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!"

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.

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.

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:

“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.

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.

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

(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.

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.

Obsession of the Moment #1: The Library

After another long day of doing nothing productive, I have come to the following conclusion: The library is God's most magical gift to the world.

Well, you know, God or whatever deity you choose. The point is, the place is the bomb-diggity.

Last week Michelle and I started a weekly tradition wherein we go into town on Friday afternoons and spend time at the library before stopping at Dunkin' Donuts on the way back. We call it "Books and Beignets," although beignets may be too classy a term for goods that are obtained from a Dunkins located in a gas station convenience store.

Regardless, these outings (all two of them, thus far) are magical little forays away from the real world and into a world inhabited by people who are somehow way more interesting than you and I. Since I'm currently on a mystery-reading kick, my version of an interesting person is one who not only finds dead bodies strewn about in his/her immediate vicinity on a disturbingly regular basis, but who also manages to figure out without fail who did it and why. Every time.

The nice thing about reading is knowing that everything will come to a resolution at some point. I'm partial to happy endings myself, but even bummer endings are endings. No loose ends here, no siree. (If there were loose ends, chances are this thing wouldn't have gotten published.) If only life offered the same guarantee. (I mean, apart from the ULTIMATE ending, in which we all go to the big library in the sky.) But let's not get all philosophical here. Let's get back to the library, and why it is perhaps--nay, certainly--the best public institution there is.

First of all, it's FREE. What?! Free?! And legal?! Too much, too much. I mean, you could conceivably photocopy every book you ever borrow (although the legality of that is sort of questionable) and never pay for books again! (I feel like you'd run up a pretty hefty tab at Kinko's, though.) I love buying books, and I love filling my shelves with them, but I'm also a poor college student whose bank account averages about $40 from month to month. I can't go around buying books all willy-nilly. Plus, the last time I went on a book-buying expedition, two of the three were stinkers (and the third was a French-English dictionary, so it didn't really redeem the other two).

But with the library, there's no risk! No commitment! If it sucks, return it! If it doesn't suck, pretend you lost it and steal it for your personal collection! (Kidding. KIDDING.) I've discovered some of my favorite books and book series just by picking up random ones at the library, whereas when I go to the bookstore I usually have a very organized list of exactly what I'm looking for. (I'm not saying I don't get distracted, though.)

Second of all, the library is a freaking mystical repository for books that arguably "don't exist" anymore. What? Out of print for six years? Oh, hey, here it is on the shelf, just waiting for you. You're welcome.

Third: it's quiet. In bookstores, there's no guarantee, especially if there's a Starbucks or Seattle's Best Coffee smooshed in there somewhere. In the library, you might get shushed by the stereotypical cranky librarian, but dude, you probably deserved it. And that librarian is there to shush other people so you don't have to be "that bitch who told me to be quiet. Who does she think she is, anyway?" So you see, that librarian is actually taking the fall so you don't have to. Win.

Fourth, you can increase the size of your iTunes to the nth degree just by taking CDs out of the library. Again, this point is of somewhat dubious legality, but really, what can anyone do about it? And it's not like you're going to go out and actually buy "Christmas with the Brady Bunch," but damn if you don't want that crazy clan to serenade you during the holidays. Don't even deny it.

Fifth, you get to watch movies. For free. Without Chinese/Russian/Japanese subtitles and without Megavideo cutting you off. Score.

Sixth, and this is perhaps THE most magical thing: you get to put things on hold. No, really, think about it. It is the grown-up, tax-dollar-funded method of calling dibs. No need to sit around for weeks waiting for the object of your desire to become available; just slap a hold on that sucker and you get priority over all the other schmucks that want it. If only dating worked like this, life would be sooo much simpler.

In fact, my only complaint about the library is that they don't let me live there.

Pity.

All I wanted was soup, not the third degree

Ahhhh, election day.


Now let me preface the rest of this entry with the fact that I believe in one's civic duty to schlep out to the polls; my facebook political views are "People should vote," and I complain on a fairly regular basis about people who don't vote but complain about the state of the government. "If you didn't vote," I say (to my patiently-listening friends, not to the actual vote-shirkers), "what are you complaining about? You had your chance to change things and you didn't take it."


Now let me say this: I am not the most politically informed person. Don't ask me who's running for Congress in the state of New Hampshire today, because I don't know. Something that begins with a K. Kushman? Kuster? Who knows? I'm guessing s/he is a Democrat, though, since the majority of the college's "honk if you agree" sign-holders seem to be holding signs with his/her name on them.



Don't get me wrong, if a hot button election issue comes into my realm of knowledge, I'll know which side I stand on. And if I know what different candidates stand for, too, I can come up with a pretty good idea of who I'll support. But the problem is that it's just so HARD in modern American politics to tell what the issues actually are and who stands for what, considering that most political candidates spend most of their time spouting off things like, "My opponent eats babies. I have never eaten and will never eat a baby. Vote for me." And then when you ask them, "What do you stand for, though?" they generally respond with something like, "I'll tell you what I DON'T stand for: BABY-EATING," which is not exactly helpful or enlightening.



What needs to happen is at the beginning of each campaign season, each candidate releases a list of things that they do and do not stand for. Or, you know what, given the flip-flopping nature of politicians, maybe this should be more of a Venn diagram: "Things I Stand For" on one side, "Things I Don't Stand For" on the other, and "Things I'll Change My Mind About Based On What My Opponent Does or Does Not Stand For" taking up the middle.


The point I'm trying (and failing?) to make here is that I am pathetically uninformed about this particular election, and in my mind voting blindly is worse than not voting at all, as I could end up accidentally voting for a baby-eater or something. And I don't believe in just voting along party lines. (I'm an Independent anyway.)


All of this means that I've spent the day divided between feeling guilty at shirking my patriotic duty and pissed at the political activists who are hounding me about it. As I ran to class (late for my quiz), someone with a sign shouted, "Hey! Are you running TO THE POLLS?!" which frankly was not as funny as the other sign-holders seemed to think it was and made me, in my already cranky mood, want to reply, "It's none of your damn business where I'm going."


So when I had to walk into Collis to get lunch later I had to brace myself and brave the activists who had stationed themselves between me and the one thing (a giant bowl of soup) that would keep me from descending into a hunger-induced streak of madness. I'd almost made it to the door without incident, which was somewhat disappointing since I was actually craving some confrontation (like I said, I'm cranky today). But as I was heading up the stairs, a girl yelled to me, "Hey! Have you voted today?"


Politeness (cowardice?) won out, and I answered, "No, not today."


"But today's the only day when it's going to make a difference!" she said.


"I know," I said, but what I really wanted to do was stop, stare at her for a minute in mock disbelief, and then exclaim, "So THAT'S how voting works?!" before heading off on my not-so-merry way.


I want to make this clear, though: I honestly believe people should vote. I'm not planning on making a habit out of not voting. But I also think it's out of line for people, particularly strangers, to question you as to why. It's a personal thing. Maybe I'm not a US Citizen. Maybe I'm not old enough to vote. Maybe I've already voted but I just don't want to have a conversation about it with some rando on the street. Maybe I'm lazy. The reasons don't matter. The bottom line is that this aspect of politics is a personal decision, and my feelings toward people who badger me about it are about on par with people who ask me if I've accepted Jesus Christ as my personal savior.


So for the rest of the day, I am going to "be a Canadian." God bless Canadians and the fact that they're virtually indistinguishable from Americans unless they're a.) playing us in a game of hockey or b.) apologizing for something ("soor-y!").


And I am not going to feel guilty about not voting. I am going to put on a happy face and attend all my commitments - class, work, rehearsal - despite the fact that I haven't had an hour to myself for days, I desperately need to catch up on schoolwork, and I don't feel well. And in my one hour (literally) of free time, I am going to eat dinner, take some Advil, and lie down. I am making an executive decision to take care of myself first.


And that's my right as an American. So there.

My mind is a pretty weird place.

English notes 10/22

The Canterbury Tales: The Wife of Bath's Tale
Wife is actively trying to find her voice
- But she is forced almost necessarily to draw on all the preexisting discourses that shape her because that's the language she has at her disposal
- Has to give a sermon in defense of her idea of marriage

Turns around one of the fundamental tropes of antifeminism by accusing her husbands of lecturing her when she's drunk (it's all a lie, though).

Wife as proto-capitalist subject --> understands her life and position in the world as fundamentally economic and based on consumption

• She desires because she lacks, and she lacks because there's been a "cut" of some kind (symbolic castration)

Prologue, line 509: Middle English "glose" = gloss, interpret. Her fifth husband knows how to read her/interpret her, and that's why she's attracted to him

DAMN IT, IT IS SNOWING OUT. WE ARE DIGRESSING ABOUT THE SNOW. I AM WEARING LEGGINGS AND A CARDIGAN.
oh, no, wait. it's stopped. thank the lord.

but SERIOUSLY. there are still leaves on the trees.

okay, back to work.

but it was just so FUNNY. an entire room full of people got distracted and prof was like, 'what?' and someone said, 'snow,' and he went, 'oh, well, you know. new england.' and then told us how when he moved here from LA he thought snow was "volcanic ash falling from the sky." ha.

NO, IT IS STILL GOING. WRONG WRONG WRONG WRONG WRONG. bad hanover. bad. snow is only pretty between thanksgiving and new year's. everyone knows that. except skiiers. but they're crazy. they strap sticks to their feet and whiz downhill at speeds that no unaided human should ever achieve. crazy. we shouldn't use them as our authorities on desirable weather.

i can practically hear this snow taunting me. "wee-hee, i'm a little snowflake, i'm here a month early! not for any real reason, since i'm not even going to bother to accumulate, i'm only here to freak you the hell out about how it's almost winter and another year is gone by and you're still broke, single, and lacking definitive direction in life! tee-frickin'-hee! aren't i adorable?!"

no, snow, i hate you. with your stupid mickey-mouse-y voice and the taunting way in which you swirl outside, as if you're circling me going, "c'mon, take your best shot. oh-oh-OHHHH, missed me, suckaaaa! i'm SNOW, BITCH. y'all can't touch this!"

whew. coast is clear. yes. a good long stare out the window has proven that the sky is barren. ha-HA, sky. HA. HA.


language of choice = attribution of sovereignty to old hag that rewards knight's fantasies ROGUE FLAKE SPOTTED. okay. we're good. we're good. that's right, RUN AWAY! i will break out my roommate's hair dryer and BLOW DRY you, fools! y'all will MELT!
--> tale consists of wife's fundamental fantasy: man listens to his wife, and then she gets to be young and beautiful again.

male fantasy rather than female fantasy? --> why does a wife who is both true and beautiful have to be a fantasy at all?

possible sighting: it was either a distant leaf falling or a close up snow flake. i'm gonna go with leaf for my own sanity.

?!?!?!?!

Conversations with Sleeping People

I'm back, reporting to you from the top bunk of the room I share with three other women. Yeah. Things are getting real up in here. As my example of things getting real, I was going to complain in great detail about how I never sleep straight through the night anymore, as my roommates all wake up at least an hour earlier than I do every day (the particularly ambitious among them waking up a full FOUR HOURS before me, at four-thirty in the morning), but I was just afforded a much better opportunity to demonstrate "things getting real," completely by chance. You probably won't find it as amusing as I do, but whatever.

I present to you the conversation I just had with Madison, who has been peacefully sleeping on the top bunk opposite mine for at least two hours. She inexplicably stirred, opened her eyes, glared around the room, and wrinkled her brow in some form of half-asleep disdain, possibly (understandably) for my table lamp, which actually performs well beyond the call of duty and lights the entire room rather than just the immediately surrounding area. I happen to like this, as it's placed at the foot of my bed. (Top bunk sort of limits your options in terms of bedside table placement, and my "bedside table" is a bookshelf stacked on top of my desk. Yes, I do have to climb over my desk in order to hoist myself up onto the ladder to my bed. But I digress.) I have a feeling my roommates don't like my super-bright lamp as much as I do, especially when it's on as they're trying to sleep.

Anyway, Madison woke up, cast a bewildered and disparaging look around the room, then made eye contact with me. We then proceeded to have the following exchange.

Me: What's the matter?
Madison (long pause): Weird.
Me: ...
Madison (repositioning her blankets): Ouch.
Me: What's the matter?
Madison: What?
Me: You said "weird."
Madison: Yeah.

That was it. End of conversation.

And this, I think, is the most amusing part of things getting real. When you share a room with other people, the best part is probably the half-asleep (or fully asleep) conversations that just have a way of occurring. Sometimes they're variations on a theme; I'm fairly certain Madison and I have had several versions of the following exchange as I walk into the room when she's already asleep.

Madison: Hey, baby.
Me: Go back to sleep.
Madison: Okay.

And she always immediately just lies back down and goes to sleep. Oh, that I could wield that kind of power over the fully conscious. Creepy? Perhaps. Useful? Most definitely.

I can't say as I'm innocent of having ridiculous half-asleep conversations. I had this one with Michelle last night at approximately 2:47 am, at which point I had been asleep for roughly two hours.

Me: Two-forty-seven.
Michelle: Yeah, I just got home.
Me: Two-forty-seven.
Michelle: Yes, it's two-forty-seven.
Me: Hm. Hmmmm.
Michelle: ...
Me: Bathroom.

I then proceeded to walk to the bathroom, take care of business, and return to bed. Michelle has enjoyed telling this story to our roommates, casting me in the role of Crazy Sleep Talker, but I maintain that everything I said made perfect sense, so long as you were in my head. Because although I only said a few words, the inner monologue filling in the spaces went something like this:

"What? Someone just got home. What time is it? I can't see a damn thing without my glasses. I could just put them on, but they're all the way down at the foot of my bed. No, I can kind of see Madison's alarm clock from here. What does that say? If I really squint, it looks like two-forty-seven. Oh, okay. It definitely says two-forty-seven. Now, wait, why am I still awake? Hm. Well, Michelle coming in woke me up, but why haven't I fallen back asleep yet? Hmmmm. Oh. I need to use the bathroom. That's it. Okay."

See? It makes total sense.

And now I really need to get myself to sleep for real, as I am exhausted from a busy week, I have a busy weekend ahead of me, and it is almost 1:30 in the morning and I want to be up at 9:30. So I'm off to bed, but I will leave you with this quote from two drunk girls walking on Mass Row, aka the pedestrian street outside my window, for those of you not familiar with my lovely college campus. (And in case you non-Dartmouth folks were wondering: "Foco" = "Food Court.")

"WE'RE GOING TO FOCO! ARE YOU GUYS GOING TO FOCO?"
"You guys, I don't need to eat!!!"