Showing posts with label OCD. Show all posts
Showing posts with label OCD. Show all posts

Thursday, December 26, 2024

Tony Shaloub is brilliant

I’ve been a hardcore fan of Tony Shaloub for a very long time. In fact, almost seven years ago I wrote a post here, singing his praises. What I hadn’t done until now is watch the show he’s probably most familiar to audiences for: Monk.

The wife and I have been bingeing it now for the past couple of weeks. From the first “Here’s what happened” to the last time Adrian Monk straightened a crooked picture frame, this show pulls you in like an obsessive-compulsive black hole.

Casting Tony Shalhoub as Adrian Monk was pure magic. Shalhoub doesn’t just play Monk; he becomes him. Every nervous twitch, every panic-stricken "Wipe! Wipe!" when he’s touched something questionable feels so real. And yet, Shalhoub somehow makes a man who alphabetizes his breakfast cereals deeply endearing. Sure, he has 312 phobias, but who doesn’t.

Each episode of Monk follows a classic whodunit formula. There’s a crime. There’s a suspect who seems innocent. And there’s Monk, who notices that one microscopic detail—a mismatched sock, a coffee stain, a slightly-too-perfect alibi—that cracks the case wide open.

The brilliance of Monk is it keeps surprising you, even though you know exactly how the story will go. It’s comfort food for your brain. Like mac and cheese, but with more murder.

Adrian Monk’s quirks are as relatable as they are ridiculous. Sure, most of us don’t measure our orange juice to make sure it’s precisely half a cup, but who hasn’t had a mini meltdown over an improperly loaded dishwasher? Just me? Okay. I wrote about it here. Don't judge me.

Monk’s relentless pursuit of order in a chaotic world speaks to that part of all of us that just wants everything to make sense. He’s fighting the battles we can’t, like ensuring all the chairs at the table are aligned perfectly.

Monk may be the star, but the supporting characters help make the show sing. There’s Sharona, his tough-love assistant, who somehow manages to keep her cool even as Monk spirals into a hand-washing marathon. Later, Natalie takes over, bringing her own brand of compassion (and frequent eye-rolls).

Then there’s Captain Stottlemeyer (played by Ted Levine, who you may remember as Buffalo Bill in Silence of the Lambs), and Lieutenant Disher, who are equal parts baffled by Monk and completely reliant on him.

For a show about a man crippled by grief and paralyzed by fear, Monk is surprisingly funny. It strikes the perfect balance between comedy and drama, never making Monk the butt of the joke but still letting us laugh at his antics. One minute you’re giggling as he disinfects an entire crime scene; the next, you’re crying as he mourns his late wife, Trudy.

It’s emotional whiplash in the best possible way.

And let’s not forget the iconic theme song, “It’s a Jungle Out There” by Randy Newman. Quirky and catchy, it perfectly encapsulates Monk’s worldview: the world is dangerous, unpredictable, and full of germs. Yet, somehow, it’s worth navigating anyway.

In the end, what makes Monk so irresistible is its heart. The show takes a man who could have easily been reduced to a punchline and turns him into a hero. Monk’s OCD isn’t just a quirk; it’s his superpower. His ability to see what others overlook doesn’t just solve crimes—it saves lives.

If you’ve never watched Monk, grab some hand sanitizer, straighten your remote controls, and prepare to fall in love with, thanks to the brilliance of Tony Shaloub, the world’s most charming detective.

Tuesday, June 24, 2014

A deliberate cover up

I've never been particularly paranoid. But I will cop to the fact I have a little OCD about certain things.

For example, I check the door several times when I leave the house to make sure it's locked. Then I start to walk to the car, forget whether I locked the door or not, and come back and check it again.

I also check the oven at least two or three times to make sure there's no gas flame on the burners.

Admittedly, I unplug the chargers around the house before I go, not to save on the electric bills but, like the oven, to make sure there's not a short and the house doesn't burn down.

Call it what you will. I prefer to think of it as being thorough.

The other place I always happily err on the side of caution is when it comes to guarding my personal information. At least as much as I can in the age of the interwebs.

When I sort through my mail, I have two piles. One goes in the trash as is, and the other - almost always the larger pile - goes in my heavy-duty, industrial strength, cross-cut, fifteen-page-at-a-time feed shredder.

Next to my kids laughing, hearing credit card applications, bank statements and old tax receipts being shredded is the sweetest sound.

My friend, and occasional art director partner Mike Kelly likes to make fun of me for taking precautions the way I do. When we work together, he loves to chide me with the fact he does all his financial business - banking, taxes, loans - online. He knows it makes me crazy. I always tell him he's an identity theft waiting to happen. But he's never worried about it, and it's never happened to him.

It's happened to me twice. Maybe he has the right idea.

Anyway, my family certainly knows this aspect of my personality, which is why when it came to giving me the perfect gift, they gave me one they had no doubt I'd love.

What this little baby does is pictured above. Basically, it's a home redacting system. Simply run it over the document you want to render unreadable, and then it is. Despite it's diminutive size, it packs a powerful punch when it comes to my sense of security. Okay, maybe I have issues. What's it to you?

Anyway, it's my kind of gift and I couldn't be happier about it.

And let's face it: I can't carry the shredder everywhere.