Needles

A college student from Vermont has been missing for a long time — you may have heard about this, as it made national news for a bit, but all over Vermont, of course, it dominates the evening news, as stuff like that Just Doesn’t Happen Here, whatever that means. Each day, police are doing something different — sending out dogs and organizing recovery teams, etc., and really, it’s heartbreaking, thinking about what his parents are going through — they sent him off to college in one of the safest parts of the country and now … he’s gone. It’s unspeakable, really it is.

And much as I’m loathe to do this, I must admit that I am morbidly horrified and fascinated in equal parts about the recovery missions I see on the news that involve trawling the creeks and rivers with divers. Divers, oh my God.

I mentioned my fear of large things underwater and specifically, of finding a dead body underwater, I don’t know why (holla to Swistle who first articulated this fear for me), and for some reason, I can’t imagine why anyone would be able to DO THAT, and I have untold respect for the people who do. Because honestly, does that not sound like the scariest thing ever? Here, let’s give you a wet suit and some diving equipment and some flashlights for you to head into some seriously murky water — the murkiest of the year, in fact, for it is mud season — and hey, if you’re lucky, you’ll find a DEAD BODY FLOATING DOWN THERE so that we can give this family some closure. Most people I talk to, for the record, believe that’s precisely where they’ll find him, washed up somewhere in the creek, for where else could he be?

*shudder*

(And uh, it goes without saying that there will be no swimming in a single watering hole in the state of Vermont for me this upcoming summer. If … well, suffice it to say that “if” anything, let me tell you, I would have to be hospitalized on a Thorazine drip for the rest of my life, so help me, I would.)

Speaking of unpleasant things, we watched American Gangster this weekend and while it was a very interesting story, really it was, was that not THREE WHOLE MOVIES wrapped into one? I mean, good God, it went ON. AND ON. AND ON SOME MORE. The beginning was slow as molasses, full of exposition that seemed to go nowhere, and then it took off and went in forty different directions that all went too slow and too fast at once. I liked it, nonetheless, mostly because Denzel is eminently watchable in almost anything. I’d happily watch hours of footage of him doing nothing but eating grapes.

But what really got me about it is the same thing that bothers me about EVERY movie with any sort of drug use in it, which is that there is some sort of filmmaker-enforced OBLIGATION to have multiple close-ups of people shooting up. And as a viewer, I have to say, I would be much more content with other, more implicit methods of getting the point across that yes, we get it, people are injecting heroin. The mere presence of needles, for example, suffices, as do the rubber arm thingys, especially if you’re in a seedy apartment with peeling paint. WE GET IT. I do not — nor, do I think, does anyone else — need to see the super-tight shot of the dude’s veins as the needle closes in and I ESPECIALLY do not need to see the blood rushing back into the syringe. Ew, just ew.

Incidentally, I say this as a completely non-squeamish person when it comes to needles — I can watch as my own blood is drawn, and I’ve actually injected other people with meds. Hell, I’ve considered NURSING SCHOOL for much of my adult life and yet, please. Please stop with the injection scenes, PLEASE. I beg of you, O Hollywood.

And finally, at the suggestion of approximately 5,478 people, I picked up Elizabeth Gilbert’s Eat, Pray, Love, and made it through the Italy part and so far, I’m trying to resist the compulsion to hunt her down — wherever she is right now, I don’t care — so that I can rip her self-indulgent, bratty little face off. Oh WOE IS ME. GROW UP. We ALLL go through shit, and many people do it with infinitely more grace than she’s demonstrated through her (totally not) self-deprecating filter. And further, OH FURTHER, we manage to do it without a book advance so that we can go “find ourselves” abroad (at 34, mind you) and learn to — you guessed it — Eat! Pray! Love! and then write about our “journey” while whining our way through three countries.

(That book deal bit is tinged with jealousy, just a little bit, because who WOULDN’T want that? BUT STILL. SHUT UP, LIZ.)

(Edited to add that I do feel very strongly that the pre-determined publishing agreement took a great deal away from the authenticity of the project. While I admire her savviness in securing one prior to her travels, on the other hand, how much more would you have admired her if she, you know, did it on her own, out of an actual desire to do so, rather than a mercenary, selfish motivation? That would be a book I’d be interested in reading, rather than this funded, self-interested navel-gazer of a memoir.)

So I ask you, does it … does it get better? When does she get “likable” as the New York Times Book Review promises? And how do I tell my beloved stepmother, who I love very much, that I hated her recommendation?

Happy Monday!

*Lisa Hannigan, on The Cake Sale.

62 comments April 13th, 2008