Ohmigosh, but my life is just so busy and fabulous, that I don’t have time to write even a little teeny thing for you tonight!
Truth: Got home from work, stared at laptop for an hour. read some of “Shutter Island,” cursed self, stared at laptop for another hour, wrote a little, caught up on e-mail, talked on phone, had dinner, which brings us up to…now.
More truth: I spent much of today staring out the window and thinking about the essential weirdness of life. Yesterday morning there was a shooting in the Fort, a man found head-shot in the wee hours; he dies; police are investigating; autopsy pending, the usual boilerplate of a first-day homicide story. Our paper ran a picture of a crime-scene investigator taking close-up shots of a handgun found on the house’s roof. Yes, on the roof.
At midmorning, a call went out on the scanner announcing a staff meeting for everyone investigating the “60” of earlier today; a 60 is a homicide. So far, so routine.
Then, today, the follow: He shot himself, accidentally. The gun on the roof was unrelated and just, you know, an unrelated gun on the roof. (Have you checked your roof lately? You never know what you’ll find up there.) And while I was surprised, I also wasn’t surprised; lots of news doesn’t make sense, or makes the most banal kind of sense. People are killed not by Hannibal Lecter, crazed madman cannibal, but by their pissed-off ex-squeeze. A guy is shot, a gun found on his roof, and it turns out to be accidental and self-inflicted, and the gun on the roof was apparently dropped by a passing pigeon or something.
This is why I can’t watch “CSI” — it just doesn’t jibe with what I know about life. Needless to say, the crime-scene investigators I’ve seen in action on the witness stand and on the job are never as foxy as Marg Helgenberger, or William Peterson.
And yet, what was nominated for a Best Drama Emmy? “The Wire”? Nooooooo. “CSI.” I give up.