So, as luck would have it, I arrived to class tonight and there was no sign of Sarah. Turns out she had to drop out of training for some reason. I was initially gleeful, and then I put together the fact that I think she dropped out because of a death in the family. I don't wish that on anyone, no matter how annoying they are. So for that reason, I wish she were still in class.
Besides, tonight's stuff was so emotionally draining that I don't think I could have mustered up any outrage at your garden-variety pompous intellectual. We spent three hours talking in detail about violence against women, stalking, and sexual assault. There was no smirking, and a few times it took all of my energy and focus not to bust out in tears in front of a room full of strangers. It also occurred to me that these sessions are probably a large contributor to why I've been having trouble sleeping the past few nights. I don't know how people work in these areas as a full time job -- my hat is off to them.
Wednesday, January 30, 2008
Tuesday, January 29, 2008
What Socrates Was Trying To Say...
It's been a hyper-hypo kind of week for me, and I've been spending a lot of time thinking. Thinking about a job I want, thinking about my plan not to get diabetes (and how many points are in leftover bag of Reese's Pieces), thinking about how I really should get around to cleaning my kitchen, etc. Lots of thinking.
But not so much talking. This is the downside of spending time at home. You spend lots of time in your head, and much less time talking to other people. This is why I'm so happy these days when I make plans to meet up with friends for a beer -- or even meet a nice little old lady at the deli counter of the local Giant. I'm psyched to talk to people.
So you can imagine how happy I am now that I started volunteering for a local organization. I signed up last month to work with a domestic violence organization down at the DC Courthouse, and training just started last night. The amount of training is pretty impressive -- we're meeting for about 40 hours over the next two weeks to talk in depth about domestic violence and what we'll be doing as volunteers.
I've done some of this work before and found it really rewarding, so it's nice to be able to help out once again. And on a selfish level, it's been great just to have the opportunity to talk to people. And not just about which brand of turkey lunchmeat is best...but real issues that matter to people. (That's not to say turkey isn't important, just not as important as other things.)
The people running the training are fantastic. After five years of working with many, many neurotic type-A overachievers -- myself included -- it's a nice change of pace to be hanging out with the touchy-feely non-profit crowd. So far, two women have been running things, and it's a wonderful, nurturing environment. (Unlike at prior jobs, I suspect I would get bonus points for crying.) I mean, the first day we made up our own rules about how the training would run. It's such a collective and inclusive experience. I love it.
That is, until Sarah showed up. (Names have been changed to protect the so-called innocents.) Anyway, this Sarah lady missed yesterday's session, and showed up today all apologetic. And claimed the chair right next to me. I knew she was bad news almost right away from the way she reacted when I offered her my pen to fill out some sign-in sheet. There was just way too much talking for what should have been an ordinary, run of the mill, social transaction.
It turns out that after the pen incident, Sarah didn't shut up for the rest of the training session. In fact, we didn't end up finishing everything we were supposed to cover today, and I blame Sarah. Turns out she's a grad student, with some sort of social work background, although I think she may be in grad school for International Studies. So who knows. Anyway, she talked pretty much every chance she could.
Sarah prefaced her first 3-minute, multi-part question with the phrase "I know this really doesn't have anything to do with what we're supposed to be doing as volunteers, but..." My reaction was: WTF? I mean, if you know it has nothing to do with anything we're doing, then why are you asking...other than to hear yourself talk and/or show off how supposedly smart you are. (I thought that just happened in law school.)
About thirty minutes into the training, I was pretty close to my limit. For a brief moment, I decided it was my fault that she was talking so much -- after all, when we made our rules the day before, I came up with "No Question is Too Stupid." Stupid, stupid, stupid rule. How could I let myself get so touchy-feely and suggest that no question is stupid. Clearly -- CLEARLY -- that's wrong. But wait -- she missed hearing the rules because she wasn't there, so it's not my fault that she's asking stupid questions.
After about an hour, things got worse. I was having a difficult time hiding my disgust with all the inane questions and grandstanding. At first, I was just rolling my eyes and giving some pointed looks to one of the instructors to see if she agreed with me about the inanity of it all. (I'm convinced she did agree.) But after not too long, I found myself talking a lot just to try and keep her from talking.
And then, the coupe de grace. The words "Well, I think if you look to Freud -- " were barely out of Sarah's mouth before I fell apart. I nearly laughed out loud at how ridiculous she was, but I decided laughing would be in poor taste, particularly since it was a discussion about domestic violence and really horrible stuff. (Not that I was really paying attention any more, so strong was my dislike of this grad student.) Anyway, I suppressed my laugh the best I could, but I was still left with a smirk. A smirk. At a domestic violence training class. Full of touchy-feely people. And possibly some domestic violence victims.
So I ask you this: What's worse? The blowhard grad student who can't stop talking about Freud. Or, the lawyer who is smirking through a discussion about domestic violence -- and who also can't stop talking.
Not good, my friends. Not good at all.
But not so much talking. This is the downside of spending time at home. You spend lots of time in your head, and much less time talking to other people. This is why I'm so happy these days when I make plans to meet up with friends for a beer -- or even meet a nice little old lady at the deli counter of the local Giant. I'm psyched to talk to people.
So you can imagine how happy I am now that I started volunteering for a local organization. I signed up last month to work with a domestic violence organization down at the DC Courthouse, and training just started last night. The amount of training is pretty impressive -- we're meeting for about 40 hours over the next two weeks to talk in depth about domestic violence and what we'll be doing as volunteers.
I've done some of this work before and found it really rewarding, so it's nice to be able to help out once again. And on a selfish level, it's been great just to have the opportunity to talk to people. And not just about which brand of turkey lunchmeat is best...but real issues that matter to people. (That's not to say turkey isn't important, just not as important as other things.)
The people running the training are fantastic. After five years of working with many, many neurotic type-A overachievers -- myself included -- it's a nice change of pace to be hanging out with the touchy-feely non-profit crowd. So far, two women have been running things, and it's a wonderful, nurturing environment. (Unlike at prior jobs, I suspect I would get bonus points for crying.) I mean, the first day we made up our own rules about how the training would run. It's such a collective and inclusive experience. I love it.
That is, until Sarah showed up. (Names have been changed to protect the so-called innocents.) Anyway, this Sarah lady missed yesterday's session, and showed up today all apologetic. And claimed the chair right next to me. I knew she was bad news almost right away from the way she reacted when I offered her my pen to fill out some sign-in sheet. There was just way too much talking for what should have been an ordinary, run of the mill, social transaction.
It turns out that after the pen incident, Sarah didn't shut up for the rest of the training session. In fact, we didn't end up finishing everything we were supposed to cover today, and I blame Sarah. Turns out she's a grad student, with some sort of social work background, although I think she may be in grad school for International Studies. So who knows. Anyway, she talked pretty much every chance she could.
Sarah prefaced her first 3-minute, multi-part question with the phrase "I know this really doesn't have anything to do with what we're supposed to be doing as volunteers, but..." My reaction was: WTF? I mean, if you know it has nothing to do with anything we're doing, then why are you asking...other than to hear yourself talk and/or show off how supposedly smart you are. (I thought that just happened in law school.)
About thirty minutes into the training, I was pretty close to my limit. For a brief moment, I decided it was my fault that she was talking so much -- after all, when we made our rules the day before, I came up with "No Question is Too Stupid." Stupid, stupid, stupid rule. How could I let myself get so touchy-feely and suggest that no question is stupid. Clearly -- CLEARLY -- that's wrong. But wait -- she missed hearing the rules because she wasn't there, so it's not my fault that she's asking stupid questions.
After about an hour, things got worse. I was having a difficult time hiding my disgust with all the inane questions and grandstanding. At first, I was just rolling my eyes and giving some pointed looks to one of the instructors to see if she agreed with me about the inanity of it all. (I'm convinced she did agree.) But after not too long, I found myself talking a lot just to try and keep her from talking.
And then, the coupe de grace. The words "Well, I think if you look to Freud -- " were barely out of Sarah's mouth before I fell apart. I nearly laughed out loud at how ridiculous she was, but I decided laughing would be in poor taste, particularly since it was a discussion about domestic violence and really horrible stuff. (Not that I was really paying attention any more, so strong was my dislike of this grad student.) Anyway, I suppressed my laugh the best I could, but I was still left with a smirk. A smirk. At a domestic violence training class. Full of touchy-feely people. And possibly some domestic violence victims.
So I ask you this: What's worse? The blowhard grad student who can't stop talking about Freud. Or, the lawyer who is smirking through a discussion about domestic violence -- and who also can't stop talking.
Not good, my friends. Not good at all.
Thursday, January 24, 2008
Badly Done, Comcast. Badly Done.
There are about 100 other things I should be doing right now, like finding employment or cleaning my apartment or moisturizing. But instead, I'm obsessed with my TIVO, which has recently fallen ill. It won't download any programming, and I'm distraught at the idea of having to part ways with my TIVO, now five years old.
I'm convinced the very evil Comcast is somehow behind this newest problem. They want everyone to switch over to their brand of DVR (at $14.00 a month). So, they have made it extremely difficult to get the TIVO working with their cable boxes. I knew about these problems before I moved to the district, and almost considered living in VA or elsewhere just so I could carry-on with my TIVO.
Fortunately, I think I have figured out a way to fix my TIVO, and am heading out shortly to Radio Shack to buy the doohickeys I need. In the meantime, I'm trying to figure out how to initiate an antitrust investigation -- based on hunches and conjecture -- into the oppressive ways of the Comcast overlords.
I'm convinced the very evil Comcast is somehow behind this newest problem. They want everyone to switch over to their brand of DVR (at $14.00 a month). So, they have made it extremely difficult to get the TIVO working with their cable boxes. I knew about these problems before I moved to the district, and almost considered living in VA or elsewhere just so I could carry-on with my TIVO.
Fortunately, I think I have figured out a way to fix my TIVO, and am heading out shortly to Radio Shack to buy the doohickeys I need. In the meantime, I'm trying to figure out how to initiate an antitrust investigation -- based on hunches and conjecture -- into the oppressive ways of the Comcast overlords.
Thursday, January 17, 2008
Deliver Me From Evil
There a lot of things I love about DC, and I'm glad to be back. But, there's one thing I seriously miss from NYC -- delivery.
In New York -- even in the outer boroughs -- you can get anything delivered. Not just pizza. Any place. Dinner? Sure -- pretty much every restaurant. Cigarettes? If that's your thing, the bodegas will deliver them, along with a container of milk, two ferrer rochers, and a gatorade. Groceries for a party of 10? Absolutely, and Fresh Direct will even give you $25 to spend on artisan cheese with your first order.
Delivery is fantastic on a cold sleety night like tonight. Or, if you are sick with stomach flu and can't muster up the energy to leave your apartment, you simply call up the bodega and they will bring you advil, ginger ale, a box of tissues, and a sammich. It's awesome.
The DC delivery situation is far worse than when I last lived here, though. When I left DC, you could order movies, CDs, ice cream and magazine from your friendly Kozmo.com. The guys showed up within an hour, carrying your items in a bright orange messenger bag. I can't say that I recall much about ordering any food, because I think I had no money and rarely bothered to think about delivery beyond ordering ben & jerry's and coke while studying for the bar. These days, Kozmo is a remnant of the wacky dot.com era, with no replacement. As for food, it seems like pizza is the only thing you can have delivered, although I am working on finding a good thai place. This is surprising to me, since I live in Adams Morgan, where good (or at least interesting) restaurants are plentiful.
I suppose DC just isn't a delivery town the way NYC is. Which, shouldn't be surprising since DC has a slower vibe. Who needs delivery when you have a chill lifestyle that allows you time to cook and grocery shop? And overall, I appreciate the change of pace. But some nights, when you are physically exhausted and the weather sux, it would be great to be able to order some delivery dinner and a People magazine.
In New York -- even in the outer boroughs -- you can get anything delivered. Not just pizza. Any place. Dinner? Sure -- pretty much every restaurant. Cigarettes? If that's your thing, the bodegas will deliver them, along with a container of milk, two ferrer rochers, and a gatorade. Groceries for a party of 10? Absolutely, and Fresh Direct will even give you $25 to spend on artisan cheese with your first order.
Delivery is fantastic on a cold sleety night like tonight. Or, if you are sick with stomach flu and can't muster up the energy to leave your apartment, you simply call up the bodega and they will bring you advil, ginger ale, a box of tissues, and a sammich. It's awesome.
The DC delivery situation is far worse than when I last lived here, though. When I left DC, you could order movies, CDs, ice cream and magazine from your friendly Kozmo.com. The guys showed up within an hour, carrying your items in a bright orange messenger bag. I can't say that I recall much about ordering any food, because I think I had no money and rarely bothered to think about delivery beyond ordering ben & jerry's and coke while studying for the bar. These days, Kozmo is a remnant of the wacky dot.com era, with no replacement. As for food, it seems like pizza is the only thing you can have delivered, although I am working on finding a good thai place. This is surprising to me, since I live in Adams Morgan, where good (or at least interesting) restaurants are plentiful.
I suppose DC just isn't a delivery town the way NYC is. Which, shouldn't be surprising since DC has a slower vibe. Who needs delivery when you have a chill lifestyle that allows you time to cook and grocery shop? And overall, I appreciate the change of pace. But some nights, when you are physically exhausted and the weather sux, it would be great to be able to order some delivery dinner and a People magazine.
Monday, January 14, 2008
And Right Here is Where You Start Paying...In Sweat
The last time I lived in DC -- make that, the last time I lived in the same apartment building in DC -- I used to frequent the brand-spanking new Washington Sports Club down the street in the Northern end of Dupont Circle. It was a good club, with lots of fun classes. My favorite at the time was a Step class taught by one Andre. Andre was Cuban-American, seemingly gay, and wholly awesome. The class had catchy new wave music, and Andre used to sing along, in between instructions on what to do next and shouts of encouragement. I can still remember it all like it was yesterday.
For the uninitiated, a step class -- formally, step aerobics class -- involves stepping up and down on a box in time to the music. Stepping up and down doesn't sound hard, and well, it isn't. The tricky part is when overambitious instructors start to add spins and hops and stuff like that. So it's almost like dancing, but not that technically difficult.
Stepping has fallen out of favor in recent years. It was popular in the early 90's, an exercise era best defined as "Post-Fonda, Pre-everyone-and-their-brother-decides-to-run-a-marathon." In fact, by the time I was attending Andre's class, it was probably already passe. But I liked it, and it worked, and eventually I moved on to spinning and even signed up for a half marathon (which I neither trained for nor attended). And I haven't looked back.
So it was with a wisp of nostalgia that I found myself this evening, heading off to a step class at that very same Washington Sports Club, secretly hoping that against all odds, Andre was still teaching there some 10 years later. The class was one of two step classes on the schedule, and it's now actually called "Ultimate Step." I figured that the "Ultimate" was just a marketing gimmick designed for the Gen-Y exerciser, sort of like "Extreme Doritos," the chip for the Gen-Y couch potato.
I anxiously waited outside the studio for class to start and made small talk with a few fellow exercisers. I asked two young, and very athletic girls whether the class was hard, my one nod to the "ultimate" nature of the description. I expected them to tell me it was fine, and I would be fine. But no. Both of them hesitated a moment and said "Well, yeah. It's really hard."
I went in anyway, figuring how hard could it be? Right next to me was a 70-year-old woman, and in front of her was a guy I would bet used to be a marine. I mean, a marine may be able to run a marathon, but he wouldn't be here if the choreography was complicated.
I could not have been more wrong. The class turned out to be chock full of dance moves, and worthy of its "ultimate" title. I couldn't keep up.
The fact that the 70-year-old woman was wearing a thong leotard (with leggings underneath) should have been the tip-off that something was erroneous with my logic. This woman could dance. Five minutes into the class, it was clear I was in trouble, but she was like a candidate for the next season of Dancing With the [Septuagenarian] Stars. She was good.
Meanwhile, I was sure that with all the fancy dance moves, the ex-Marine would be floundering with me. But I looked over, and he was doing fine. More than fine. Wait a minute -- did he just execute a perfect kick-ball-change when the instructor called one out of the blue? For realz. I kid you not. At that moment, I was sure of two things: (1) They must be teaching something new in boot camp these days; and (2) I was toast.
The class only got worse after that. I resorted to marching in place, while pretending to study the moves of everyone around me. Fortunately, I wasn't huffing and puffing for breath, so that wasn't embarrassing. Just the fact that I was bright red and marching in place, while everyone else was twirling and stepping and everything else.
But then, about ten minutes before the end of class, something fell into place. I was starting to get it. Well, not all of it. But a good 20 percent, and at least my marching in place was in time to the beat. I no longer felt like a chubby and awkward 30-something novice exerciser. At that moment, I was long and lean and powerful. I felt that the Ghosts of Fitness Past -- including Andre, Jane Fonda, and Debbie Allen during her speech at the beginning of Fame -- were looking after me as I arabesqued effortlessly onto the step.
At that moment, I felt capable of doing anything. I could run a triathlon. I could climb Mount Everest. I could lift a car with my bare hands. I could even figure out all the things wrong in those pictures where six things are different than the other picture. It was perfection.
. . . And then the moment passed. Somehow I forgot the few things I thought I had just mastered, and found myself so tired that I couldn't even march in place anymore. So I just stood there kind of bopping my head to the music for the rest of class. Oh, and I started coughing uncontrollably because some water I drank went down the wrong tube, thus causing the few people who weren't already giggling about my performance to turn and look at me.
But that one moment. . . that one ultimate moment. It's enough to make me go back next week.
For the uninitiated, a step class -- formally, step aerobics class -- involves stepping up and down on a box in time to the music. Stepping up and down doesn't sound hard, and well, it isn't. The tricky part is when overambitious instructors start to add spins and hops and stuff like that. So it's almost like dancing, but not that technically difficult.
Stepping has fallen out of favor in recent years. It was popular in the early 90's, an exercise era best defined as "Post-Fonda, Pre-everyone-and-their-brother-decides-to-run-a-marathon." In fact, by the time I was attending Andre's class, it was probably already passe. But I liked it, and it worked, and eventually I moved on to spinning and even signed up for a half marathon (which I neither trained for nor attended). And I haven't looked back.
So it was with a wisp of nostalgia that I found myself this evening, heading off to a step class at that very same Washington Sports Club, secretly hoping that against all odds, Andre was still teaching there some 10 years later. The class was one of two step classes on the schedule, and it's now actually called "Ultimate Step." I figured that the "Ultimate" was just a marketing gimmick designed for the Gen-Y exerciser, sort of like "Extreme Doritos," the chip for the Gen-Y couch potato.
I anxiously waited outside the studio for class to start and made small talk with a few fellow exercisers. I asked two young, and very athletic girls whether the class was hard, my one nod to the "ultimate" nature of the description. I expected them to tell me it was fine, and I would be fine. But no. Both of them hesitated a moment and said "Well, yeah. It's really hard."
I went in anyway, figuring how hard could it be? Right next to me was a 70-year-old woman, and in front of her was a guy I would bet used to be a marine. I mean, a marine may be able to run a marathon, but he wouldn't be here if the choreography was complicated.
I could not have been more wrong. The class turned out to be chock full of dance moves, and worthy of its "ultimate" title. I couldn't keep up.
The fact that the 70-year-old woman was wearing a thong leotard (with leggings underneath) should have been the tip-off that something was erroneous with my logic. This woman could dance. Five minutes into the class, it was clear I was in trouble, but she was like a candidate for the next season of Dancing With the [Septuagenarian] Stars. She was good.
Meanwhile, I was sure that with all the fancy dance moves, the ex-Marine would be floundering with me. But I looked over, and he was doing fine. More than fine. Wait a minute -- did he just execute a perfect kick-ball-change when the instructor called one out of the blue? For realz. I kid you not. At that moment, I was sure of two things: (1) They must be teaching something new in boot camp these days; and (2) I was toast.
The class only got worse after that. I resorted to marching in place, while pretending to study the moves of everyone around me. Fortunately, I wasn't huffing and puffing for breath, so that wasn't embarrassing. Just the fact that I was bright red and marching in place, while everyone else was twirling and stepping and everything else.
But then, about ten minutes before the end of class, something fell into place. I was starting to get it. Well, not all of it. But a good 20 percent, and at least my marching in place was in time to the beat. I no longer felt like a chubby and awkward 30-something novice exerciser. At that moment, I was long and lean and powerful. I felt that the Ghosts of Fitness Past -- including Andre, Jane Fonda, and Debbie Allen during her speech at the beginning of Fame -- were looking after me as I arabesqued effortlessly onto the step.
At that moment, I felt capable of doing anything. I could run a triathlon. I could climb Mount Everest. I could lift a car with my bare hands. I could even figure out all the things wrong in those pictures where six things are different than the other picture. It was perfection.
. . . And then the moment passed. Somehow I forgot the few things I thought I had just mastered, and found myself so tired that I couldn't even march in place anymore. So I just stood there kind of bopping my head to the music for the rest of class. Oh, and I started coughing uncontrollably because some water I drank went down the wrong tube, thus causing the few people who weren't already giggling about my performance to turn and look at me.
But that one moment. . . that one ultimate moment. It's enough to make me go back next week.
Sunday, January 13, 2008
Lazy Sunday
I'm enjoying a dreary and depressing Sunday afternoon. Yes -- enjoying, because I'm outfitted in sweat pants and warm socks, and I have no reason to leave the comfort of my apartment today. I wish it would snow, which would not only complete the effect, but also motivate me to make some deliciously overpriced Williams-Sonoma Hot Chocolate. (It's so rich and expensive, that I feel like it should be reserved for snowy days only.)
In the meantime, I'm watching old episodes of Made on my Tivo. Made is an MTV show where teens get a life coach to help them transform into something, like Prom Queen or Soap Actor or the like. I wish Made had been around when I was a teenager, although I suspect I would have tried to become a Lounge Singer instead of the more typical Homecoming Princess. (My formative years were heavily influenced by Buster Pointdexter and The Sweeney Sisters.) In any case, I'm 33-years-old, and fascinated by plights of outcast teenagers. Some of them make my heart sad for them. Others -- such as the one I'm currently viewing with the pseudo-British kid from Cambridge trying to rap -- are like a train wreck that I watch through half-closed eyes, vacillating between embarrassment and amusement.
All the rapping has me sitting around my living room trying to dream up some rhymes to describe my day. Rhyming doesn't come easily to me, though (iambic pentameter was never my strong suit) and I've just been mumbling "swing, batter, batter, batter, swing." Oh, and trying to come up with an MC name for myself. (MC Partay Plannah is the latest -- it needs some work, though.)
Since I'm still caught up on the name, I think I'll let the folks at SNL (the Sweeney Sister successors) stand in for me with their Lazy Sunday rap.
True Dat -- Double True.
In the meantime, I'm watching old episodes of Made on my Tivo. Made is an MTV show where teens get a life coach to help them transform into something, like Prom Queen or Soap Actor or the like. I wish Made had been around when I was a teenager, although I suspect I would have tried to become a Lounge Singer instead of the more typical Homecoming Princess. (My formative years were heavily influenced by Buster Pointdexter and The Sweeney Sisters.) In any case, I'm 33-years-old, and fascinated by plights of outcast teenagers. Some of them make my heart sad for them. Others -- such as the one I'm currently viewing with the pseudo-British kid from Cambridge trying to rap -- are like a train wreck that I watch through half-closed eyes, vacillating between embarrassment and amusement.
All the rapping has me sitting around my living room trying to dream up some rhymes to describe my day. Rhyming doesn't come easily to me, though (iambic pentameter was never my strong suit) and I've just been mumbling "swing, batter, batter, batter, swing." Oh, and trying to come up with an MC name for myself. (MC Partay Plannah is the latest -- it needs some work, though.)
Since I'm still caught up on the name, I think I'll let the folks at SNL (the Sweeney Sister successors) stand in for me with their Lazy Sunday rap.
True Dat -- Double True.
Wednesday, January 2, 2008
Happy New Year!
I'm in shock and disbelief that 2008 is already upon us. For me, 2007 was a spectacular year -- one of the best in my life -- so it's hard to bid it adieu. It was also the first year I fulfilled my New Year's resolution. Usually I just resolve to work out 6 times a week, moisturize more, etc., none of which ever lasts past MLK weekend. But, in 2007 I resolved to go to Africa (and, of course, to moisturize more -- Africa is very dry) and I went to Africa. Resolution resolved.
But I digress. After a lovely New Year's Eve dinner party at the Madoogans, combined with way too much champagne punch, I spent yesterday snuggled up on my couch, drifting in and out of consciousness. In between my moments of slumber, I watched the Law & Order marathon in bliss.
The marathon threw a bit of a wrinkle in my Law & Order Theorum, which is this: Whenever a famous person shows up on Law & Order, they usually are the murderer. (Note: This theory only applies to the regular L&O because, as my mom points out, famous people don't line up to play sex offenders on SVU.) The classic example is Laura Linney's 1994 appearance on L&O as a nightclub singer turned murderess. See, she wasn't as famous as she is now, but she was too talented just to be an extra. Thus, she must have been the murderer.
Time and time again, this proved to be the case, with minor exceptions to prove the rule. (For example, a pre-Alias/pre-Felicity Jennifer Garner showed up in the 1996 episode Aftershock to seduce fiercely married detective Ray Curtis. But there was no murder in that episode (apart from the execution of the criminal, or the vehicle death of ADA Claire Kincaid), just cheating.
Anyway, as I was watching the marathon I found numerous holes in my theory. First up was a 1993 episode with Lauren Ambrose (from Six Feet Under) where she played the daughter of the victim. But she wasn't the murderer. Just a daughter. So, maybe the theory doesn't apply to child actors. After all, you need good talent to play children, and it would be kind of depressing to have a child killer just because it's a good actor playing the role.
But then, I saw an episode later in the day that featured both Janeane Garofalo (post-Reality Bites) and Lauren Graham (in all her perky, pre-Gilmore Girls glory, trying to seduce Det. Curtis who had just recently been seduced by Jennifer Garner). Neither one of them was the murderer in that three-part episode! So, maybe the theory doesn't apply to three-part episodes. After all, you need good talent to sustain a three-episode story arc.
So that's where I am now -- my Law & Order theory has been seriously compromised and my skin is already under-moisturized. This is not necessarily a good place to start the New Year.
But I digress. After a lovely New Year's Eve dinner party at the Madoogans, combined with way too much champagne punch, I spent yesterday snuggled up on my couch, drifting in and out of consciousness. In between my moments of slumber, I watched the Law & Order marathon in bliss.
The marathon threw a bit of a wrinkle in my Law & Order Theorum, which is this: Whenever a famous person shows up on Law & Order, they usually are the murderer. (Note: This theory only applies to the regular L&O because, as my mom points out, famous people don't line up to play sex offenders on SVU.) The classic example is Laura Linney's 1994 appearance on L&O as a nightclub singer turned murderess. See, she wasn't as famous as she is now, but she was too talented just to be an extra. Thus, she must have been the murderer.
Time and time again, this proved to be the case, with minor exceptions to prove the rule. (For example, a pre-Alias/pre-Felicity Jennifer Garner showed up in the 1996 episode Aftershock to seduce fiercely married detective Ray Curtis. But there was no murder in that episode (apart from the execution of the criminal, or the vehicle death of ADA Claire Kincaid), just cheating.
Anyway, as I was watching the marathon I found numerous holes in my theory. First up was a 1993 episode with Lauren Ambrose (from Six Feet Under) where she played the daughter of the victim. But she wasn't the murderer. Just a daughter. So, maybe the theory doesn't apply to child actors. After all, you need good talent to play children, and it would be kind of depressing to have a child killer just because it's a good actor playing the role.
But then, I saw an episode later in the day that featured both Janeane Garofalo (post-Reality Bites) and Lauren Graham (in all her perky, pre-Gilmore Girls glory, trying to seduce Det. Curtis who had just recently been seduced by Jennifer Garner). Neither one of them was the murderer in that three-part episode! So, maybe the theory doesn't apply to three-part episodes. After all, you need good talent to sustain a three-episode story arc.
So that's where I am now -- my Law & Order theory has been seriously compromised and my skin is already under-moisturized. This is not necessarily a good place to start the New Year.
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