Seriously, when the weather gets good in Chicago, it just doesn’t get any better than this. Yeah, so the allergies kill you, but a person’s muscles need the heat, and it’s finally, finally, hot.
What’s on TV?
This morning I’m up a little late and a little groggy and shuffle off to the family room. Like many couples who believe that television in the bedroom is bad for a certain type of intimacy, we make it work to have to watch, and I have to negotiate stairs to find one. FD has brewed the coffee. He’s nowhere to be found.
The remote is mine.
Nothing like morning news teams.
Here’s the good news. ABC is having a contest to name the new Shedd Aquarioum beluga whale. Despite rumors that these creatures can and will eat their trainers (or is that another whale, help me here), the Shedd tells it like it is:
A beluga’s mouth is permanently upturned like a smile. It’s easy to connect with these sociable whales as they glide by in their Oceanarium pool: They might turn a curious gaze your way, crinkle their melons (foreheads) and whistle—or even spit a stream of water!
You can enter the contest at ABC if you have a good name for this little guy.
A good name is everything, really, which is why I’m still boggled at all the sex. Sex, sex, everywhere. It’s only Tuesday, but a quick sample of the kinds of things a person like me hears, rounding the weekend:
(1) men need Viagra, perceive that women need them that way, (nobody wants to work at anything anymore)
(2) fourteen year old kids need birth control,
(3) and the usual beef: I’m just not interested in sex, doctor.
Not to minimize, these are the concerns of the day, not depression, not anxiety. Mostly sex, which is fine, important, and very, very good for one’s mental health. Or bad, depending upon the context. That who, what, when, where and why, thing.
On the 6 am WGN news, it’s Sex in the City every day for a week, fashion shows and interviews with starlets.
I didn’t have time to catch the interview this morning, had to turn off the teev, blog about Law and Order.
Last night it was crunch time to book a fare to Atlanta. So nervous, I had to enter my credit card information five times (wish that were an exaggeration). All day, beat myself up for having waited too long. Chicago to Atlanta round trip should be, at worst, $189 on Airtran, and flights were running $217 each way! But FD promised me they would come down and my son texted me that sure enough they had, so there we are, scoring one of these more reasonable (thanks Airtran) flights, no longer staring at the screen, dejected.
When FD breezes through the front door and shouts, “Law and Order! Final episode!”
“I never recorded Law and Order,” I tell him, pretty sure he doesn’t know how to use the DVR-D.
“I did,” he brags.
“You’re my hero!”
So we book our trips, shut the browser, don’t look back, and settle into the final episode. Law and Order, in case you’ve been truly withdrawn or in solitary, is
the longest-running crime series and the second-longest-running drama series in the history of television, now in its 20th season on NBC.
And wouldn’t you know (serious spoilers coming up, stop reading now) the final show is about a blogger! Unfortunately, he makes bombs. But he’s discovered, lost his cover, because he blogs and has told all, vented on the Internet. It’s going to be epic, he tells us, his exit from the world.
He has also put up pictures of naked girls on his blog, his undoing. Somebody doesn’t like this, that a picture of his unclad teenage daughter is floating around cyberspace, and has reported it to the police.
No pics of the bombs and guns here, or the naked teenager, sorry. Cruise around, I’m sure you can find both someplace else, if you’re that interested.
Anyway, we learn that the bomber is a disgruntled teacher, not a gruntled student. This NYC teacher suffered disciplinary measures and to stay salaried while the case against him is under investigation, must spend 8 hours a day in “the rubber room.” Sort of like detention for teachers, but they do crossword puzzles while on the dole.
The injustice of this, confinement to the rubber room, ostensibly for minor indiscretions like ruffling a kid’s hair, or advising a kid, If you don’t study, you will be not rise above stupid, makes a professional angry. But most don’t leave the rubber room after a hard day of puzzles to make bombs to blow up their school. The mental health issue isn’t explored, unfortunately, there’s no time to really assess why anyone would do this. We assume, stress. But for all I know, I’ve bastardized the entire story line altogether while grabbing chips from the pantry.
I imagine that this is vengeance, and our bomber, Moot, has a severe case of one of the disorders in the DSM IV-TR, probably one that will be stricken from the DSM V, coming to us in a few more years. You’ll get a review soon. I’m in favor, is all I can say.
The issue of privacy is ascendant, that I get, in this last episode. Executive Assistant D. A. Michael Cutter has assembled a grand jury and is asking a crowded roomful of parents for permission to detain 2800 students, to interview them and scan their laptops for clues. Uh, uh, says the grand jury. In fact, we’d like you to ditch the entire inquiry altogether!
That’s not gonna’ happen. Finally, finally, Sam Waterston – District Attorney Jack McCoy, convinces a teacher to rat out the bomber. He is the best, Sam Waterson. Nobody will ever replace him in this type of role. Nobody. All of us want our sons to grow up to be just like Sam.
Meanwhile, we learn whether or not Lieutenant Anita Van Buren (S. Epatha Merkerson) either has a recurrence of her cancer, or is in remission. The docs are going to call her any minute to let us know.
And if you think I’m going to tell you, forget it. That would ruin everything.
Thirty Rock, and we’ll be finished.