Vegas Rules, Miami Often Stinks, and New York Is (Apparently) Sometimes Mostly Okay

By Matthew Woodring Stover

CSI: Crime Scene Investigation is the most important program on television today.

Now that I have your attention–

It’s worth noting that I am a notorious crank. I have also been reliably informed that I am narrow-minded and arbitrary.

Readers of the following essay are advised to keep the foregoing caveats in mind, and to direct all uncomplimentary mail to BenBella Books, as–quite frankly–I only want to hear from people who regard the ground upon which I walk as Sacred Earth, and it’s BenBella’s fault my bizarre notions are included here in the first place.

There will, however, be pie.

So let’s get started.

I’m no fan of CSI: Miami. I don’t give a rat’s ass who Horatio Caine’s banging, what happened to his brother, what vendetta he’s currently pursuing, or anything else remotely connected with his personal life, despite his borrowing his last name from the protagonist of my ongoing series of SF/fantasy adventure novels, and despite a certain sentimental Favorite Son attachment to David Caruso as the only red-haired dramatic leading man to have a successful hollywood career since roughly Van Heflin.

I’m also unimpressed with CSI: NY, for the same reason. though I’ve seen a couple of episodes that actually emphasized the detective work, in the (admittedly few) others I’ve seen there was just waaaaay too much character crap (probably because they have a couple of terrifically talented leads in Gary Sneereasie and Melina Kanyapronouncea-Greekname), and not enough about the case.

Case. Case case case. Crime Scene Investigation, remember?

Though I realize I’m going to be thrown  …

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