Oh, Miami, you suck, yet I can't stop watching. I suspect it's because you provide wonderful Tuesday post fodder, and because ranting about your endless shortcomings and insults to the intellect provides a relief and welcome distraction from the world beyond my pathetically limited sphere of influence.
Where, oh, where did Ryan Wolfe get his hands on a ten by twelve square of mirror glass? He was on a boat in the middle of a marsh. I'm fairly certain that huge chunks of mirror glass aren't standard issue with the Miami-Dade crime kit. They're too big for one thing, and for another, they'd shatter en route to crime scenes even if they were, what with the way the Hummers for Justice(not like that; but if it were like that, I would so totally name my Vegas hooker troupe Hummers for Justice and offer expert TLC to stressed-out cops) tear down miraculously uncrowded Miami freeways at the speed of Horatio's amazing balls pressing the accelerator.
It was on the boat, you say? Why? Who the hell putts around in his boat with huge slabs of unframed mirror glass lying around to focus the sunlight on his boating shorts and inadvertently set his ass on fire? Archimedes? Lame.
Who wants to bet that the Russian mob is the new big bad, and that by season's end, the Ruskies will have kidnapped the spawn of H for May sweeps? If they had any mercy, they'd weight the Seed of Chucky with an anchor and dump him into the Atlantic, along with dear old Mum, who looks like the Crypt Keeper in Versace.
I'd enjoy Miami a lot more if they'd dispense with the editing tricks. Watching TV is like watching someone else's life from behind a two-way mirror. You're supposed to believe that somewhere, this is really happening or has happened or will happen.
You can't do that when some jackass keeps toggling the Photoshop button and reminding you that it's all make-believe. In fact, it's rather annoying and frustrating, the modern equivalent of a drunken gaffer run onto the stage to whip out his hairy-nutted wang during a particularly delicate act of the Bolshoi ballet. Or in the case of Miami, during the final act of Oklahoma as staged by the Gomer Pyle Community College Players. It's intrusive, distracting, and makes me want to pee on my television like a distressed silver-backed gorilla warning off an enemy. The flow of a story, even the weak, tepid stories offered by this show, shouldn't be interrupted by a toggle-switch and mouse-click solo from the editors.
D