in some cases, kitschy-ass) Christmas carols. This is problematic for two reasons. First, some of the catchiest Christmas songs cover such a ridiculous range that even anyone who's ever had to sing the Star-Spangled Banner looks at them as too much of a challenge, which means that I don't exactly sound stellar when I'm song-doodling them around the house.
"And the rockets' red glaaaaaaare...!"
Second, a pretty significant fraction of the Christmas song milieu is barely tolerable even when you're hopped up on eggnog and Christmas spirit; it's pretty much absolutely insufferable to listen to any songs from this group after your Christmas buzz has faded and all that's left are huge electrical bills and three garbage bags full of paper you paid six bucks a roll for three weeks ago.
In a humanitarian effort to help you guys all move on, I'm going to break down this Christmas for you all, much the way that former athletes try to re-validate themselves by getting jobs with ESPN and passing judgment on the way current athletes are playing. So here is your post-Christmas rundown. You're welcome.
Part 1: The Music
1. Faux-Carols
Christmas has managed to inspire more songs than pretty much any other holiday. Halloween has made a valiant effort to catch up--name me one radio station that doesn't manage to squeeze in one quick play of "Monster Mash" on October 31--but eventually it has to admit defeat and co-opt non-holiday but remotely relevant-sounding tracks like "Spooky" and "Thriller."
Christmas, on the other hand, not content with having an entire genre of music to itself, slaps these other wussy holidays around and co-opts their songs as well. Did you know that "Over the River and Through the Woods" is a Thanksgiving song? Neither did I until I saw A Charlie Brown Thanksgiving. The imagery is so reminiscent of "Jingle Bells" that you'd think that "Over the River" would have to be about Christmas, too.
Oh, wait, "Jingle Bells" is a Thanksgiving song too?! Does anyone want to drop any more knowledge bombs on me? Was Jesus's birth also attended by some pilgrims and a turkey? Did the wise men bring green bean casserole and pumpkin pie and start a rowdy post-dinner football game of Magi vs. Shepherds? Why are all my holidays melding together into one giant Christgiving mush?!
Also falling into this category is "What Child Is This?" aka "Greensleeves." The lyrics to "What Child Is This?" were written by William Chatterton Dix in 1865. Old Willy was apparently quite a wordsmith but not motivated enough to find someone to bang out a quick melody for him on a piano. Naturally, he just took an old English folk tune and used that instead.
We can't all luck into dream teams like these. Sorry, Wills.
And finally, perhaps the biggest offender of all: "My Favorite Things." I don't care what anyone says, this is not a Christmas song. This is a show tune about liking things. If we're going to use that logic, I demand that "I Enjoy Being a Girl," "America," "Oh What a Beautiful Mornin'," and "I Think I'm Gonna Like It Here" all be declared Christmas carols posthaste. Someone get on that.
2. Songs That Celebrate Materialism
We as a society know what Christmas is supposed to be about: peace on Earth and goodwill toward men. We also know what Christmas is actually about: accumulating more stuff.
And mercilessly assaulting anyone who gets in the way of that goal.
While most songs try not to put too fine a point on this (subtlety in a Christmas song? What?), they include passing references to it pretty much across the board. "It's Beginning to Look a Lot Like Christmas" is all "Look at the pretty lights! Trees! Snow!" until it gets to the bridge, at which point it basically just enumerates all the crap some bratty kids want for Christmas until their parents can't even stand to be around them anymore, although in the end it does suggest that Christmas is actually "within your heart."
"Get me some tinsel, stat!"
Except for the fact that I keep catching myself humming those catchy-ass (and, in some cases, kitschy-ass) Christmas carols. This is problematic for two reasons. First, some of the catchiest Christmas songs cover such a ridiculous range that even anyone who's ever had to sing the Star-Spangled Banner looks at them as too much of a challenge, which means that I don't exactly sound stellar when I'm song-doodling them around the house.
"And the rockets' red glaaaaaaare...!"Second, a pretty significant fraction of the Christmas song milieu is barely tolerable even when you're hopped up on eggnog and Christmas spirit; it's pretty much absolutely insufferable to listen to any songs from this group after your Christmas buzz has faded and all that's left are huge electrical bills and three garbage bags full of paper you paid six bucks a roll for three weeks ago.
In a humanitarian effort to help you guys all move on, I'm going to break down this Christmas for you all, much the way that former athletes try to re-validate themselves by getting jobs with ESPN and passing judgment on the way current athletes are playing. So here is your post-Christmas rundown. You're welcome.
Part 1: The Music
1. Faux-Carols
Christmas has managed to inspire more songs than pretty much any other holiday. Halloween has made a valiant effort to catch up--name me one radio station that doesn't manage to squeeze in one quick play of "Monster Mash" on October 31--but eventually it has to admit defeat and co-opt non-holiday but remotely relevant-sounding tracks like "Spooky" and "Thriller."
Christmas, on the other hand, not content with having an entire genre of music to itself, slaps these other wussy holidays around and co-opts their songs as well. Did you know that "Over the River and Through the Woods" is a Thanksgiving song? Neither did I until I saw A Charlie Brown Thanksgiving. The imagery is so reminiscent of "Jingle Bells" that you'd think that "Over the River" would have to be about Christmas, too.
Oh, wait, "Jingle Bells" is a Thanksgiving song too?! Does anyone want to drop any more knowledge bombs on me? Was Jesus's birth also attended by some pilgrims and a turkey? Did the wise men bring green bean casserole and pumpkin pie and start a rowdy post-dinner football game of Magi vs. Shepherds? Why are all my holidays melding together into one giant Christgiving mush?!
Also falling into this category is "What Child Is This?" aka "Greensleeves." The lyrics to "What Child Is This?" were written by William Chatterton Dix in 1865. Old Willy was apparently quite a wordsmith but not motivated enough to find someone to bang out a quick melody for him on a piano. Naturally, he just took an old English folk tune and used that instead.
We can't all luck into dream teams like these. Sorry, Wills.And finally, perhaps the biggest offender of all: "My Favorite Things." I don't care what anyone says, this is not a Christmas song. This is a show tune about liking things. If we're going to use that logic, I demand that "I Enjoy Being a Girl," "America," "Oh What a Beautiful Mornin'," and "I Think I'm Gonna Like It Here" all be declared Christmas carols posthaste. Someone get on that.
2. Songs That Celebrate Materialism
We as a society know what Christmas is supposed to be about: peace on Earth and goodwill toward men. We also know what Christmas is actually about: accumulating more stuff.
And mercilessly assaulting anyone who gets in the way of that goal.While most songs try not to put too fine a point on this (subtlety in a Christmas song? What?), they include passing references to it pretty much across the board. "It's Beginning to Look a Lot Like Christmas" is all "Look at the pretty lights! Trees! Snow!" until it gets to the bridge, at which point it basically just enumerates all the crap some bratty kids want for Christmas until their parents can't even stand to be around them anymore, although in the end it does suggest that Christmas is actually "within your heart."
"Get me some tinsel, stat!"Adding to the fun is "The Chipmunk Song (Christmas, Don't Be Late)," with its signature line, "Me, I want a HUUUUU-LAH HOOP!" What six-inch-tall rodents are going to do with a hula hoop is beyond me, but it doesn't seem to really be bothering anyone else for some reason. For the love of God, though, don't forget that Alvin STILL WANTS A HUUUUU-LAH HOOP!
And speaking of ridiculous requests, let's talk about Gayla Peevey's "I Want a Hippopotamus for Christmas." "Only a hippopotamus will do," she insists, and you have to wonder what would constitute a hippopotamus substitute. "Oh, you see, Gayla," perhaps her mother said frantically, "the store was all out of hippopotamuses, but I got you a lovely rhinoceros! It's like a hippo, but on land and with horns!" (Fun fact: after the song became a hit, some people thought it would be a good idea to actually GIVE Gayla Peevey a hippopotamus. Ten-year-old Gayla, apparently being smarter than all the adults involved in this plan, donated said hippo to a zoo.)
Lest you go on thinking that only modern society has brainwashed us into thinking that Christmas is about stuff, I would like to present for your consideration "The Twelve Days of Christmas," wherein the singer's true love gives him/her 5 pieces of bling, 23 birds, and 50 HUMAN BEINGS (including associated instruments and possibly 8 cows). Who needs all that stuff? Why does a Christmas carol consider PEOPLE to be appropriate gifts (human trafficking?!)? Where is the recipient supposed to put all this stuff? Why would you give someone 23 birds but no one to clean up after them? (Presumably, the maids / dancers / lords / pipers / drummers are all busy milking / dancing / leaping / piping / drumming.)
And finally, no discussion of materialistic Christmas songs would be complete without "Santa Baby," wherein you're encouraged not only to want stuff but to prostitute yourself for it.
Now I ain't sayin' she a gold digger...
3. Songs that Concentrate on the True Meaning of Christmas...But Are Actually Still About Wanting Stuff
Did you hear Mariah Carey's "All I Want for Christmas is You" on the radio this holiday season? Of course you did, that shit was EVERYWHERE. It was on stations that played Christmas songs 24/7. It was on pop stations, since it is, technically, a pop song. It was on rap stations, since Mariah Carey is married to a (sort of) rapper and anyway there aren't any good Christmas rap songs.
Anyhoo, this song is supposed to be about how you love someone so much that you want their presence instead of their presents (see what I did there?). However, it actually becomes about eschewing everything good about Christmas (carols, Santa, magical reindeer, sleigh rides, snow, and CHILDREN'S LAUGHTER, for Pete's sake) and standing alone under a rapidly-dying (or plastic) seasonal plant, hoping wholeheartedly that the person who doesn't want you on any of the other 364 days of the year will throw you a pity kiss or something.
I feel a Christmas miracle coming on!
Then we have possibly the most annoying song of all time (non-Christmas songs included): "My Grown-Up Christmas List." The singer of this song, be it Natalie Cole, Amy Grant, or whoever, seems to have a very altruistic and mature idea of what a "Grown-Up Christmas List" should look like, as said list includes such easily gift-wrappable items as an end to all wars, friends for everyone, and never-ending love. These are admirable goals and all, but I think most people's ideas of what constitutes a "Grown-Up Christmas List" would include fewer abstract concepts and more references to sex, booze, and general debauchery.
Exhibit A.
If you thought "My Grown-Up Christmas List" was saccharine, though, think again: I'm about to pull out the trump card, also known as "The Christmas Shoes," which documents a child's heart-wrenching quest to buy shoes for his dying mother (because, despite their apparent importance to her health, they don't seem to be covered by insurance). Never mind the fact that where this woman is going, she most likely won't be needing new shoes. (I'm gonna go out on a limb and say Jesus doesn't really care. Where in the Bible does it say "No shirt, no shoes, no service"? Please, point it out to me.) What really bothers me about "The Christmas Shoes" is that it's almost five straight minutes of this simpering child trying to mooch free footwear off of strangers WHILE HIS MOTHER LAYS DYING. You know what? If I'm on my deathbed, just come and hold my freakin' hand. Don't drive all over the place looking for some damn Mary Janes, okay?
4. Songs That Are Actually Thinly-Veiled Threats
Sometimes, ya gotta deal with creepers, and Christmas is no exception. I'm far from the first person to comment on the immense sketchiness of "Santa Claus Is Coming To Town," but in the spirit of Christmas music I'm gonna just go ahead and keep on beating that dead horse. "He sees you when you're sleeping, he knows when you're awake"? If this song were about your ex-boyfriend the next verse would be all about your restraining order, but because it's a Christmas song we're supposed to be HAPPY about this constant surveillance.
If he had a beard and a red suit, this would be totally acceptable...?
For real, though, you'd better be good for goodness sake.
"Here Comes Santa Claus" falls under this category as well, mostly because I think it's cut from the same fuzzy red cloth as "Santa Claus Is Coming To Town" in terms of theme. Most of the lyrics are pretty innocuous, but I'm always slightly disturbed by the line that instructs me to "jump in bed and cover your head, because Santa Claus comes tonight." I don't understand why my Santa preparations need to be pretty much the same as my childhood preparations for withstanding an attack from the monsters I was convinced were under my bed. It casts kind of an ominous tone over things, don't you think?
Last but not least, we have "We Wish You a Merry Christmas," which definitely wins the award for "Most Unexpectedly Aggressive Christmas Carol." Sure, it starts off innocently and cheerily enough by repeatedly telling its listeners to have a merry Christmas and a happy new year, but then verses two and three cross some threshold similar to the one that separates an amusingly tipsy friend from a belligerent terror. "Now bring us some figgy pudding!" demands verse two, apparently expecting some sort of payment for the jolly well-wishing put forth a verse earlier. And then, just to show they mean business, verse three's singers warn you that "we won't go until we get some." Eeesh. Christmas has never been quite so terrifying.
"Take the figgy pudding! For the love of God, just take it! I don't even know what's so great about it!"
Merry Christmas, suckas.
And speaking of ridiculous requests, let's talk about Gayla Peevey's "I Want a Hippopotamus for Christmas." "Only a hippopotamus will do," she insists, and you have to wonder what would constitute a hippopotamus substitute. "Oh, you see, Gayla," perhaps her mother said frantically, "the store was all out of hippopotamuses, but I got you a lovely rhinoceros! It's like a hippo, but on land and with horns!" (Fun fact: after the song became a hit, some people thought it would be a good idea to actually GIVE Gayla Peevey a hippopotamus. Ten-year-old Gayla, apparently being smarter than all the adults involved in this plan, donated said hippo to a zoo.)
Lest you go on thinking that only modern society has brainwashed us into thinking that Christmas is about stuff, I would like to present for your consideration "The Twelve Days of Christmas," wherein the singer's true love gives him/her 5 pieces of bling, 23 birds, and 50 HUMAN BEINGS (including associated instruments and possibly 8 cows). Who needs all that stuff? Why does a Christmas carol consider PEOPLE to be appropriate gifts (human trafficking?!)? Where is the recipient supposed to put all this stuff? Why would you give someone 23 birds but no one to clean up after them? (Presumably, the maids / dancers / lords / pipers / drummers are all busy milking / dancing / leaping / piping / drumming.)
And finally, no discussion of materialistic Christmas songs would be complete without "Santa Baby," wherein you're encouraged not only to want stuff but to prostitute yourself for it.
Now I ain't sayin' she a gold digger...3. Songs that Concentrate on the True Meaning of Christmas...But Are Actually Still About Wanting Stuff
Did you hear Mariah Carey's "All I Want for Christmas is You" on the radio this holiday season? Of course you did, that shit was EVERYWHERE. It was on stations that played Christmas songs 24/7. It was on pop stations, since it is, technically, a pop song. It was on rap stations, since Mariah Carey is married to a (sort of) rapper and anyway there aren't any good Christmas rap songs.
Anyhoo, this song is supposed to be about how you love someone so much that you want their presence instead of their presents (see what I did there?). However, it actually becomes about eschewing everything good about Christmas (carols, Santa, magical reindeer, sleigh rides, snow, and CHILDREN'S LAUGHTER, for Pete's sake) and standing alone under a rapidly-dying (or plastic) seasonal plant, hoping wholeheartedly that the person who doesn't want you on any of the other 364 days of the year will throw you a pity kiss or something.
I feel a Christmas miracle coming on!Then we have possibly the most annoying song of all time (non-Christmas songs included): "My Grown-Up Christmas List." The singer of this song, be it Natalie Cole, Amy Grant, or whoever, seems to have a very altruistic and mature idea of what a "Grown-Up Christmas List" should look like, as said list includes such easily gift-wrappable items as an end to all wars, friends for everyone, and never-ending love. These are admirable goals and all, but I think most people's ideas of what constitutes a "Grown-Up Christmas List" would include fewer abstract concepts and more references to sex, booze, and general debauchery.
Exhibit A.If you thought "My Grown-Up Christmas List" was saccharine, though, think again: I'm about to pull out the trump card, also known as "The Christmas Shoes," which documents a child's heart-wrenching quest to buy shoes for his dying mother (because, despite their apparent importance to her health, they don't seem to be covered by insurance). Never mind the fact that where this woman is going, she most likely won't be needing new shoes. (I'm gonna go out on a limb and say Jesus doesn't really care. Where in the Bible does it say "No shirt, no shoes, no service"? Please, point it out to me.) What really bothers me about "The Christmas Shoes" is that it's almost five straight minutes of this simpering child trying to mooch free footwear off of strangers WHILE HIS MOTHER LAYS DYING. You know what? If I'm on my deathbed, just come and hold my freakin' hand. Don't drive all over the place looking for some damn Mary Janes, okay?
4. Songs That Are Actually Thinly-Veiled Threats
Sometimes, ya gotta deal with creepers, and Christmas is no exception. I'm far from the first person to comment on the immense sketchiness of "Santa Claus Is Coming To Town," but in the spirit of Christmas music I'm gonna just go ahead and keep on beating that dead horse. "He sees you when you're sleeping, he knows when you're awake"? If this song were about your ex-boyfriend the next verse would be all about your restraining order, but because it's a Christmas song we're supposed to be HAPPY about this constant surveillance.
If he had a beard and a red suit, this would be totally acceptable...?For real, though, you'd better be good for goodness sake.
"Here Comes Santa Claus" falls under this category as well, mostly because I think it's cut from the same fuzzy red cloth as "Santa Claus Is Coming To Town" in terms of theme. Most of the lyrics are pretty innocuous, but I'm always slightly disturbed by the line that instructs me to "jump in bed and cover your head, because Santa Claus comes tonight." I don't understand why my Santa preparations need to be pretty much the same as my childhood preparations for withstanding an attack from the monsters I was convinced were under my bed. It casts kind of an ominous tone over things, don't you think?
Last but not least, we have "We Wish You a Merry Christmas," which definitely wins the award for "Most Unexpectedly Aggressive Christmas Carol." Sure, it starts off innocently and cheerily enough by repeatedly telling its listeners to have a merry Christmas and a happy new year, but then verses two and three cross some threshold similar to the one that separates an amusingly tipsy friend from a belligerent terror. "Now bring us some figgy pudding!" demands verse two, apparently expecting some sort of payment for the jolly well-wishing put forth a verse earlier. And then, just to show they mean business, verse three's singers warn you that "we won't go until we get some." Eeesh. Christmas has never been quite so terrifying.
"Take the figgy pudding! For the love of God, just take it! I don't even know what's so great about it!"Merry Christmas, suckas.
Saturday, November 19, 2011
This week's episode of Bones (in case you missed it)
COLD OPEN
We open at a TRASH DUMP in the FOREST, where a YUPPIE COUPLE is hunting for antiques.
YUPPIE LADY: I’m picking a fight with you, because picking fights is a prerequisite to stumbling upon horrible bodies in the Bones cold open!
YUPPIE GUY: I’m trying to put a positive spin on the situation! I have a good, healthy outlook on life! Karma will surely reward me for my sunny disposition!
Something vaguely corpse-looking tumbles down the hill.
YUPPIE GUY: There does not appear to be anything sketchy about this!
YUPPIE LADY: No indeed!
YUPPIE GUY runs toward said totally un-sketchy object, trips on a toilet bowl (I’m not making that up) and lands face-to-face with a skeleton (and associated fleshy goop) wrapped in plastic.
YUPPIE GUY and YUPPIE LADY scream their yuppie heads off.
FADE TO:
BOOTH, BRENNAN, and SWEETS getting coffee in a park in “WASHINGTON, D.C.,” where the November weather appears to be incredibly mild—as mild as, say, Los Angeles. There seems to be some sort of DISAGREEMENT occurring.
BOOTH: Sweets, I do not approve of your getting a gun, despite the fact that you will be in the field with me facing horrible dangers.
AUDIENCE: I do not approve of the fact that the FBI apparently finds it appropriate to send a PSYCHIATRIST out into the field. Didn’t Booth have to fight just to get Brennan into the field, when she arguably had much more job and weapons experience than Sweets? Couldn’t Booth easily put a stop to this?
SWEETS, to distract both BOOTH and the AUDIENCE, changes the subject.
SWEETS: Let’s talk about your living arrangements.
BOOTH: No.
BRENNAN: Okay. I want an acre of land, he wants a man cave.
BOOTH: Yes, two weeks ago I wanted a family-friendly home, now I want the exact opposite of that.
BRENNAN: It makes no sense to me.
For once, AUDIENCE and BRENNAN are on the same page.
BRENNAN: Anyway, back to Sweets and guns. If we arm him he’s a prime target for a shooter, so he’ll draw fire away from you! I don’t want to be a single mom!
AUDIENCE: Classic Brennan! Comedy! Guffaw!
BOOTH: Irrelevant, Sweets isn’t getting a gun.
SWEETS: Fine then, you’re not getting a man cave.
AUDIENCE: How could you possibly follow through on that threat given that—
EXECUTIVE PRODUCERS OF BONES: Scene change! You can’t ask questions now! La la la, can’t hear you!
CUT TO: The Jeffersonian. CAM and BRENNAN are examining a PLASTIC-WRAPPED CORPSE while DAISY looks busy in the background.
CAM: Look, here’s our gross body of the week!
BRENNAN: I’ll explain to you things we already should both know, given our professional backgrounds, almost as if you were the average 18-35 year-old viewer of a primetime television show.
CAM: Sounds perfectly logical to me.
DAISY: Don’t forget me! I’m quirky but I’m also smart, and in this scene I have an air compressor!
CAM: Why?
BRENNAN: To help us pressurize the interior of the plastic so we can drain the remains.
CAM: Ah, right, I should have known that!
BRENNAN and CAM both stare at the camera and wink knowingly. CAM cuts slits in the bottom of the plastic-wrapped corpse so the goop can drain out.
DAISY sums up the show with the following line (again, not kidding with this one):
DAISY: This is revolting…but kind of fun.
CAM, BRENNAN, and most of the AUDIENCE concur. Portion of AUDIENCE that was stupidly eating dinner while watching cannot weigh in because they are too busy trying not to vomit and/or recovering from doing so.
CAM cuts open the goopy, plastic wrapped remains. She, BRENNAN, and DAISY are unfazed.
BRENNAN: It’s a good thing all three of us have apparently lost our sense of smell.
CAM: Indeed.
DAISY: I had mine surgically removed for this very reason.
CAM finds a Ken doll in the remains, but for copyright reasons (and as fodder for some jokes later on), this doll is called PRINCE CHARMINGTON.
CAM: Look, a plastic doll.
DAISY: PRINCE CHARMINGTON!
BRENNAN: Who’s Prince Charmington?
CAM: Let me explain, since we need some exposition and you’re totally ignorant about pop culture. Prince Charmington is the best. Toy. Ever.
DAISY: It’s so sad!
BRENNAN: That seems like rather a strange reaction.
CAM: Nah, I’m fine with it. Seems plausible.
EXECUTIVE PRODUCERS OF BONES hope the AUDIENCE agrees so we can all LAUGH together at BRENNAN’S SOCIAL AWKWARDNESS. AUDIENCE looks dubious. EXECUTIVE PRODUCERS try again.
DAISY: OH MY GOD! Whoever killed Prince Charmington will PAY!
CAM: I’m mildly befuddled, but otherwise that seems like an appropriate reaction to a grisly murder scene. I’m so glad I hired you.
DRAMATIC ZOOM on PRINCE CHARMINGTON with the HUMAN CORPSE relegated to the BACKGROUND of the shot. CUT TO: OPENING CREDITS
COMMERCIAL BREAK in which we see car commercials for every vehicle that’s ever been driven on Bones.
ACT ONE
At the JEFFERSONIAN, CAM, HODGINS, and DAISY search through what remains of the…remains. (See what I did there?)
HODGINS: I study bugs and slime and dirt and stuff, none of which is relevant to this particular murder. In real life I’d go work on some research or write a paper or work another case or something, but my contractually mandated screentime requires me to be here sorting through flesh goop like a lowly intern. And providing exposition. And reminding everyone of my real area of specialization.
CAM: That’s great, but what can you do to help move the plot along?
HODGINS: Well, I found a lung. Coincidentally, it’s the only organ that will be relevant later in this investigation.
CAM: Oh, cool. We can just forget about examining the other twenty-odd internal organs in the human body, then.
HODGINS: And here are bone fragments for you, Daisy.
DAISY: Phalanx, patella…awww! Here’s a socket from the late Prince Charmington’s royal patella.
HODGINS: Are the executive producers trying to imply that I can’t tell the difference between human bones and plastic doll bits or that I have a weird sense of humor and professionalism?
DAISY: Don’t care; too busy being bummed about Prince Charmington.
HODGINS: Whatever. Did you guys hear about the B-plot of this episode in which Sweets is trying to get certified to carry a gun?
CAM: No way!
DAISY: I fully support my boyfriend’s right to shoot people, largely because he is a decent human being who would never hurt a fly. Oh, by the way, the x-rays I did show that the victim was apparently beaten right before her death and may have been beaten as a child.
CAM: Sad.
BEAT. (No pun intended.)
CAM: Moving on…
Coincidentally, ANGELA enters with KEY INFORMATION.
ANGELA: I found fingerprints, bitchezzz! All the ID’ing you’ve been doing up until now is irrelevant! Our victim was vice president of a toy company!
AUDIENCE: I sense a theme coming on….
ANGELA: Anyway, her name is Debra Cortez and her brother reported her missing two weeks ago.
CUT TO: INTERROGATION ROOM. BOOTH and SWEETS are talking to the victim’s BROTHER.
MR. CORTEZ: My sister is dead? I’m so sad! She was such a quiet, shy, wonderful person.
SWEETS: She was quiet and shy? That fits in with the childhood abuse she suffered.
MR. CORTEZ: Um, what now?
SWEETS: The abuse. It’s totally understandable you have no idea what I’m talking about, since most children are abused by their parents and you two grew up in the same household. The fact that you seem confused does not cause me to doubt this hypothesis at all.
MR. CORTEZ: Debbie wasn’t abused, she was the sole survivor of the plane crash that killed our parents.
AUDIENCE feels a little sorry for MR. CORTEZ, since he wasn’t invited along on this little childhood jaunt across the sky, and then remembers that he was LUCKY because the PLANE ended up CRASHING.
BOOTH: I see that you also worked at the toy company.
MR. CORTEZ: My sister got me a job at the company, but I only worked there a month because it was too humiliating working for my more successful sister.
BOOTH: What do you do now?
MR. CORTEZ: Still looking.
AUDIENCE: Who quits a job in this economy? Think, man, think!
CUT TO: JEFFERSONIAN LAB. BRENNAN is examining stuff. It doesn’t really matter because the casework is simply a segue into BRENNAN COMEDY. ANGELA enters.
BRENNAN: Did you have a Prince Charmington doll as a kid?
ANGELA: Everyone did. I dressed mine like Sid Vicious Charmington, because I’m edgy and bohemian!
BRENNAN: I didn’t like toys. They distracted me from science.
ANGELA: Playing is important, too. Anthropology is on my side. You should play with that Prince Charmington doll!
BRENNAN: You mean the evidence?
ANGELA: It’s completely appropriate!
BRENNAN: Okay…
BRENNAN adopts a funny voice, so things are already delving into the realm of COMEDY, and picks up PRINCE CHARMINGTON, whose outfit is remarkably clean considering it was covered in liquefied organs mere scenes ago.
BRENNAN: Hello subjects! My name is Prince Charmington! My arm and leg have been torn asunder but my cervical spine is intact!
We can tell from ANGELA’S FACIAL EXPRESSIONS that BRENNAN is definitely DOING IT WRONG. BRENNAN laughs at her own cleverness. ANGELA laughs awkwardly and worries that BRENNAN’s future child will be a serial killer or something.
CUT TO: DILLIO TOY FACTORY. BOOTH and BRENNAN walk with BIANCA, the president of the company, who shows them around. She seems TRUSTWORTHY and COOPERATIVE, so there is NO WAY she can be the MURDERER.
BIANCA: These are our Bouncing Bears.
BOOTH: Parker loves those!
BRENNAN: Why? Children should not be playing with bears! Do you know how many fatal bear maulings occur in the United States every year?
BOOTH: Are you going to talk to our daughter like that?
BRENNAN: No, but I’m certainly not going to let her play with bears.
BIANCA shows BOOTH and BRENNAN the IMAGITORIUM, where the company tests prototypes on kids.
BIANCA: …and these are “Love Mutts.” Their heads and bodies are interchangeable so you can make an endless array of combinations!
A LITTLE GIRL holds up what looks like a Frankenstein science experiment gone wrong.
LITTLE GIRL: I made a bull-poodle!
AUDIENCE worries that these children will all become mad scientist serial killers. BRENNAN, BOOTH, AND BIANCA seem unconcerned.
BRENNAN: I can see how this would teach children about dominant and recessive genes!
AUDIENCE: Um, I can’t. I’m pretty sure my sister doesn’t have blue eyes because my parents ripped off the head of a blue-eyed person and attached it to my sister’s body.
BIANCA: Moving on, here’s Larry. He was Debra Cortez’s professional competition, except his ideas suck.
LARRY, who seems frazzled and lame in a COMEDIC WAY, is attacked by children who don’t dig his toys. He exits the IMAGITORIUM in a huff.
LARRY: I wanna wring those little bastards’ necks sometimes, you know?
BEAT.
LARRY: Was that not an appropriate way to greet strangers? Okay, let me try again. I hate Debbie Cortez.
BEAT. LARRY looks about for a shovel with which to dig himself an even deeper grave. BOOTH puts a stop to it by pulling out his badge and deciding to interrogate LARRY.
CUT TO: EMPTY IMAGITORIUM ROOM. BOOTH, BRENNAN, and LARRY sit around a child-size table on child-sized chairs.
LARRY: Here’s all the useful info you need for this scene. I didn’t like Debbie, but I didn’t kill her. I think she had a secret boyfriend. I was at home watching the game the night she was murdered, but my wife and kids were conveniently in Florida so no one can corroborate my story.
BOOTH: We’ll be in touch.
This is a prime opportunity for PREGNANCY HUMOR, so BRENNAN gets stuck in the child-size chair. BOOTH helps her out and they exit.
CUT TO: JEFFERSONIAN LAB, where HODGINS and DAISY are doing important lab-related tasks.
HODGINS: Here’s Prince Charmington’s leg!
DAISY: Gimme!
HODGINS: It appears to have been burned with some kind of acid.
DAISY: The horror!
HODGINS: Don’t worry. I’ll figure it out.
BEAT.
HODGINS: Remember that “King of the Lab” joke we started like five seasons ago?
DAISY: Kind of…
AUDIENCE: YES.
HODGINS: Well, I’m bringing it back. King of the Lab!
CUT TO: ANGELA’S OFFICE. ANGELA is trying to assemble a toy, which leads to COMICAL HIJINKS. BRENNAN enters.
BRENNAN: What are you doing?
ANGELA: I’m assembling a toy for Michael. Remember, that son I had at the end of last season?
BRENNAN: Vaguely.
ANGELA: Right. He’s never onscreen and I immediately lost all my pregnancy "weight,", so I’m assembling this toy in my office instead of at home so I can remind everyone of his existence.
BRENNAN: Right. Why are the instructions in Chinese?
ANGELA: That’s just the diagrams. The instructions should be in clear, easy-to-understand English.
Clearly ANGELA has never assembled anything herself before. AUDIENCE chuckles in anticipation.
ANGELA: “Insert to parts for assemble which toy can have immediately.”
AUDIENCE: Told ya!
BRENNAN: What if you try…?
ANGELA: DO NOT BACKSEAT DRIVE, SWEETIE! I hate toys. They suck.
EXECUTIVE PRODUCERS: And there’s the theme! Toys! The theme of the episode is toys! Did you get it? Did you?
BRENNAN: Well, anyway. On the topic of relevant stuff, did you construct a scenario for what happened to the victim?
ANGELA: Sure did. Let’s go!
CUT TO: The ANGELATOR room. ANGELA pulls up a schematic on the screen.
ANGELA: She was lying facedown on the concrete and she was struck with an incredible amount of force.
BRENNAN: This seems redundant, since we already knew she had fractures and her lung was collapsed so she suffocated to death, but I’m sure you’re going somewhere with this.
ANGELA: Right. Just reminding you of the details. There has been a commercial break since we went over all that the first time, you know.
BRENNAN: Oh, right.
ANGELA: Anyway, the person who did it must have been really angry to hit her so hard.
BRENNAN: No, if it were rage the blows would be all over the place. These are concentrated to her arms and upper back. Move her right and left arm?
ANGELA makes the image of the victim splay out a little more, then draws a line connecting the injuries. Nevertheless, she waits for BRENNAN to explain what this means.
BRENNAN: She was hit only once with great force, and the blow fell along this line!
ANGELA: Cool, I drew that line! Now I know why it’s significant!
CUT TO: BOOTH and DAISY in the car.
DAISY: I’m so excited to be going into the field!
BOOTH: Don’t get too excited. You’re only here because Bones wasn’t available.
AUDIENCE wonders where BRENNAN is. Presumably helping ANGELA assemble that toy?
EXECUTIVE PRODUCERS: We actually don’t know where Brennan is, we just wanted to put Booth and Daisy at the scene together. You know, for comedy!
AUDIENCE: Sure. Okay.
DAISY: When I’m field-tested and Lance has his gun, we can go on murdery double-dates with you and Brennan!
BOOTH: Let’s never do that. Also, don’t talk when we get there.
DAISY: I’ll agree now, but I will undoubtedly disregard this agreement as soon as we arrive at the crime scene.
BOOTH dies a little inside.
CUT TO: DILLIO TOYS FACTORY. BIANCA is showing BOOTH and DAISY into the PROTOTYPE LAB.
BIANCA: Before we go in, I need you to sign a nondisclosure agreement.
BOOTH: Ha ha, don’t think so.
DAISY, not to be outdone in BADASSERY, jumps in despite her promises to keep silent.
DAISY: If you don’t let us in, we’ll come back with a warrant and the press will have a field day.
BIANCA: Oh, fine. Whatever.
BIANCA, DAISY, and BOOTH enter the PROTOTYPE LAB.
DAISY: This plastic could be the same plastic the body was wrapped in!
BOOTH: Interesting.
DAISY: There’s blood on the floor over here!
BOOTH: That’s suspicious.
DAISY: This sliding vertical door could have been what crushed our victim!
BOOTH, not to be outdone in USEFULNESS, makes a discovery of his own.
BOOTH: This door looks like it’s been broken into.
BIANCA: Impossible!
In the background, FACTORY EMPLOYEES continue working, not expressing the least bit of interest in the MURDER CASE unfolding beneath their very noses. CASTING DIRECTORS pat themselves on the back for their choice in extras.
DRAMATIC ZOOM on the characters’ faces and the crime scene.
COMMERCIAL BREAK in which Fox plugs at least three shows that will be canceled by February sweeps.
ACT TWO
SWEETS is at the FIRING RANGE, where he is practicing for his test to carry a weapon. He does well. DAISY appears behind him.
DAISY: Good job! You’re hot when you’re firing a gun.
SWEETS: Daisy! God! I’m trying to concentrate!
SWEETS fires off another three rounds and misses the target each time.
DAISY: Pretend that target is someone trying to hurt me. Don’t let him hurt me, Lance!
SWEETS fires three shots almost straight through the target’s heart.
SWEETS: At first your presence made me suck, but now it makes me awesome!
DAISY: What’s that? I was too distracted by wanting to have sex with you.
CUT TO: JEFFERSONIAN LAB. HODGINS is doing science-y things. CAM enters.
HODGINS: Hey Cam, guess what? I found metal embedded in the victim that matches the door at the factory, so we have our murder weapon!
CAM: Great!
HODGINS: AND I discovered that someone used a carjack to break in! Multimillion dollar security system and all it took was a cheap-o carjack.
CAM: What dumbasses.
CUT TO: JEFFERSONIAN LAB. BRENNAN enters and sees DAISY.
BRENNAN: Hold up. Are you doing an autopsy on Prince Charmington?
DAISY: Yes. That makes total sense, right?
BRENNAN: Um, sure. Explain, please?
CUE intense “we’re solving a mystery” music.
DAISY: There was a struggle. Someone grabbed Prince Charmington and our victim pulled back, and Prince Charmington was pulled apart in the struggle. This is an original doll from the 1960s and it’s now worth $10,000. Someone wanted to steal him!
CUT TO: ANGELATOR ROOM. ANGELA is examining the victim’s computer files.
ANGELA: There’s nothing suspicious on here, except for that little email interaction in which she accuses someone of stealing from the company and they write back telling her to stay out of it.
CAM: Well, who was the other person?
ANGELA: I traced the IP address and get this—it’s her brother!
AUDIENCE: Couldn’t you have just checked the email address?
EXECUTIVE PRODUCERS: Never mind that! Quick! Scene change!
CUT TO: BOOTH and SWEETS on a stakeout.
BOOTH: It’s not that I don’t want you to have a gun. I just think you’d end up, like, shooting yourself in the foot or something.
SWEETS: You think I’m incompetent?
BOOTH: No. I never said that.
BOOTH sees the perp arrive and exits the car.
SWEETS: Oh, so now you’re just gonna leave?
BOOTH leans in through the open window.
BOOTH: No, Sweets, the perp’s here. God, pay attention. You suck at stakeouts.
AUDIENCE wonders whether people who leave their windows open while having conversations at a normal volume during a stakeout should really through stones in the incompetence arena.
SWEETS and BOOTH confront the perp, MR.CORTEZ.
BOOTH: Open your trunk.
MR. CORTEZ: You got a warrant?
BOOTH: Nope. But you’ve been stealing vintage toys. You should probably cooperate.
MR. CORTEZ: In that case, okay. You really have me cornered here, since it’s not like I could have emptied my trunk in the time it took you to go wake up a judge and get him or her to sign a warrant.
BOOTH opens the trunk. It is full of STOLEN VINTAGE TOYS.
SWEETS: I’m guessing you don’t have a receipt for those.
BEAT.
SWEETS: See? I can be snarky and badass, too!
BOOTH: And a carjack! Since one never finds carjacks in the trunks of cars, this is clearly the carjack used to pry open the door at the factory!
COMMERCIAL BREAK, at which point the AUDIENCE members turn to each other and complain about how there have only been like four minutes of the episode since the last commercial break, and what is television coming to these days?
ACT THREE
MR. CORTEZ is being interrogated in the FBI INTERROGATION ROOM. As the chairs are all regular-sized there is no potential for PREGNANCY HUMOR in this scene, so BOOTH and SWEETS conduct the interrogation while BRENNAN remains absent.
BOOTH: Your sister was pretty mad you were stealing from the company.
MR. CORTEZ: Whatever. I have a criminal record anyway, so it wasn’t a big deal or anything.
AUDIENCE shakes head and mutters derisively about recidivism.
BOOTH: She was going to turn you in.
MR. CORTEZ: Debbie would never do that!
SWEETS: She’d lose her job if you got caught.
MR. CORTEZ: I’m her brother, she owes me!
BOOTH: You squashed your sister with the factory door because she caught you stealing THIS!
He throws PRINCE CHARMINGTON down on the table rather roughly. Poor PRINCE CHARMINGTON is going through rather a lot in this episode, and the AUDIENCE feels a little sorry for him until they remember that he is a DOLL.
Anyway, there is a DRAMATIC PAUSE, and then:
CUE sappy sad piano/violin music.
MR. CORTEZ stares at PRINCE CHARMINGTON, then reaches out to pick him up. MUSIC stalls on one suspenseful violin note.
MR. CORTEZ: Oh my God.
PIANOS resume.
MR. CORTEZ: This was the last thing our mom gave Debbie before she died.
BEAT.
MR. CORTEZ: “She” being our mom in this case, not Debbie. The grammar skills of this recap are questionable.
BOOTH has time for neither META-COMMENTARY nor SCHMALTZ.
BOOTH: This doll is valuable. I think you stole it.
MR. CORTEZ: Go ahead, lock me up for stealing. But I didn’t kill my sister!
AUDIENCE: He’s probably right, we are only like forty minutes into the episode.
CUT TO: BOOTH’S APARTMENT. BRENNAN is sitting on the couch eating when BOOTH comes home from work.
BOOTH: How are you?
BRENNAN: Baby’s kicking my spleen. You?
BOOTH: Work sucks.
BRENNAN: We’re both having bad days. But tomorrow I’ll have my lab minions solve the case for you.
BOOTH: Cool. Let’s cuddle.
BRENNAN: Yeah. Okay.
BEAT.
BRENNAN: I’m not good at playing with toys. What if I’m a bad mom?
BOOTH switches into PEP TALK MODE.
BOOTH: You’re gonna be a great mom!
BRENNAN: Okay, I’m convinced. Hey, maybe when our daughter’s motor skills develop, we can dissect a frog together!
BOOTH: Maybe!
BOOTH, unlike most other characters on the show, does not seem to harbor any secret fears that his daughter will turn out to be a serial killer. This bodes well for his relationship with BRENNAN, but it remains to be seen whether or not it will benefit their UNBORN CHILD.
CUT TO: HODGINS and CAM in the JEFFERSONIAN LAB.
HODGINS: I’ve discovered a fake nail, and there’s DNA trapped between the glue and the nail!
CAM: Cool! Let’s solve this bitch!
CUT TO: ANGELA’s OFFICE, where ANGELA is still trying to assemble the toy from earlier. She has made some progress…but not much. CAM enters.
ANGELA: “Gently forward piece for coupling together with warning about many danger.” What. The. HELL?!
CAM then makes a ROOKIE MISTAKE.
CAM: It looks like that red piece might fit there.
ANGELA: Oh, does it? DOES IT?!
CAM: You’d think the store would offer some sort of assembly service.
AUDIENCE agrees with CAM.
ANGELA: Oh, they do, but this toy cost thirty-three bucks and they want thirty-five to put it together.
AUDIENCE abandons TEAM CAM to side with TEAM ANGELA. Those thieves! Who do they think they are?!
CAM: Seems like money well spent.
ANGELA: Are you calling me stupid? “Baby Walker” will not beat me!
HODGINS chooses an unfortunate moment to enter.
HODGINS: Hey, are you ready for lunch?
ANGELA: He’s your son, too!
HODGINS: We have a son?
BEAT.
HODGINS: Oh, duh, that’s right. It’s just that he never appears on screen so sometimes I can’t remember if he’s real or if the season six finale was all a hallucination.
CAM: No, that was season four.
HODGINS: Oh, right. What was up with that?
ANGELA: Hodgins!!!!
CAM: See ya.
We leave a befuddled HODGINS to his fate and
CUT TO: SHOOTING RANGE, where BOOTH has pulled come strings to administer SWEET’S test on the theory that if SWEETS is distracted by BOOTH’s presence, he won’t be any help in the field, with or without a gun. It sort of makes sense, but AUDIENCE wonders how BOOTH manages to pull all these strings and still be unable to block SWEETS entirely from gun ownership.
SWEETS enters a dark room for his test. Suddenly—FOG! FLASHING COLORS! OBSTACLES! LOUD NOISES! STROBE LIGHTS!
SWEETS looks around and tries to focus. AUDIENCE waits, half-expecting BARNEY STINSON and ROBIN SCHERBATSKY to appear in laser tag gear.
SWEETS performs admirably until a bullet ricochets off a target and hits him in the arm. AUDIENCE wonders why this kink was not worked out prior to the test.
BOOTH: You’ll have a scar but you’ll be fine.
And on that anti-climactic note, we
CUT TO: JEFFERSONIAN LAB, where CAM and DAISY discover that the DNA from the fingernail has gotten a hit in the FBI database.
CAM: So it’s this guy. He was in the military in Iraq. That fact is irrelevant to the storyline except that it explains why the FBI has his DNA on file.
DAISY: Yeah, it’s funny how many suspects and victims on this show turn out to have military or government backgrounds.
CAM: Pretty convenient for us though.
DAISY: For sure. Hey, that’s the guy who plays Prince Charmington in all the commercials!
CAM: And wasn’t our victim in a secret relationship? I wonder if there’s any connection!
DAISY: The prince is evil?!
COMMERCIAL BREAK, during which there are so many Christmas ads the AUDIENCE begins to feel guilty that they haven’t already finished their holiday shopping.
ACT FOUR
FBI INTERROGATION ROOM, where BOOTH and an be-slinged SWEETS question THE REAL PRINCE CHARMINGTON, whose name I forget.
SWEETS: Were you in a relationship with Debbie?
PRINCE CHARMINGTON: Yes. I can’t believe this could have happened to her. She always said she’d found her prince…but I was really the lucky one. I felt like the frog the princess kissed.
EXECUTIVE PRODUCERS: See what we did there with the Prince Charmington thing? Worth the payoff, right?
AUDIENCE: Oh. Yeah, sure.
BOOTH: Wow, you’re really into this whole prince thing. That’s not at all odd or potentially homicidal.
PRINCE CHARMINGTON: I didn’t kill Debbie! We had to keep our relationship a secret because of company policy—Bianca was really strict. I was encouraging Debbie to leave Dillio and strike out on her own. When she stopped calling me, I thought she’d tried to leave and it hadn’t worked out.
SWEETS: You thought she blamed you?
PRINCE CHARMINGTON: Yeah.
SWEETS: Psych degree for the win!
CUT TO: JEFFERSONIAN LAB. HODGINS is explaining things to CAM and oh hey! BRENNAN, who has been kind of MIA this episode.
HODGINS: The acid that burned through the plastic was from a car battery.
CAM: But car batteries are stored in the hood, you can’t fit a body in that part of the car!
HODGINS: But some Mazerati models have the battery in the back, and I found fibers from the trunk of a Mazerati, too!
BRENNAN: I’ll have Booth see what cars the Dillio employees drive!
CUT TO: DILLIO PARKING LOT, where BIANCA is just getting into her car. BOOTH and BRENNAN walk up. AUDIENCE wonders why SWEETS, after all the work he put in on this case, doesn’t get the satisfaction of collaring the REAL KILLER.
BOOTH: Open your truck.
BIANCA: Why?
BOOTH: I think you know why.
Faced with this INCONTROVERTIBLE LOGIC, BIANCA opens her trunk. BRENNAN finds traces of blood.
BIANCA: Without Debbie, our stock would have plummeted. It was an accident!
BRENNAN: Don’t care, you’re an evil bitch.
BIANCA has no response.
CUT TO: SWEETS’S OFFICE. DAISY enters.
DAISY: Can I see your gun?
It's not an innuendo. SWEETS shows her. They MAKE OUT.
SWEETS: No more sex in my office.
DAISY: Whyyyyy?
SWEETS: Okay, but this is the last time!
CUT TO: BRENNAN’S OFFICE.
BRENNAN, after a long day of not really doing any work (she’s pregnant, cut her some slack!) is doing work in her office. ANGELA enters with MICHAEL, her baby (in case you’d forgotten).
ANGELA: I’m giving up. Wanna come to the toy store with us so someone there can assemble that toy for me?
BRENNAN: Uhhhh…
ANGELA: Bassinets! Mobiles!
BRENNAN: As a soon-to-be parent, those things interest me now! Let’s go!
CUT TO: BOOTH’s APARTMENT. BRENNAN is reading a serious-looking book. BOOTH comes in.
BOOTH: Hey!
BRENNAN: Freeze, copper!
BRENNAN has a gun that shoots foam balls, and she is happily attacking BOOTH.
BRENNAN: Today at the store, I realized that this is fun! And the baby thought it was funny! So now I understand what play is all about!
BOOTH: You’d think as a brilliant anthropologist, you’d already understand what play is all about.
BRENNAN: Apparently not.
BOOTH fishes another gun out of a shopping bag.
BOOTH: You bought two of these?
BRENNAN: Duh.
BOOTH and BRENNAN proceed to have an ADORABLE FOAM-BALL SHOOTOUT, and even though the AUDIENCE can’t help but wonder how their guns seem to magically never run out of foam balls, it is a pretty cute ending.
We open at a TRASH DUMP in the FOREST, where a YUPPIE COUPLE is hunting for antiques.
YUPPIE LADY: I’m picking a fight with you, because picking fights is a prerequisite to stumbling upon horrible bodies in the Bones cold open!
YUPPIE GUY: I’m trying to put a positive spin on the situation! I have a good, healthy outlook on life! Karma will surely reward me for my sunny disposition!
Something vaguely corpse-looking tumbles down the hill.
YUPPIE GUY: There does not appear to be anything sketchy about this!
YUPPIE LADY: No indeed!
YUPPIE GUY runs toward said totally un-sketchy object, trips on a toilet bowl (I’m not making that up) and lands face-to-face with a skeleton (and associated fleshy goop) wrapped in plastic.
YUPPIE GUY and YUPPIE LADY scream their yuppie heads off.
FADE TO:
BOOTH, BRENNAN, and SWEETS getting coffee in a park in “WASHINGTON, D.C.,” where the November weather appears to be incredibly mild—as mild as, say, Los Angeles. There seems to be some sort of DISAGREEMENT occurring.
BOOTH: Sweets, I do not approve of your getting a gun, despite the fact that you will be in the field with me facing horrible dangers.
AUDIENCE: I do not approve of the fact that the FBI apparently finds it appropriate to send a PSYCHIATRIST out into the field. Didn’t Booth have to fight just to get Brennan into the field, when she arguably had much more job and weapons experience than Sweets? Couldn’t Booth easily put a stop to this?
SWEETS, to distract both BOOTH and the AUDIENCE, changes the subject.
SWEETS: Let’s talk about your living arrangements.
BOOTH: No.
BRENNAN: Okay. I want an acre of land, he wants a man cave.
BOOTH: Yes, two weeks ago I wanted a family-friendly home, now I want the exact opposite of that.
BRENNAN: It makes no sense to me.
For once, AUDIENCE and BRENNAN are on the same page.
BRENNAN: Anyway, back to Sweets and guns. If we arm him he’s a prime target for a shooter, so he’ll draw fire away from you! I don’t want to be a single mom!
AUDIENCE: Classic Brennan! Comedy! Guffaw!
BOOTH: Irrelevant, Sweets isn’t getting a gun.
SWEETS: Fine then, you’re not getting a man cave.
AUDIENCE: How could you possibly follow through on that threat given that—
EXECUTIVE PRODUCERS OF BONES: Scene change! You can’t ask questions now! La la la, can’t hear you!
CUT TO: The Jeffersonian. CAM and BRENNAN are examining a PLASTIC-WRAPPED CORPSE while DAISY looks busy in the background.
CAM: Look, here’s our gross body of the week!
BRENNAN: I’ll explain to you things we already should both know, given our professional backgrounds, almost as if you were the average 18-35 year-old viewer of a primetime television show.
CAM: Sounds perfectly logical to me.
DAISY: Don’t forget me! I’m quirky but I’m also smart, and in this scene I have an air compressor!
CAM: Why?
BRENNAN: To help us pressurize the interior of the plastic so we can drain the remains.
CAM: Ah, right, I should have known that!
BRENNAN and CAM both stare at the camera and wink knowingly. CAM cuts slits in the bottom of the plastic-wrapped corpse so the goop can drain out.
DAISY sums up the show with the following line (again, not kidding with this one):
DAISY: This is revolting…but kind of fun.
CAM, BRENNAN, and most of the AUDIENCE concur. Portion of AUDIENCE that was stupidly eating dinner while watching cannot weigh in because they are too busy trying not to vomit and/or recovering from doing so.
CAM cuts open the goopy, plastic wrapped remains. She, BRENNAN, and DAISY are unfazed.
BRENNAN: It’s a good thing all three of us have apparently lost our sense of smell.
CAM: Indeed.
DAISY: I had mine surgically removed for this very reason.
CAM finds a Ken doll in the remains, but for copyright reasons (and as fodder for some jokes later on), this doll is called PRINCE CHARMINGTON.
CAM: Look, a plastic doll.
DAISY: PRINCE CHARMINGTON!
BRENNAN: Who’s Prince Charmington?
CAM: Let me explain, since we need some exposition and you’re totally ignorant about pop culture. Prince Charmington is the best. Toy. Ever.
DAISY: It’s so sad!
BRENNAN: That seems like rather a strange reaction.
CAM: Nah, I’m fine with it. Seems plausible.
EXECUTIVE PRODUCERS OF BONES hope the AUDIENCE agrees so we can all LAUGH together at BRENNAN’S SOCIAL AWKWARDNESS. AUDIENCE looks dubious. EXECUTIVE PRODUCERS try again.
DAISY: OH MY GOD! Whoever killed Prince Charmington will PAY!
CAM: I’m mildly befuddled, but otherwise that seems like an appropriate reaction to a grisly murder scene. I’m so glad I hired you.
DRAMATIC ZOOM on PRINCE CHARMINGTON with the HUMAN CORPSE relegated to the BACKGROUND of the shot. CUT TO: OPENING CREDITS
COMMERCIAL BREAK in which we see car commercials for every vehicle that’s ever been driven on Bones.
ACT ONE
At the JEFFERSONIAN, CAM, HODGINS, and DAISY search through what remains of the…remains. (See what I did there?)
HODGINS: I study bugs and slime and dirt and stuff, none of which is relevant to this particular murder. In real life I’d go work on some research or write a paper or work another case or something, but my contractually mandated screentime requires me to be here sorting through flesh goop like a lowly intern. And providing exposition. And reminding everyone of my real area of specialization.
CAM: That’s great, but what can you do to help move the plot along?
HODGINS: Well, I found a lung. Coincidentally, it’s the only organ that will be relevant later in this investigation.
CAM: Oh, cool. We can just forget about examining the other twenty-odd internal organs in the human body, then.
HODGINS: And here are bone fragments for you, Daisy.
DAISY: Phalanx, patella…awww! Here’s a socket from the late Prince Charmington’s royal patella.
HODGINS: Are the executive producers trying to imply that I can’t tell the difference between human bones and plastic doll bits or that I have a weird sense of humor and professionalism?
DAISY: Don’t care; too busy being bummed about Prince Charmington.
HODGINS: Whatever. Did you guys hear about the B-plot of this episode in which Sweets is trying to get certified to carry a gun?
CAM: No way!
DAISY: I fully support my boyfriend’s right to shoot people, largely because he is a decent human being who would never hurt a fly. Oh, by the way, the x-rays I did show that the victim was apparently beaten right before her death and may have been beaten as a child.
CAM: Sad.
BEAT. (No pun intended.)
CAM: Moving on…
Coincidentally, ANGELA enters with KEY INFORMATION.
ANGELA: I found fingerprints, bitchezzz! All the ID’ing you’ve been doing up until now is irrelevant! Our victim was vice president of a toy company!
AUDIENCE: I sense a theme coming on….
ANGELA: Anyway, her name is Debra Cortez and her brother reported her missing two weeks ago.
CUT TO: INTERROGATION ROOM. BOOTH and SWEETS are talking to the victim’s BROTHER.
MR. CORTEZ: My sister is dead? I’m so sad! She was such a quiet, shy, wonderful person.
SWEETS: She was quiet and shy? That fits in with the childhood abuse she suffered.
MR. CORTEZ: Um, what now?
SWEETS: The abuse. It’s totally understandable you have no idea what I’m talking about, since most children are abused by their parents and you two grew up in the same household. The fact that you seem confused does not cause me to doubt this hypothesis at all.
MR. CORTEZ: Debbie wasn’t abused, she was the sole survivor of the plane crash that killed our parents.
AUDIENCE feels a little sorry for MR. CORTEZ, since he wasn’t invited along on this little childhood jaunt across the sky, and then remembers that he was LUCKY because the PLANE ended up CRASHING.
BOOTH: I see that you also worked at the toy company.
MR. CORTEZ: My sister got me a job at the company, but I only worked there a month because it was too humiliating working for my more successful sister.
BOOTH: What do you do now?
MR. CORTEZ: Still looking.
AUDIENCE: Who quits a job in this economy? Think, man, think!
CUT TO: JEFFERSONIAN LAB. BRENNAN is examining stuff. It doesn’t really matter because the casework is simply a segue into BRENNAN COMEDY. ANGELA enters.
BRENNAN: Did you have a Prince Charmington doll as a kid?
ANGELA: Everyone did. I dressed mine like Sid Vicious Charmington, because I’m edgy and bohemian!
BRENNAN: I didn’t like toys. They distracted me from science.
ANGELA: Playing is important, too. Anthropology is on my side. You should play with that Prince Charmington doll!
BRENNAN: You mean the evidence?
ANGELA: It’s completely appropriate!
BRENNAN: Okay…
BRENNAN adopts a funny voice, so things are already delving into the realm of COMEDY, and picks up PRINCE CHARMINGTON, whose outfit is remarkably clean considering it was covered in liquefied organs mere scenes ago.
BRENNAN: Hello subjects! My name is Prince Charmington! My arm and leg have been torn asunder but my cervical spine is intact!
We can tell from ANGELA’S FACIAL EXPRESSIONS that BRENNAN is definitely DOING IT WRONG. BRENNAN laughs at her own cleverness. ANGELA laughs awkwardly and worries that BRENNAN’s future child will be a serial killer or something.
CUT TO: DILLIO TOY FACTORY. BOOTH and BRENNAN walk with BIANCA, the president of the company, who shows them around. She seems TRUSTWORTHY and COOPERATIVE, so there is NO WAY she can be the MURDERER.
BIANCA: These are our Bouncing Bears.
BOOTH: Parker loves those!
BRENNAN: Why? Children should not be playing with bears! Do you know how many fatal bear maulings occur in the United States every year?
BOOTH: Are you going to talk to our daughter like that?
BRENNAN: No, but I’m certainly not going to let her play with bears.
BIANCA shows BOOTH and BRENNAN the IMAGITORIUM, where the company tests prototypes on kids.
BIANCA: …and these are “Love Mutts.” Their heads and bodies are interchangeable so you can make an endless array of combinations!
A LITTLE GIRL holds up what looks like a Frankenstein science experiment gone wrong.
LITTLE GIRL: I made a bull-poodle!
AUDIENCE worries that these children will all become mad scientist serial killers. BRENNAN, BOOTH, AND BIANCA seem unconcerned.
BRENNAN: I can see how this would teach children about dominant and recessive genes!
AUDIENCE: Um, I can’t. I’m pretty sure my sister doesn’t have blue eyes because my parents ripped off the head of a blue-eyed person and attached it to my sister’s body.
BIANCA: Moving on, here’s Larry. He was Debra Cortez’s professional competition, except his ideas suck.
LARRY, who seems frazzled and lame in a COMEDIC WAY, is attacked by children who don’t dig his toys. He exits the IMAGITORIUM in a huff.
LARRY: I wanna wring those little bastards’ necks sometimes, you know?
BEAT.
LARRY: Was that not an appropriate way to greet strangers? Okay, let me try again. I hate Debbie Cortez.
BEAT. LARRY looks about for a shovel with which to dig himself an even deeper grave. BOOTH puts a stop to it by pulling out his badge and deciding to interrogate LARRY.
CUT TO: EMPTY IMAGITORIUM ROOM. BOOTH, BRENNAN, and LARRY sit around a child-size table on child-sized chairs.
LARRY: Here’s all the useful info you need for this scene. I didn’t like Debbie, but I didn’t kill her. I think she had a secret boyfriend. I was at home watching the game the night she was murdered, but my wife and kids were conveniently in Florida so no one can corroborate my story.
BOOTH: We’ll be in touch.
This is a prime opportunity for PREGNANCY HUMOR, so BRENNAN gets stuck in the child-size chair. BOOTH helps her out and they exit.
CUT TO: JEFFERSONIAN LAB, where HODGINS and DAISY are doing important lab-related tasks.
HODGINS: Here’s Prince Charmington’s leg!
DAISY: Gimme!
HODGINS: It appears to have been burned with some kind of acid.
DAISY: The horror!
HODGINS: Don’t worry. I’ll figure it out.
BEAT.
HODGINS: Remember that “King of the Lab” joke we started like five seasons ago?
DAISY: Kind of…
AUDIENCE: YES.
HODGINS: Well, I’m bringing it back. King of the Lab!
CUT TO: ANGELA’S OFFICE. ANGELA is trying to assemble a toy, which leads to COMICAL HIJINKS. BRENNAN enters.
BRENNAN: What are you doing?
ANGELA: I’m assembling a toy for Michael. Remember, that son I had at the end of last season?
BRENNAN: Vaguely.
ANGELA: Right. He’s never onscreen and I immediately lost all my pregnancy "weight,", so I’m assembling this toy in my office instead of at home so I can remind everyone of his existence.
BRENNAN: Right. Why are the instructions in Chinese?
ANGELA: That’s just the diagrams. The instructions should be in clear, easy-to-understand English.
Clearly ANGELA has never assembled anything herself before. AUDIENCE chuckles in anticipation.
ANGELA: “Insert to parts for assemble which toy can have immediately.”
AUDIENCE: Told ya!
BRENNAN: What if you try…?
ANGELA: DO NOT BACKSEAT DRIVE, SWEETIE! I hate toys. They suck.
EXECUTIVE PRODUCERS: And there’s the theme! Toys! The theme of the episode is toys! Did you get it? Did you?
BRENNAN: Well, anyway. On the topic of relevant stuff, did you construct a scenario for what happened to the victim?
ANGELA: Sure did. Let’s go!
CUT TO: The ANGELATOR room. ANGELA pulls up a schematic on the screen.
ANGELA: She was lying facedown on the concrete and she was struck with an incredible amount of force.
BRENNAN: This seems redundant, since we already knew she had fractures and her lung was collapsed so she suffocated to death, but I’m sure you’re going somewhere with this.
ANGELA: Right. Just reminding you of the details. There has been a commercial break since we went over all that the first time, you know.
BRENNAN: Oh, right.
ANGELA: Anyway, the person who did it must have been really angry to hit her so hard.
BRENNAN: No, if it were rage the blows would be all over the place. These are concentrated to her arms and upper back. Move her right and left arm?
ANGELA makes the image of the victim splay out a little more, then draws a line connecting the injuries. Nevertheless, she waits for BRENNAN to explain what this means.
BRENNAN: She was hit only once with great force, and the blow fell along this line!
ANGELA: Cool, I drew that line! Now I know why it’s significant!
CUT TO: BOOTH and DAISY in the car.
DAISY: I’m so excited to be going into the field!
BOOTH: Don’t get too excited. You’re only here because Bones wasn’t available.
AUDIENCE wonders where BRENNAN is. Presumably helping ANGELA assemble that toy?
EXECUTIVE PRODUCERS: We actually don’t know where Brennan is, we just wanted to put Booth and Daisy at the scene together. You know, for comedy!
AUDIENCE: Sure. Okay.
DAISY: When I’m field-tested and Lance has his gun, we can go on murdery double-dates with you and Brennan!
BOOTH: Let’s never do that. Also, don’t talk when we get there.
DAISY: I’ll agree now, but I will undoubtedly disregard this agreement as soon as we arrive at the crime scene.
BOOTH dies a little inside.
CUT TO: DILLIO TOYS FACTORY. BIANCA is showing BOOTH and DAISY into the PROTOTYPE LAB.
BIANCA: Before we go in, I need you to sign a nondisclosure agreement.
BOOTH: Ha ha, don’t think so.
DAISY, not to be outdone in BADASSERY, jumps in despite her promises to keep silent.
DAISY: If you don’t let us in, we’ll come back with a warrant and the press will have a field day.
BIANCA: Oh, fine. Whatever.
BIANCA, DAISY, and BOOTH enter the PROTOTYPE LAB.
DAISY: This plastic could be the same plastic the body was wrapped in!
BOOTH: Interesting.
DAISY: There’s blood on the floor over here!
BOOTH: That’s suspicious.
DAISY: This sliding vertical door could have been what crushed our victim!
BOOTH, not to be outdone in USEFULNESS, makes a discovery of his own.
BOOTH: This door looks like it’s been broken into.
BIANCA: Impossible!
In the background, FACTORY EMPLOYEES continue working, not expressing the least bit of interest in the MURDER CASE unfolding beneath their very noses. CASTING DIRECTORS pat themselves on the back for their choice in extras.
DRAMATIC ZOOM on the characters’ faces and the crime scene.
COMMERCIAL BREAK in which Fox plugs at least three shows that will be canceled by February sweeps.
ACT TWO
SWEETS is at the FIRING RANGE, where he is practicing for his test to carry a weapon. He does well. DAISY appears behind him.
DAISY: Good job! You’re hot when you’re firing a gun.
SWEETS: Daisy! God! I’m trying to concentrate!
SWEETS fires off another three rounds and misses the target each time.
DAISY: Pretend that target is someone trying to hurt me. Don’t let him hurt me, Lance!
SWEETS fires three shots almost straight through the target’s heart.
SWEETS: At first your presence made me suck, but now it makes me awesome!
DAISY: What’s that? I was too distracted by wanting to have sex with you.
CUT TO: JEFFERSONIAN LAB. HODGINS is doing science-y things. CAM enters.
HODGINS: Hey Cam, guess what? I found metal embedded in the victim that matches the door at the factory, so we have our murder weapon!
CAM: Great!
HODGINS: AND I discovered that someone used a carjack to break in! Multimillion dollar security system and all it took was a cheap-o carjack.
CAM: What dumbasses.
CUT TO: JEFFERSONIAN LAB. BRENNAN enters and sees DAISY.
BRENNAN: Hold up. Are you doing an autopsy on Prince Charmington?
DAISY: Yes. That makes total sense, right?
BRENNAN: Um, sure. Explain, please?
CUE intense “we’re solving a mystery” music.
DAISY: There was a struggle. Someone grabbed Prince Charmington and our victim pulled back, and Prince Charmington was pulled apart in the struggle. This is an original doll from the 1960s and it’s now worth $10,000. Someone wanted to steal him!
CUT TO: ANGELATOR ROOM. ANGELA is examining the victim’s computer files.
ANGELA: There’s nothing suspicious on here, except for that little email interaction in which she accuses someone of stealing from the company and they write back telling her to stay out of it.
CAM: Well, who was the other person?
ANGELA: I traced the IP address and get this—it’s her brother!
AUDIENCE: Couldn’t you have just checked the email address?
EXECUTIVE PRODUCERS: Never mind that! Quick! Scene change!
CUT TO: BOOTH and SWEETS on a stakeout.
BOOTH: It’s not that I don’t want you to have a gun. I just think you’d end up, like, shooting yourself in the foot or something.
SWEETS: You think I’m incompetent?
BOOTH: No. I never said that.
BOOTH sees the perp arrive and exits the car.
SWEETS: Oh, so now you’re just gonna leave?
BOOTH leans in through the open window.
BOOTH: No, Sweets, the perp’s here. God, pay attention. You suck at stakeouts.
AUDIENCE wonders whether people who leave their windows open while having conversations at a normal volume during a stakeout should really through stones in the incompetence arena.
SWEETS and BOOTH confront the perp, MR.CORTEZ.
BOOTH: Open your trunk.
MR. CORTEZ: You got a warrant?
BOOTH: Nope. But you’ve been stealing vintage toys. You should probably cooperate.
MR. CORTEZ: In that case, okay. You really have me cornered here, since it’s not like I could have emptied my trunk in the time it took you to go wake up a judge and get him or her to sign a warrant.
BOOTH opens the trunk. It is full of STOLEN VINTAGE TOYS.
SWEETS: I’m guessing you don’t have a receipt for those.
BEAT.
SWEETS: See? I can be snarky and badass, too!
BOOTH: And a carjack! Since one never finds carjacks in the trunks of cars, this is clearly the carjack used to pry open the door at the factory!
COMMERCIAL BREAK, at which point the AUDIENCE members turn to each other and complain about how there have only been like four minutes of the episode since the last commercial break, and what is television coming to these days?
ACT THREE
MR. CORTEZ is being interrogated in the FBI INTERROGATION ROOM. As the chairs are all regular-sized there is no potential for PREGNANCY HUMOR in this scene, so BOOTH and SWEETS conduct the interrogation while BRENNAN remains absent.
BOOTH: Your sister was pretty mad you were stealing from the company.
MR. CORTEZ: Whatever. I have a criminal record anyway, so it wasn’t a big deal or anything.
AUDIENCE shakes head and mutters derisively about recidivism.
BOOTH: She was going to turn you in.
MR. CORTEZ: Debbie would never do that!
SWEETS: She’d lose her job if you got caught.
MR. CORTEZ: I’m her brother, she owes me!
BOOTH: You squashed your sister with the factory door because she caught you stealing THIS!
He throws PRINCE CHARMINGTON down on the table rather roughly. Poor PRINCE CHARMINGTON is going through rather a lot in this episode, and the AUDIENCE feels a little sorry for him until they remember that he is a DOLL.
Anyway, there is a DRAMATIC PAUSE, and then:
CUE sappy sad piano/violin music.
MR. CORTEZ stares at PRINCE CHARMINGTON, then reaches out to pick him up. MUSIC stalls on one suspenseful violin note.
MR. CORTEZ: Oh my God.
PIANOS resume.
MR. CORTEZ: This was the last thing our mom gave Debbie before she died.
BEAT.
MR. CORTEZ: “She” being our mom in this case, not Debbie. The grammar skills of this recap are questionable.
BOOTH has time for neither META-COMMENTARY nor SCHMALTZ.
BOOTH: This doll is valuable. I think you stole it.
MR. CORTEZ: Go ahead, lock me up for stealing. But I didn’t kill my sister!
AUDIENCE: He’s probably right, we are only like forty minutes into the episode.
CUT TO: BOOTH’S APARTMENT. BRENNAN is sitting on the couch eating when BOOTH comes home from work.
BOOTH: How are you?
BRENNAN: Baby’s kicking my spleen. You?
BOOTH: Work sucks.
BRENNAN: We’re both having bad days. But tomorrow I’ll have my lab minions solve the case for you.
BOOTH: Cool. Let’s cuddle.
BRENNAN: Yeah. Okay.
BEAT.
BRENNAN: I’m not good at playing with toys. What if I’m a bad mom?
BOOTH switches into PEP TALK MODE.
BOOTH: You’re gonna be a great mom!
BRENNAN: Okay, I’m convinced. Hey, maybe when our daughter’s motor skills develop, we can dissect a frog together!
BOOTH: Maybe!
BOOTH, unlike most other characters on the show, does not seem to harbor any secret fears that his daughter will turn out to be a serial killer. This bodes well for his relationship with BRENNAN, but it remains to be seen whether or not it will benefit their UNBORN CHILD.
CUT TO: HODGINS and CAM in the JEFFERSONIAN LAB.
HODGINS: I’ve discovered a fake nail, and there’s DNA trapped between the glue and the nail!
CAM: Cool! Let’s solve this bitch!
CUT TO: ANGELA’s OFFICE, where ANGELA is still trying to assemble the toy from earlier. She has made some progress…but not much. CAM enters.
ANGELA: “Gently forward piece for coupling together with warning about many danger.” What. The. HELL?!
CAM then makes a ROOKIE MISTAKE.
CAM: It looks like that red piece might fit there.
ANGELA: Oh, does it? DOES IT?!
CAM: You’d think the store would offer some sort of assembly service.
AUDIENCE agrees with CAM.
ANGELA: Oh, they do, but this toy cost thirty-three bucks and they want thirty-five to put it together.
AUDIENCE abandons TEAM CAM to side with TEAM ANGELA. Those thieves! Who do they think they are?!
CAM: Seems like money well spent.
ANGELA: Are you calling me stupid? “Baby Walker” will not beat me!
HODGINS chooses an unfortunate moment to enter.
HODGINS: Hey, are you ready for lunch?
ANGELA: He’s your son, too!
HODGINS: We have a son?
BEAT.
HODGINS: Oh, duh, that’s right. It’s just that he never appears on screen so sometimes I can’t remember if he’s real or if the season six finale was all a hallucination.
CAM: No, that was season four.
HODGINS: Oh, right. What was up with that?
ANGELA: Hodgins!!!!
CAM: See ya.
We leave a befuddled HODGINS to his fate and
CUT TO: SHOOTING RANGE, where BOOTH has pulled come strings to administer SWEET’S test on the theory that if SWEETS is distracted by BOOTH’s presence, he won’t be any help in the field, with or without a gun. It sort of makes sense, but AUDIENCE wonders how BOOTH manages to pull all these strings and still be unable to block SWEETS entirely from gun ownership.
SWEETS enters a dark room for his test. Suddenly—FOG! FLASHING COLORS! OBSTACLES! LOUD NOISES! STROBE LIGHTS!
SWEETS looks around and tries to focus. AUDIENCE waits, half-expecting BARNEY STINSON and ROBIN SCHERBATSKY to appear in laser tag gear.
SWEETS performs admirably until a bullet ricochets off a target and hits him in the arm. AUDIENCE wonders why this kink was not worked out prior to the test.
BOOTH: You’ll have a scar but you’ll be fine.
And on that anti-climactic note, we
CUT TO: JEFFERSONIAN LAB, where CAM and DAISY discover that the DNA from the fingernail has gotten a hit in the FBI database.
CAM: So it’s this guy. He was in the military in Iraq. That fact is irrelevant to the storyline except that it explains why the FBI has his DNA on file.
DAISY: Yeah, it’s funny how many suspects and victims on this show turn out to have military or government backgrounds.
CAM: Pretty convenient for us though.
DAISY: For sure. Hey, that’s the guy who plays Prince Charmington in all the commercials!
CAM: And wasn’t our victim in a secret relationship? I wonder if there’s any connection!
DAISY: The prince is evil?!
COMMERCIAL BREAK, during which there are so many Christmas ads the AUDIENCE begins to feel guilty that they haven’t already finished their holiday shopping.
ACT FOUR
FBI INTERROGATION ROOM, where BOOTH and an be-slinged SWEETS question THE REAL PRINCE CHARMINGTON, whose name I forget.
SWEETS: Were you in a relationship with Debbie?
PRINCE CHARMINGTON: Yes. I can’t believe this could have happened to her. She always said she’d found her prince…but I was really the lucky one. I felt like the frog the princess kissed.
EXECUTIVE PRODUCERS: See what we did there with the Prince Charmington thing? Worth the payoff, right?
AUDIENCE: Oh. Yeah, sure.
BOOTH: Wow, you’re really into this whole prince thing. That’s not at all odd or potentially homicidal.
PRINCE CHARMINGTON: I didn’t kill Debbie! We had to keep our relationship a secret because of company policy—Bianca was really strict. I was encouraging Debbie to leave Dillio and strike out on her own. When she stopped calling me, I thought she’d tried to leave and it hadn’t worked out.
SWEETS: You thought she blamed you?
PRINCE CHARMINGTON: Yeah.
SWEETS: Psych degree for the win!
CUT TO: JEFFERSONIAN LAB. HODGINS is explaining things to CAM and oh hey! BRENNAN, who has been kind of MIA this episode.
HODGINS: The acid that burned through the plastic was from a car battery.
CAM: But car batteries are stored in the hood, you can’t fit a body in that part of the car!
HODGINS: But some Mazerati models have the battery in the back, and I found fibers from the trunk of a Mazerati, too!
BRENNAN: I’ll have Booth see what cars the Dillio employees drive!
CUT TO: DILLIO PARKING LOT, where BIANCA is just getting into her car. BOOTH and BRENNAN walk up. AUDIENCE wonders why SWEETS, after all the work he put in on this case, doesn’t get the satisfaction of collaring the REAL KILLER.
BOOTH: Open your truck.
BIANCA: Why?
BOOTH: I think you know why.
Faced with this INCONTROVERTIBLE LOGIC, BIANCA opens her trunk. BRENNAN finds traces of blood.
BIANCA: Without Debbie, our stock would have plummeted. It was an accident!
BRENNAN: Don’t care, you’re an evil bitch.
BIANCA has no response.
CUT TO: SWEETS’S OFFICE. DAISY enters.
DAISY: Can I see your gun?
It's not an innuendo. SWEETS shows her. They MAKE OUT.
SWEETS: No more sex in my office.
DAISY: Whyyyyy?
SWEETS: Okay, but this is the last time!
CUT TO: BRENNAN’S OFFICE.
BRENNAN, after a long day of not really doing any work (she’s pregnant, cut her some slack!) is doing work in her office. ANGELA enters with MICHAEL, her baby (in case you’d forgotten).
ANGELA: I’m giving up. Wanna come to the toy store with us so someone there can assemble that toy for me?
BRENNAN: Uhhhh…
ANGELA: Bassinets! Mobiles!
BRENNAN: As a soon-to-be parent, those things interest me now! Let’s go!
CUT TO: BOOTH’s APARTMENT. BRENNAN is reading a serious-looking book. BOOTH comes in.
BOOTH: Hey!
BRENNAN: Freeze, copper!
BRENNAN has a gun that shoots foam balls, and she is happily attacking BOOTH.
BRENNAN: Today at the store, I realized that this is fun! And the baby thought it was funny! So now I understand what play is all about!
BOOTH: You’d think as a brilliant anthropologist, you’d already understand what play is all about.
BRENNAN: Apparently not.
BOOTH fishes another gun out of a shopping bag.
BOOTH: You bought two of these?
BRENNAN: Duh.
BOOTH and BRENNAN proceed to have an ADORABLE FOAM-BALL SHOOTOUT, and even though the AUDIENCE can’t help but wonder how their guns seem to magically never run out of foam balls, it is a pretty cute ending.
Sunday, September 11, 2011
Thanks for the 'help,' but you can take it back
So unless you haven't been on the internet in the last week-and-a-half or so, you probably know all about the controversy surrounding photographer Tyler Shields's portraits of a made-up-to-look-bruised-up Heather Morris. Let's set aside for the moment the fact that the shoot itself was DEFINITELY in poor taste and concentrate on Shields's defense of his work:
Look, before we go any further, I'm not trying to trivialize the complete and utter tastelessness of these photos in regards to domestic abuse. They're gross and twisted and, to be completely honest, not even that good. I don't consider myself a photography connoisseur or anything, but I can say unequivocally that pretty much anyone with a model, some makeup, and a white background could have taken these pictures. Seriously, I could go recreate them in my living room right now. (But I won't.)
So I'll admit, I was already disinclined to meet Shields's defense with anything more than an eye-roll and a snort of disdain / disbelief / disgust / dis-all-of-the-above. But then he decided to work the feminist angle. And I was puzzled, to say the least.
So let me examine this and make sure I've got it right. Violence is "empowering" as long as it's a woman inflicting it on a man? WHAT? Oh, okay. That makes total sense. It's abuse when she's sporting a black eye, but when he walks into work on Monday with iron-shaped burns all over him, everyone goes, "Gee, his wife/ girlfriend / female roommate sure is EMPOWERED!" That's sick. If that's what female empowerment looks like, no wonder feminism faces such stiff resistance.
Look, I get it. No one wants an angry woman coming after him wielding an iron. I'm not debating that. But herein lies the problem: the world basically thinks of all feminists as iron-wielding crazies, hellbent on beating men into submission. That is not, nor has it ever been, the goal of feminism. The goal of feminism is fair and equal treatment for women and men. It's right there in the definition of feminism in the ever-infallible Oxford English Dictionary:
Let me come right out and say it. I'm a feminist, and I am proud to be one. You can say I'm overreacting, that I just like complaining, that I want attention, but I don't see it that way. All I'm doing is standing up for myself, my mom, my grandmothers, my sister, my best friend. I'm standing up for my friends who won't stand up for themselves. I'm standing up for my little cousins, who are too young to know what sexism is but will someday probably experience it firsthand.
And that's why this bothers me so much. Deserving and expecting fair and equal treatment is not the same as assault and battery, and for one petty, fame-seeking little man to publicly declare that the two are basically the same thing is wrong. Generations' worth of work have gone into the feminist movement. Both women and men have devoted their lives to fighting for female equality. And here comes Tyler Shields with his ridiculously warped ideas on empowerment, ignoring fifty-plus years of dedication, diligence, and struggle. And we're supposed to be what, thankful?
Luckily for him, I think he'll find most feminists prefer blogging to iron attacks.
“There is a shot of [Morris] pushing the iron to my face and ironing my crotch. … That seems more like female empowerment.” (source)THIS is where I reached my limit. Okay, go ahead, do a photo shoot glamorizing domestic abuse. It makes you--pardon my French--an insensitive assface, but go right ahead and claim that you "didn't know" that people would be upset by the photos. We could maybe, maybe buy it and assume that you are actually just a colossal idiot instead of a giant tool. And then you go and spout off crap like this.
Look, before we go any further, I'm not trying to trivialize the complete and utter tastelessness of these photos in regards to domestic abuse. They're gross and twisted and, to be completely honest, not even that good. I don't consider myself a photography connoisseur or anything, but I can say unequivocally that pretty much anyone with a model, some makeup, and a white background could have taken these pictures. Seriously, I could go recreate them in my living room right now. (But I won't.)
So I'll admit, I was already disinclined to meet Shields's defense with anything more than an eye-roll and a snort of disdain / disbelief / disgust / dis-all-of-the-above. But then he decided to work the feminist angle. And I was puzzled, to say the least.
So let me examine this and make sure I've got it right. Violence is "empowering" as long as it's a woman inflicting it on a man? WHAT? Oh, okay. That makes total sense. It's abuse when she's sporting a black eye, but when he walks into work on Monday with iron-shaped burns all over him, everyone goes, "Gee, his wife/ girlfriend / female roommate sure is EMPOWERED!" That's sick. If that's what female empowerment looks like, no wonder feminism faces such stiff resistance.
Look, I get it. No one wants an angry woman coming after him wielding an iron. I'm not debating that. But herein lies the problem: the world basically thinks of all feminists as iron-wielding crazies, hellbent on beating men into submission. That is not, nor has it ever been, the goal of feminism. The goal of feminism is fair and equal treatment for women and men. It's right there in the definition of feminism in the ever-infallible Oxford English Dictionary:
Feminism: the advocacy of women's rights on the grounds of political, social, and economic equality to men.See? Nothing in there about compulsory man hating. Nowhere does it say that I have to earn my empowerment through any UFC-type battle scenario. Which is lucky for me, as the extent of my workout for the last three months has been power-walking down the street and playing WiiFit. Also, my only iron is travel-size and barely heats up past room temperature, which means it'd be pretty useless in the crotch-burning arena. But I digress.
Let me come right out and say it. I'm a feminist, and I am proud to be one. You can say I'm overreacting, that I just like complaining, that I want attention, but I don't see it that way. All I'm doing is standing up for myself, my mom, my grandmothers, my sister, my best friend. I'm standing up for my friends who won't stand up for themselves. I'm standing up for my little cousins, who are too young to know what sexism is but will someday probably experience it firsthand.
And that's why this bothers me so much. Deserving and expecting fair and equal treatment is not the same as assault and battery, and for one petty, fame-seeking little man to publicly declare that the two are basically the same thing is wrong. Generations' worth of work have gone into the feminist movement. Both women and men have devoted their lives to fighting for female equality. And here comes Tyler Shields with his ridiculously warped ideas on empowerment, ignoring fifty-plus years of dedication, diligence, and struggle. And we're supposed to be what, thankful?
Luckily for him, I think he'll find most feminists prefer blogging to iron attacks.
Wednesday, July 13, 2011
Adventures in oral hygiene
I've found, as I get older, that in many facets of my life, I'm just a straight-up anomaly. I like plucking my eyebrows. I usually relish the opportunity to clean up a really messy room. And, perhaps most strangely, I don't fear the dentist.
I mean, it's not like I look forward to my appointments for weeks and eagerly check off the intermediate days on a calendar or anything. But I just don't have any aversion to it. It probably helps that, crooked bottom teeth aside, my dental experiences have been pretty much all positive. No braces. No root canals. No cavities, even. When I was a kid, going to the dentist was actually kind of a positive experience. The dental hygienist would poke around for awhile, which was not so fun, but then she'd let me pick a toothpaste flavor and would brush my teeth for me with that weird whirring suction stick thingy, after which I'd get a free toothbrush, a trinket (comparable in quality to the prize in a Cracker Jack box), and a compliment on how my pearly whites were, well, pearly white.
As I've grown older, I don't really look forward to the dentist (No more prizes?! What is that all about?!), but I tend to view it with a detached kind of neutrality. I go, I get my teeth cleaned, I leave, and I repeat the process in six months. Whatever.
However, my most recent foray into the world of oral hygiene was different than the others, in that I actually had a problem. My gums around my wisdom teeth had been swollen for a few days, and despite my fervent wishes that they would just go back to normal on their own, they did not. So yesterday I headed in to my regular dentist appointment and mentioned to the hygienist in what I hoped was a casual way:
"You know, I'm glad I could get an appointment for today. I have a little swelling around my gums."
"Oh, really?" she said. "Let's take a look."
I got into the chair and opened wide. She took out the least-friendly looking metal instrument on the tray and held it as she peered inside.
"Oh, yeah, you do have some swelling there," she said. She gingerly poked around with the metal thing before adding, "Holy moly."
At that point, I knew all was lost. It's never a good sign when your dental hygienist, who has presumably seen quite a few oral maladies, starts throwing around phrases like "holy moly."
So after my check-up I was scheduled to return this morning to get all the bacteria scraped out from under my gums. Sounds like fun, right?
Well, yes and no. The Novocaine shots (all three of them) weren't so bad, but ever since my medical drama in February (three stitches above my eyebrow, three on my eyelid, and about eight painful anesthesia shots preceding them) I've adopted a more blasé attitude toward giant sharp poking implements in the immediate vicinity of my face. The gum-scraping itself wasn't all that awful either, given the effectiveness of the shots, although the scraping instruments kept coming out of my mouth looking considerably gorier than they had when they went in. At any rate, the whole thing was over in about twenty-five minutes, and this includes the serious post-procedure talk I got about proper flossing to prevent future occurrences like this.
The Novocaine, however, has yet to wear off.
Granted, it's only been about an hour since I left the dentist. Though now that I mention it, I seem to have regained some control of my tongue, and I can smile again without having one side of my mouth be way more into it than the other. Bizarrely enough, though, my chin and left ear appear to be pretty numb still. It's a bit frustrating, as I've had an itch on my chin for the past twenty minutes and scratching is pretty non-effective, since I can't feel it. I don't even know how it's even medically possible to be able to feel the itch and not the scratching, but there you go.
It hasn't been all bad, though. Having the entire left side of my face numb from my ear to my chin has actually been, to me at least, pretty entertaining. (I know, small amusement for small minds.) It began in the dentist's office when I tried to rinse out my mouth. Never having had Novocaine injections before, I severely overestimated my ability to manipulate my lips and tongue and, instead of neatly spitting the water into the sink, managed instead to dribble it down my chin. A second attempt proved just as fruitless, possibly even more so, since I happened to catch a look at my face in the mirror above the sink as I was attempting to swish the water around in my mouth. I looked rather like Cletus the slack-jawed yokel and half-spit the water out in laughter while the rest of it trickled down my face again and ended up (mostly) in the sink. Luckily no one was around to witness this incredibly graceful display, and I managed (with great effort) to hold myself together for the remainder of my time in the dentist's office, speaking almost normally.
Once I got out of there, however, all bets (along with my dignity) were off, and I became a lithping mathine thomewhat resthembling Thindy Brady. My teeth felt like they were about twice their normal size and five times their regular density, my face somehow felt like it was simultaneously made out of Play-Doh and a balloon, and I kept almost choking on my own tongue. By all accounts, it was not a very proud moment for me, but it was just so darn funny.
I got home and decided that it would be a good idea to take some ibuprofen before the numbness wore off, since having someone digging around in your gums is bound to result in some soreness later on. Drinking water proved a challenge, but that was easily solved by getting a drinking straw into the mix. Swallowing the ibuprofen was a little tougher, as I actually had to throw my head all the way back and let gravity do most of the work (whilst trying to prevent it from working on my tongue, which I was still apt to accidentally attempt to swallow). And now, an hour-and-a-half post-dentist (I took some time off in the middle of this post to google Harry Potter), I've got some feeling back in the very tip of my tongue but am definitely still numb everywhere else. The dentist said it would last about an hour but that it was different for everyone. I wonder how long it will last for me. It's been funny and everything, but I'd really like to eat some lunch without the danger of accidentally biting off a huge chunk of my own tongue.
The moral of the story here is, I suppose, is that if you don't mind giant syringes in your mouth, Novocaine is pretty amusing. If you'd rather avoid needles altogether, though, do yourself a favor and floss.
I mean, it's not like I look forward to my appointments for weeks and eagerly check off the intermediate days on a calendar or anything. But I just don't have any aversion to it. It probably helps that, crooked bottom teeth aside, my dental experiences have been pretty much all positive. No braces. No root canals. No cavities, even. When I was a kid, going to the dentist was actually kind of a positive experience. The dental hygienist would poke around for awhile, which was not so fun, but then she'd let me pick a toothpaste flavor and would brush my teeth for me with that weird whirring suction stick thingy, after which I'd get a free toothbrush, a trinket (comparable in quality to the prize in a Cracker Jack box), and a compliment on how my pearly whites were, well, pearly white.
As I've grown older, I don't really look forward to the dentist (No more prizes?! What is that all about?!), but I tend to view it with a detached kind of neutrality. I go, I get my teeth cleaned, I leave, and I repeat the process in six months. Whatever.
However, my most recent foray into the world of oral hygiene was different than the others, in that I actually had a problem. My gums around my wisdom teeth had been swollen for a few days, and despite my fervent wishes that they would just go back to normal on their own, they did not. So yesterday I headed in to my regular dentist appointment and mentioned to the hygienist in what I hoped was a casual way:
"You know, I'm glad I could get an appointment for today. I have a little swelling around my gums."
"Oh, really?" she said. "Let's take a look."
I got into the chair and opened wide. She took out the least-friendly looking metal instrument on the tray and held it as she peered inside.
"Oh, yeah, you do have some swelling there," she said. She gingerly poked around with the metal thing before adding, "Holy moly."
At that point, I knew all was lost. It's never a good sign when your dental hygienist, who has presumably seen quite a few oral maladies, starts throwing around phrases like "holy moly."
So after my check-up I was scheduled to return this morning to get all the bacteria scraped out from under my gums. Sounds like fun, right?
Well, yes and no. The Novocaine shots (all three of them) weren't so bad, but ever since my medical drama in February (three stitches above my eyebrow, three on my eyelid, and about eight painful anesthesia shots preceding them) I've adopted a more blasé attitude toward giant sharp poking implements in the immediate vicinity of my face. The gum-scraping itself wasn't all that awful either, given the effectiveness of the shots, although the scraping instruments kept coming out of my mouth looking considerably gorier than they had when they went in. At any rate, the whole thing was over in about twenty-five minutes, and this includes the serious post-procedure talk I got about proper flossing to prevent future occurrences like this.
The Novocaine, however, has yet to wear off.
Granted, it's only been about an hour since I left the dentist. Though now that I mention it, I seem to have regained some control of my tongue, and I can smile again without having one side of my mouth be way more into it than the other. Bizarrely enough, though, my chin and left ear appear to be pretty numb still. It's a bit frustrating, as I've had an itch on my chin for the past twenty minutes and scratching is pretty non-effective, since I can't feel it. I don't even know how it's even medically possible to be able to feel the itch and not the scratching, but there you go.
It hasn't been all bad, though. Having the entire left side of my face numb from my ear to my chin has actually been, to me at least, pretty entertaining. (I know, small amusement for small minds.) It began in the dentist's office when I tried to rinse out my mouth. Never having had Novocaine injections before, I severely overestimated my ability to manipulate my lips and tongue and, instead of neatly spitting the water into the sink, managed instead to dribble it down my chin. A second attempt proved just as fruitless, possibly even more so, since I happened to catch a look at my face in the mirror above the sink as I was attempting to swish the water around in my mouth. I looked rather like Cletus the slack-jawed yokel and half-spit the water out in laughter while the rest of it trickled down my face again and ended up (mostly) in the sink. Luckily no one was around to witness this incredibly graceful display, and I managed (with great effort) to hold myself together for the remainder of my time in the dentist's office, speaking almost normally.
Once I got out of there, however, all bets (along with my dignity) were off, and I became a lithping mathine thomewhat resthembling Thindy Brady. My teeth felt like they were about twice their normal size and five times their regular density, my face somehow felt like it was simultaneously made out of Play-Doh and a balloon, and I kept almost choking on my own tongue. By all accounts, it was not a very proud moment for me, but it was just so darn funny.
I got home and decided that it would be a good idea to take some ibuprofen before the numbness wore off, since having someone digging around in your gums is bound to result in some soreness later on. Drinking water proved a challenge, but that was easily solved by getting a drinking straw into the mix. Swallowing the ibuprofen was a little tougher, as I actually had to throw my head all the way back and let gravity do most of the work (whilst trying to prevent it from working on my tongue, which I was still apt to accidentally attempt to swallow). And now, an hour-and-a-half post-dentist (I took some time off in the middle of this post to google Harry Potter), I've got some feeling back in the very tip of my tongue but am definitely still numb everywhere else. The dentist said it would last about an hour but that it was different for everyone. I wonder how long it will last for me. It's been funny and everything, but I'd really like to eat some lunch without the danger of accidentally biting off a huge chunk of my own tongue.
The moral of the story here is, I suppose, is that if you don't mind giant syringes in your mouth, Novocaine is pretty amusing. If you'd rather avoid needles altogether, though, do yourself a favor and floss.
Tuesday, June 21, 2011
Work and Play
Today was day two of my being back at the Basket, and I remembered just how predictable it all is; in fact, that I was wondering how I was going to get through my six-hour shift tomorrow without dying of boredom. And then, BRILLIANCE (or a mildly amusing idea). Ladies and gentlemen, I give you...
MARKET BASKET BINGO
Note that:
Print this out. Bring it with you the next time you go to the supermarket. I dare you. You'll see just how (sadly) accurate it is. Oh. You'll see.
(click for full size)
Note that:
- "Adorable children" and "Horrible children" are right next to each other...making play more convenient when there are adorably horrible (or horribly adorable) children prancing about.
- You can score a Bingo using both "Boy, it's empty in here today!" and "Why is it so busy in here today?" You'd think they'd be mutually exclusive...but they're not.
- I will freely admit that there are many (mostly) good customers at Market Basket and that occasionally I actually (gasp!) sort of enjoy myself there. But such things do not make for good Bingo squares. (You know I'm right on this one.)
Print this out. Bring it with you the next time you go to the supermarket. I dare you. You'll see just how (sadly) accurate it is. Oh. You'll see.
Saturday, December 4, 2010
Abridged Timeline of my Finals Preparation
9:45 am: Wake up.
9:50 am: Realize that "the little tickle in my throat, probably from the room being too dry" is actually my second cold of the term.
10:45 am: Have roommate change my facebook password to help me avoid the temptation to procrastinate.
11 am: Errands
Noon: Research
1:45 pm: Take break from studying to watch roommate have a hilarious finals-induced breakdown centered around the word "punchy."
1:47 pm: Get camera to record the remainder of said mental breakdown.
2 pm: Work
2:45 pm: Realize that I missed yesterday's deadline for an important piece of financial aid paperwork. Call home to incoherently blubber apologies and beg for forgiveness.
3:25 pm: Go into hallway with roommate to send Slinky down the stairs.
3:26 pm: Stairs are too wide. Go in search of more suitable stairs.
3:28 pm: All stairs in building are too wide. Damn this grandiose dorm architecture.
3:30 pm: Build makeshift stairs out of books and boxes of cake mix for sole purpose of watching the Slinky walk down them
3:35 pm: Disassemble Slinky stairs, go back to doing more work
5:38 pm: Order Indian food
5:40 pm: Shower
6:38 pm: Food was supposed to be here 15 minutes ago.
6:39 pm: Food is here!
6:40 pm: Have awkward conversation in hallway with food delivery guy vis-à-vis how much I will be tipping him today (too much, considering the fact that he was late)
6:42 pm: Inhale naan and aloo mattar sitting sprawled out on the floor, since all table space is taken up with books, research materials, and empty cans of iced tea (not mine).
7:00 pm: "Time to get back to work!"
7:05 pm: Play "Eye of the Tiger" to psych self up
7:07 pm: Epic "Don't Stop Believin'"air-guitar/sing-along session with roommates
7:09 pm: Roommate's friend enters, is enticed to join in
7:10 pm: Okay, seriously, back to work.
8:30 pm: Sinking feeling that none of research is relevant to paper topic
9 pm: Nope. Not at all.
9:15 pm: Study break to cheer up!
9:45 pm: YOUTUBE!!!
9:55 pm: Back to work. For real.
10:19 pm: BLOG!!!
10:39 pm: Craaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaap, another 20 minutes wasted.
Did I mention this thing's due Monday?
I hate finals.
9:50 am: Realize that "the little tickle in my throat, probably from the room being too dry" is actually my second cold of the term.
10:45 am: Have roommate change my facebook password to help me avoid the temptation to procrastinate.
11 am: Errands
Noon: Research
1:45 pm: Take break from studying to watch roommate have a hilarious finals-induced breakdown centered around the word "punchy."
1:47 pm: Get camera to record the remainder of said mental breakdown.
2 pm: Work
2:45 pm: Realize that I missed yesterday's deadline for an important piece of financial aid paperwork. Call home to incoherently blubber apologies and beg for forgiveness.
3:25 pm: Go into hallway with roommate to send Slinky down the stairs.
3:26 pm: Stairs are too wide. Go in search of more suitable stairs.
3:28 pm: All stairs in building are too wide. Damn this grandiose dorm architecture.
3:30 pm: Build makeshift stairs out of books and boxes of cake mix for sole purpose of watching the Slinky walk down them
3:35 pm: Disassemble Slinky stairs, go back to doing more work
5:38 pm: Order Indian food
5:40 pm: Shower
6:38 pm: Food was supposed to be here 15 minutes ago.
6:39 pm: Food is here!
6:40 pm: Have awkward conversation in hallway with food delivery guy vis-à-vis how much I will be tipping him today (too much, considering the fact that he was late)
6:42 pm: Inhale naan and aloo mattar sitting sprawled out on the floor, since all table space is taken up with books, research materials, and empty cans of iced tea (not mine).
7:00 pm: "Time to get back to work!"
7:05 pm: Play "Eye of the Tiger" to psych self up
7:07 pm: Epic "Don't Stop Believin'"air-guitar/sing-along session with roommates
7:09 pm: Roommate's friend enters, is enticed to join in
7:10 pm: Okay, seriously, back to work.
8:30 pm: Sinking feeling that none of research is relevant to paper topic
9 pm: Nope. Not at all.
9:15 pm: Study break to cheer up!
9:45 pm: YOUTUBE!!!
9:55 pm: Back to work. For real.
10:19 pm: BLOG!!!
10:39 pm: Craaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaap, another 20 minutes wasted.
Did I mention this thing's due Monday?
I hate finals.
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