“ Ah, the life of a bachelor! All-night poker parties. Sports on the television set 24-7 and a cold beverage within arm's length of the La-Z-Boy. And of course, meticulously recapping a CBS prime-time drama in order to fulfill your wife's contractual obligation to a website. ”
Ah, the life of a bachelor! All-night poker parties. Sports on the television set 24-7 and a cold beverage within arm's length of the La-Z-Boy. And of course, meticulously recapping a CBS prime-time drama in order to fulfill your wife's contractual obligation to a website.
Huh? Those Coors Light commercials didn't mention anything about that when touting the merits of single life.
Yes, Sobell's away, and, thanks to an obscure subsection of our marital vows that fell somewhere between the part about sickness and the part about for better or for worse, it falls to me, her ever-loving husband, to recount this week's CSI adventure. The transition should be relatively seamless and altogether painless for you, the home viewer, with one notable caveat. While Sobell is extremely well-versed in the science geekery that is CSI's stock-in-trade, the only thing I know about DNA is my genetic predisposition against comprehending anything more complicated than "fire is hot" and "atoms are tiny." I guess I should have paid more attention during those elementary school filmstrips on "Our Friend, The Radioactive Isotope" and "Evolution -- Nature's Way Of Letting God Sort 'Em Out." At any rate, perhaps Sobell can weigh in from the wilds of southern New Jersey with a thought or two about tonight's episode...
...which begins with a shot of the Vegas skyline at night. Man, that's new.
A band of unkempt minstrels is rocking the casino floor with a jaunty tune about flaming hills and cracked streets and driving rain. It's the Wallflowers bringing us this apocalyptical vision of rock 'n' roll, and the only reason I know that is because CBS tells me so. If it's not Frank Sinatra backed by the Red Norvo Quartet, I'm afraid I'm out of my depth. Boy, I hope Jakob Dylan doesn't turn out to be the suspect in this week's case -- that would just devastate Bob. That would make him incoherent with grief. As opposed to what's making him incoherent now. But I kid our nation's folk singers.
Half a dozen groupies wearing the finest selections of Donna Karan's But I'm With The Band collection make their way to the casino floor where The Wallflowers are holding court. Just a rapid pan away from the bandstand, some people are shooting craps. And not even a minute into tonight's episode, we have our first comical break with reality -- I've spent more time than I care to admit without a court order inside casinos, and I can tell you that if a band were playing as loudly as the Wallflowers are right now, the gamblers would not be going obliviously about their business. They would ask the young musicians very politely to keep it down, and failing that, they would then strangle Jakob and the gang with a couple of guitar strings before the deal.
The Accused Is Entitled
“ 'Possibly before 1 AM.' 'When he puts himself in the room,' Brass volunteers, for the benefit of audience members who aren't already plotting out the crime timeline on graphing paper. What? You don't do that? Um...neither do I. ”
But the focus of our episode -- a young man who looks like the product of a Brad Pitt-Ethan Hawke breeding experiment -- doesn't seem the least bit perturbed by the Wallflowers' song about blood and tears and how everybody should get out of the water. And why not -- he's just made point on eight. The scruffy young man -- Brad Hawke? Ethan Pitt? Uma Aniston? -- is Tom Haviland, one of the more noticeably insipid groupies informs us. "I love him in I-95 and that other movie with Julia Roberts," she exposits. Oh God, it really is Brad Pitt. Or Kiefer Sutherland. Kiefer Pitt?
"There's too many bodies, not enough room," the Wallflowers sing, and man, ain't that the truth? Why just sing a little ditty about how the scruffy-looking actor is going to be implicated in a grisly murder later this evening? While we contemplate this little bit of musical foreshadowing, a pudgy little ferret weasels his way over to Tom "Fictitious Character Who In No Way Represents Any Living, Law-Abiding Actor Except For Maybe O.J. Simpson" Haviland. "So what are you in the mood for, huh?" Freddy Ferret simpers. "A little French? Italian?" "No, I'd prefer some fusion cuisine, with perhaps a hint of Cajun," says Tom. "And remember, I'm a vegan." Actually, he doesn't say anything of the sort, since they're not discussing food. What they are discussing is women, and since Tom confesses to having Italian last night, he would prefer to have Chinese. As in two Chinese twins. Because Tom has apparently seen the same Coors Light commercials that I have.
While the Wallflowers continue warbling, we cut to Tom in his hotel room, throwing one of his companions on the bed and jumping on top of her, while the other jumps on him, presumably not for something more than a piggyback ride. And since this is more writhing than CBS's core demographic is probably comfortable with, we cut to the shadowy figure of Gil Grissom making his way through the same hotel room, only later. "Help is on the way," Jakob croons. Hey, who's doing the recapping here -- me or The Wallflowers? ["And in the wilds of New Jersey, MaBell looked at me and said, "Oh, the lyrics match what's going on. Is that on purpose?" -- Sobell]
Capt. Exposition informs us that Tom Haviland "says he had a romp with two ladies between 1 AM and 2 AM when he left them in the sheets and went back to the crap table." Claaaaaaa-ssy. Because who among us doesn't mellow out after a three-way with two complete strangers by shooting a little crap? Anyhow, Tom comes back half an hour later to find one of the participants with her throat slashed. Which really must cut down on the thrill of rolling six the hard way, but I digress. The victim's name is Kim, thus keeping CSI in compliance with a little-known television law requiring all Asian female characters to be named "Kim." "The extent of the coagulation suggests she died before that," says Gil, referring to Tom's return to the room and not the passage of The M*A*S*H* Stereotypical Ethnic Character Name Act Of 1975. "Possibly before 1 AM." "When he puts himself in the room," Brass volunteers, for the benefit of audience members who aren't already plotting out the crime timeline on graphing paper. What? You don't do that? Um...neither do I.
Gil notes that we're one lady shy of a three-way, and asks Brass where the other one is. Tonya apparently was out of the room when Tom returned, so we will almost certainly never see or hear of her again. Right? Because I'm new here. Brass further reveals that Haviland's assistant, Raymond Lester -- Freddy Ferret to you and me -- notified hotel security and, contrary to the protests of Chuck D. and Flavor Flav, called 911. "What do we know about Raymond?" Gil asks. Um, that everybody loves him? Oh, also that eyewitnesses saw him downstairs at the time of the attacks. Freddy Ferret has also scurried off to Los Angeles for a meeting, but plans to return to Las Vegas forthwith. "And Mr. Haviland?" Gil asks. "He's in the other room," Brass replies.
Where he's signing autographs for a clutch of Las Vegas' finest and most star-struck. "Do you do your own stunts?" one of the uniforms asks. Affirmative, Tom answers, "but I don't want to dog on the guys who use stunt doubles, right, believe me. When you're hang-gliding over the Grand Canyon, you should think twice." Apparently the plan is to make Tom as unlikable as humanly possible in the shortest amount of time. Mission accomplished, CSI. Warrick's waiting for Gil. "You don't recognize that guy, do you?" he asks Fearless Leader. "It's Tom Haviland, the movie star." Gil corrects him: "Clark Gable was a movie star." Well, sure -- in 1949, Gil. La-la-la-la-la-la live for today, my man. Gil dismisses the uniformed officers, who disperse to see if they can get Robert Blake to sign some 8-by-10 glossies, as Tom tells them, "Keep the peace, boys." Where's that rogue bald cop from The Shield when you need him?
Gil curtly introduces himself to Tom, who wonders if Gil "has a sheet of paper because I'm kind of running out of things to write on here." Huh -- asking Gil if he wants an autograph. I guess there are stupider things he could have said. "I think people who collect bugs are losers." "Sure, evidence is nice, but you know what really helps solve cases? A crackpot theory or two." "You know what's a great idea for a TV show? CSI Omaha." Nope, asking him if he wanted an autograph was probably the stupidest thing he could have done. "What?" Gil asks, unable to fully appreciate the mental giant standing before him. "Oh," Tom says. "My bad." Yeah -- just a little, pretty boy.