Scrubs started its first season with three of the main characters having just graduated from medical school and starting their residency from Day 1. Episode 1 was Day 1 as an intern. For the most part, the story is seen through the eyes of and narrated by John Dorian, played by Zach Braff, kind of like how "The Wonder Years" was narrated by Fred Savage's character, only far less annoyingly so. Nearly every episode's title, save for a collective handful of episodes, starts with the word "My", so the pilot was "My First Day" and the final episode was "My Finale". Many of the episodes had very clever titles, such as "My Bed Banter & Beyond", "My Heavy Meddle", My Ocardial Infarction", and my personal favorite: "My Hypocritical Oath".
Another aspect of the show that was somewhat unique was how well they integrated an incredible library of music (mostly current, off the mainstream, more college radio fare) into every show. I probably have found more new bands and rediscovered some of my old and forgotten favorites than anywhere else, like Colin Hay, the lead singer for to oft-forgotten one hit album wonder from Down Under, Men At Work. He has continued to have a long, moderately successful career since the early 1980's and he is one of Zach Braff's favorite musicians. For the record, he is an incredibly talented songwriter, musician and performer, but because of a purposefully and horribly marketed cutsie image that was Men At Work, he ended up getting, in my opinion, highly underrated. He has also had some pretty funny bit parts in a number of the episodes. Probably my favorite is an episode called "My Overkill" (in homage to the Men At Work song by the same name).
But I digress here, and I'm probably going to do it again as well. In addition to their really artistic way of incorporating popular music into the soundtrack, they also have had some stories that are equally as funny as they are the fodder for the tear factory, and they can switch back and forth between humor and pathos at lightspeed, so often so that I've been sitting on the floor watching many a time and I was simultaneously laughing myself into a side-ache as tears rolled down my cheeks from a particularly touching aspect of the same scene.
It took me a long time to warm up to the show, and I'm not the first person that I've heard say that. When I first watched it in the early seasons, I never really got myself engrossed enough to get hooked. You see, there is a side to the humor of the show that is so slapstick, it teeters on the border between cerebral slapstick and just downright corny. If you're not a health care professional, and more specifically, if you had never worked in a hospital (especially a teaching hospital), you can walk away thinking that their take on hospitals is so ridiculous that it's unbelievable. In actuality, it's so ridiculous that it's spot-on accurate, an almost a perfectly executed recreation of the real-life insanity that is the teaching hospital. There is a good reason: the show's creator, Bill Lawrence, based the show on a very good college friend's recollections of his early years practicing medicine. This man, Dr. John Doris (John Doris - John Dorian), also served as the medical advisor for the show.
As one would expect, and it's the case with even the most accurate of the medical dramas on TV or the Silver Screen, the writers take a lot of liberties in regard to the actual technical aspects of the practice of medicine and nursing (and other allied health sciences) and how a hospital really runs day to day. A perfect example of this, and one that took me a long time to appreciate that what they were doing was calculated, involved the main interior set, the space where the largest percentage of scenes were shot. It was obviously the the same space from scene to scene, but they never tried in the slightest to mask it. Sometimes you thought it was an ER. Sometimes it was supposed to be the ICU. Sometimes it was supposed to be the oncology ward, and a few times, it was even surgical recovery. That used to drive me crazy. I would think "why can't they get that one detail right?" But then after further mental deliberation, it became obvious that this was "A Scrubs Thing": vagueness. You didn't know the city and you didn't know what part of the hospital you were in, you didn't know what time, it was, what shift they were working, and on and on. It was kind of like the feeling you get when you spend too much time in a casino and completely lose track of what time it is. With some of the liberties they took, it might driven a few real life doctors or nurses crazy, but that wasn't the point. Had they been humoring or catering to that audience, they might have made a few nurses and doctors happy, but in the process they would have bored 99% of the audience into a coma. And remember, this is a half hour show, so they have 22 minutes to tell a story.
Where they didn't take liberties (well, maybe a little) was in the depiction of all the various and sundry characters that occupy a hospital. If you've not worked in a hospital (especially a teaching hospital), you would think that the writers had exaggerated the characters past the point of farce. In truth, they exxagerated very little, sometimes not at all. If you ever want to immerse yourself in the world's largest dysfunctional family, work in a hospital. You will see some of the craziest (and most brilliant) mother-f'ers that you have ever seen in your life. They have pretty much every other kind of workplace beat in spades for the sheer number of different personality disorders that you will find.
But I digress again. Why I'm talking about Scrubs is because it is a great example of the kind of entertainment that as of late has had me crying at the drop of a hat. Even before I started on the Interferon Emotional Roller Coaster, that show could, as I said before, switch me back and forth between laughing and crying at the speed of a ping pong ball in a Chinese championship game. But now, oh hell, anything that is the least bit tragic, sappy, or even overly uplifting can and usually will work me like a puppet on a string. Every baseball game this year where they showcased a feel-good story between innings (and they do that a lot, and I watch a lot of baseball. Actually a lot of sports for that matter), I've fallen for the tear jerker hook line and sinker. Many a time I've had the waterworks start with the opening music for the the vignette, before it even starts to get sappy. If you think this is hyperbole, walk up the me sometime and just say "The HBO biography of Ted Williams" and watch my eyes well up.
Actually, this has been really great, believe it or not. Interferon (and everything else that has happened in the last couple of years) has shown me a side of myself that I've rarely seen. I am by nature not a crier. I'm really not that emotionally expressive on either side of the spectrum. I don't argue loudly, I don't fight really that much at all. I'm British by heritage, and I can tell you this: that whole "Be British", deal with it, stuff emotion down, don't show weakness personality profile must at least to some degree be genetic. Historically it has always been hard for me to cry. I've rarely seen any of my siblings cry, even in private. Taking each family member individually, I can probably count on one hand the number of times that I've seen any member of my immediate family cry. We just don't do that, and I've never thought that to be very weird. That is, until the last couple of years when I have turned into a blubbering fool that can cry at even the most seemingly inconsequential thing.
The flip side of that coin is that often in my life, I've felt heavily weighed down from what is usually a bottleneck of unprocessed emotional conflicts. Typically, I've gone through a period of abnormally high stress and in the process there are a lot of emotions that I've brewed up and then pushed back down my proverbial throat, often for months at a time. I've always known when I need to open the pressure relief valve in these situations, and for me, the pressure reliever is a good cry. Since, as I've said, I've not been much of a crier in my life, that creates a challenge for me in trying to open the valve and have a good old-fashioned cathartic cry. Even though I know I'll feel better, I can't manufacture those emotions that will produce the desired results (many can, and it's a great tool to have at times like this). Where that leaves me is needing to find some device that can trigger the necessary switch to get the waterworks going, and for me, that usually is a sad (or very touching) movie. I have 4 or 5 on my go-to list. Even though I've seen every one of them more times than I care to count, every one of them works nearly every time, like clockwork. Off the top of my head, these are some of my greatest hits: Sophie's Choice: that one is the most reliable tearjerkers for me, and usually produces the most guttural cathartic cry. Then there are The Shawshank Redemption, The Laramie Project (oh my God, have a big full box of Kleenex on hand) and Legends of the Fall (and take note: if you've never seen this movie, it is so worth it just to see Brad Pitt cry. He is, without a doubt, one of the best man-criers in Hollywood). Finally, I would have to include A River Runs Through It. If for nothing else, it's another performance of pathos perfection by Brad Pitt (oh, and there is the eye candy factor).
It's kind of a funny (but shouldn't be) story that came to mind today for no apparent reason, and it was definitely inspiration for my muse. I don't know if this is urban legend or if it's true (I would guess true), but there is an old Hollywood story that has circulated for years, and if it's true, I'm a bit ashamed at myself for seeing any humor in it. In Shirley Temple's Hollywood era, her movies were always known for her tragic scenes. They were corny as Iowa, but they were also brilliant and they still get me (and if you tell anybody I'll have to kill you). Well, as the story goes (allegedly), Shirley was pretty good at cry-acting and producing waterworks, but there were a couple of times that they were unable to get it out of her. The director would call cut and tell everybody to go to lunch. Then, about an hour later when Shirley got back (and they would make sure to get her back last so that they could have the scene set up and ready to go), she would walk onto the sound stage and see a room full of shocked faces. Once, they told her that her that they had just received a phone call, and both her parents had just died in a car wreck. Another time, they told her that her dog had gotten out accidentally and was hit by a car. Of course she would start crying, but what made it even sicker was that they would then tell her that she HAD to finish the scene before they would let her leave (oh, the 1930's, such a child-friendly era). They got their tears, and Shirley got scarred for life. I wonder if you can put a price on emotional scarring.
Like I said, I hope this is urban legend, because even though I get how wrong this is on so many levels, it's also sick beyond the point of absurdity, and that is what my humor is responding too. Or so I keep telling myself anyway.
But back to my stifled emotions dilemma. Since Project Interferon started, I've probably needed and had a good cry at least once a week. What is different is that I don't have to use any devices to get the desired response; usually it hits me without me even expecting it, and the triggers are so gross that it's almost sad. It can be a touching commercial. It can be a feel-good sports story. It can be a story about triumph in the face of adversity. Or it can just be garden variety, really sappy stupid television. I don't need to flip a switch either, the switch is flipping itself.
I can't say that I've ever had a time in my life when I have enjoyed crying more. I know it is a good thing, because the afterglow that I get is an intense feeling of relief, calm and inner peace. There is no sense of hopelessness or demoralization, either preceding the crying or afterward. I have to think that I am just processing so much that my mind has turned my body into an emotional catharsis rendering plant (sorry for the unpleasant visual, I grew up near a stockyard, so that is what immediately came to mind). I am so weird: "That Parry, what a lulu; he's crying every day and he loves it" (followed by a shrug of pity).
Yesterday, the final episode of Scrubs was playing (it's in syndication, has been for a few years already, even though the series only ended 5 months ago), and so I sat down and watched it again. I've only seen it once, and I really didn't get to watch it distraction-free the first time, so I expected that I might have missed a lot. First of all, I have to tell you that I've seen every episode of the show, but I'm amazed at how I can rewatch nearly every episode of this show multiple times, and yet each time walk away with a completely different experience. For me, yesterday was a bit of an anomaly. I had pretty much been teary-eyed or on the verge of it for most of the morning. When I turned on the show, it immediately became a 22 minute sob-fest. The last scene, which I have now watched at least 10 times since yesterday is the most emotional for me. It is a glimpse into the future, shown as a montage of "home movies" spanning 20-ish future years. The film is accompanied by a song that I don't think I have ever heard before, but one that is now my current favorite: the name of the song is The Book of Love by a 2 man group who call themselves The Magnetic Fields. The frontman (and songwriter and singer and guitar player) is an extremely talented man by the name of Stephin Merritt.
First, here is the final scene of the final episode of Scrubs, with The Book of Love being covered by Peter Gabriel:
Although that is a beautiful cover, it is, in my opinion a little over-produced. As evidence for this claim, this is, I believe, the original video for The Magnetic Fields version of their own song:
So by now you can probably guess where this is going if it wasn't already obvious from the get-go: watching that final episode, hearing that song, researching it, dissecting the lyrics has really had me for the last two days reflecting on what love means to me. There is the spiritual aspect, there is romantic love, there is fraternal love, and there is the love you (hopefully) have for members of your family, to name a few examples.
The Course (in Miracles) teaches that there is only one kind of love, that the different kinds of love that we choose to define slightly differently, are in actuality, illusory experiences, which Jesus calls "special" loves. One of the traps of seeing different kinds of love for different relationships is that it engenders this internal thought process (at least for me) that starts one down the road of creating some hierarchy of loves, and doing it out of some necessary moral imperative of sorts. In actuality, at least as I believe and have finally been able to now wrap my head somewhat around, there is only one kind of love. Love is love, and you are truly loving if you are loving everybody in your life in the same way. It's really kind of hard to wrap your head around at first, but if one believes it, as I do, what it does (for me at least) is stop me from trying to decide how I am going to love one person versus another person, because of my ingrained belief that I have to express it differently for different people (or so I thought). No one person who crosses my path, be it my parent, my partner, my best friend, my supposed mortal enemy or a stranger that I pass on the street, deserves any less of an expression of my love than any other being, nor do they deserve any more or any less of my love in quantity, as if love could even be rationed out. I believe it is limitless and infinite.
It's not my desire for this to come off in a manner where I am or appear to be pontificating. To be even more specific,, it is not meant to be a statement that once distilled down to its purest truth comes across as me declaring "this is the way it is, and I expect you to believe it and take every word exactly as I give it". Put quite simply, this is how I think, it's not what I expect everybody else to believe because I think and/or proclaim it to be so.
I guess my point here is that I'm really more than a bit stunned at how some little pop culture reference can bring home for me so clearly a concept that has eluded me for the last 2 1/2 years that I've studied the course. It is really hard to understand on a very deep level how you love everyone in the same way, and to take the obvious next step in the thought process, how you integrate it into your day to day life. I can read and regurgitate it, but until now, the understanding and integration has eluded me. When you open up that big blue book that is the written course, the first words that you see are the most telling. On the surface they seem so simple, but once you try to live them, they become unbelievably complex and seemingly hard to understand:
"This is a course in miracles. It is a required course. Only the time you take it is voluntary. Free will does not mean that you can establish the curriculum. It means only that you can elect what you want to take at any given time. The course does not aim at teaching the meaning of love, for that is beyond what can be taught. It does aim, however, at removing the blocks to the awareness of love's presence, which is your natural inheritance. The opposite of love is fear, but what is all-encompassing can have no opposite.
This course can therefore be summed up very simply in this way:
Nothing real can be threatened.
Nothing unreal exists.
Herein lies the peace of God."
So simple! But seriously, you can see why it can take time to wrap your head around it. I've felt a real satisfaction for the last 48 hours, because something that has seemed impossibly complex to grasp is finally within my reach.
This is the reason I love the song so much: it really portrays the simplicity, complexity and seemingly contradictory characteristics of what we call love, when in fact, this Book of Love, which is so big and all-encompassing that "no one can lift the damn thing" is also something that is so simple, there is nothing else in reality. It is conceptually singular instead of dualistic. It is without an opposite or any even any contradictory characteristics. It is not at conflict with fear, its supposed opposite, because that opposite is only an illusory figment of a collective imagination.
As I understand it, love is not a part of reality, it is reality. It is all-encompassing, simple and not as incomprehensibly complex as it appears to be on the surface. It is infinite instead of being limited in supply and as such, it has no need to be rationed and/or handed out differently to different people depending on one's relationship with that person, or any other arbitrary criteria. Whether or not you buy what I'm saying doesn't really matter, that isn't what I'm trying to accomplish. I think I'm still trying to wrap my head around something that can't be truly understood by a dualistically thinking mind. But if at another time you hear me talking about what love means to me and it makes some kind of sense to you, then I'll feel a sense of accomplishment. I was actually able to build a bridge between two beautiful minds.
Doggydad's Life Now: The Viral Monologues by Parry Tallmadge is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 United States License.
Based on a work at doggydad.blogspot.com.
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