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.
“What’s Clonazepam?” Gary Sinise was asking. “It’s used as an anti-depressant and an anti-anxiety drug,” said his know-it-all new partner. “Amen to that,” I said 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.
Worth Doing Badly 
Clearly the vic was not taking his medication according to his doctor’s orders – unless he had a *really* bad doctor. You should write an alternate, more compelling ending for the episode. And don’t forget to include one of the scenic dumpsters.
Ha. Just think there’s no such thing as bad publicity, and also it was fiction.
Oops!
Our little folk hunted out pics of our trip (before them) to NY 11 years ago. I think they were a bit awed that we have photos of random NY street scenes more commonly seen on the Disney Channel 🙂
It’s funny how we love to see our own lives on tv- I watch loads of medical programmes (only the fictional ones; who wants to see real blood?) and get all excited any time they have a neurology patient. Then the diagnosis is ALWAYS Alzheimers, just as I’m waiting for them to do my mum’s condition. Pah! Turns out depressing degenerative conditions don’t make for good tv. Who knew?
That’ll be why they do the plot twist!
You’re like my husband, who yells every time one plane is shown taking off and another one landing.
Hum. Well, they do say that Prozac users have been prone to suicide on the drug because it gives them the lift they needed to finally feel strong enough to commit suicide. Maybe it’s the same thing. I find it hard to imagine anyone stabbing themselves to death, somehow.