Last summer, just before we were off on our 25th wedding anniversary trip to New York, I started watching CSI:NY. I did it to remind myself of the places we were about to visit, and when we came back I started watching it again so I that I could bore the Tinkids rigid by pausing it, calling them and saying, “see that park/alley/dumpster? We walked past that.”
And I’ve stuck with watching it, even though the dialogue is as clichéd as a crooked politician and the acting is so wooden that it could carry two animals of every type upon it. I still watch it because the plots are often quite clever and the denouement can be quite surprising.
Last night I watched an episode that I taped about a week ago. In it the vic (the word “victim” apparently takes too long for a busy CSI cop to say) was found stabbed in his apartment (slayed in Manhattan, as the film almost says) and the team got to work.
Part of this work involves a tox screen (the word “toxicology” etc, etc) and this revealed that our dead friend had Clonazepam in his system. This sounded familiar so I went to the kitchen shelf where I keep what we refer to as “my stash”, the four different drugs that fight (possibly with each other) to keep me less loopy than I would otherwise be. Sure enough, there my Clonazepams sat proudly in their little bottle, complete with the label warning me to avoid alcohol, drowsiness and heavy machinery. I went back to the TV.
Imagine the joy of the makers of Clonazepam at all this free advertising on one of the US’s top programs. It was the equivalent of Bart Simpson saying “eat my shorts, and also these delicious Crunchy Nut Cornflakes.” I was happy that they were getting the publicity they deserved as I sat waiting to see the CSI crew avenge my fellow depression sufferer, a brother Clonazeponian with whom I was feeling a deep special bond. I was keenly looking forward to them catching his dastardly killer.
I’m reluctant to spoil the ending for those of you who might one day see the episode, but my story will be a little pointless if I don’t, so here goes.
There was no killer. The vic wasn’t murdered at all. He made it look like he had been, to spare his mother’s feelings, but in fact he had stabbed himself.
Because of his depression.
This sudden twist must have been like the twist of a knife in the hearts of the makers of Clonazepam. It certainly didn’t improve my mood either.
I would have taken my anti-depressants, except it appears that they don’t work.