- Why Psych Was the Best Thing That Ever Happened to Me in the Summer
- August 7th, 2009
About two weeks ago, summer started getting desperate. HBO was my only TV sustenance. Writing was as appealing as eye-gouging. Exercise followed that vein. The summer, stretched out like tirijala, was losing its charm in exchange for anti-climatic anxiety. I was at the point of "How am I gonna resume clothes washing, self-waking, white Christmases, and pre-law without pulling out hairlocks? How do I keep the suspicion that I'm doing things only half-well with my life somewhere in my mental periphery?"
Only a friend - a fairy godsister, if you will - could save me now. And she came, as bored as I was, bearing 2 DVD collections. I must have really looked desperate. She lent me the DVDs, knowing better than anyone that half of my worthy possessions are borrowed and nonrefundable.
That was how I met Shawn Spencer. Cocky and endearing, smart yet willing to look like an idiot. He's a fake psychic with a prodigious mouth and a knack for observation. AND he can pull off the cutest Mexican accent.
There's this self-congratulating-slash-encouragement process that goes on during every crime solving: Shawn is cooler than the watcher, but he's also fundamentally sillier. And he's so doused in happy oil that he can juggle both identities while doing invaluable things for the world around him. This is definitely the kind of positivistic show high schoolers should be watching. There's so many reasons the teenage mind should be force-fed this chimera, 80s references aside.
My brother, for example. Bro, my foil so much that I sometimes doubt our common ancestry, is entering 11th grade now, that terrible 8-month lapse that's meant to bring about scholarships, worthy school records, and committments to humanity [or at least a general career path]. I suspect he gets a little stung every time our parents point out his less-than sparkling academic record, to be compared with my 3.89 GPA.
Yet despite our differences, he is also besotted with the show. I can see it, in his eyes, how confidence returns quite vigorously when Shawn wriggles and occasionally thinks his way into another episode victory, each blunder a comfort to my brother's inexperienced, yet eager ears.
And that, I believe, is refreshing. The show's premise both mystifies and demystifies life success. Doing well is not always about skill, and it's not always about certainty. It might have something to do with SATs, unfortunately, but still.
And I have to believe in this relaxed state after tonight's events. They were so true, so seamless, meant to happen despite everything!
Bro and myself saw like six back-to-back episodes of fake psychic adventures in preparation for the season premiere, and then we played the most antic-laden game of Briscas in the history of our household. And we won rather spectacularly in what should have been an obvious victory for my parents, Team B.
They were scheduled to win - all trumps were gone save for one they held, and their other hand was unbeatable unless they thought we could trump. A simple rundown of the past plays could have told them that Bro and I didn't have any trumps left.
Usually, I cannot bluff for the life of me, but the whole aura summoned by Psych's theme song playing in my head just kind of made me try before that involuntary twitch of self-deprecation gave me away. And this fact, coupled with my brother's heightened sense for the dramatic, caused my father's sharp sense of observation temporarily blunder. He thought we had trump, and surrendered a card that should have been his.
Victory for the semi-fearless, semi-shockridden people! Shawn would have been mighty proud.