Sookie stares down at the four coffins, crispy, and Bud offers her some water. "Four? You're sure you found four bodies?" Andy nods, but remembers protocol and warns her they shouldn't be talking about an ongoing investigation; she pushes back. "Andy, not now. Not with me." He sighs and nods again. "There's four sets of remains inside four coffins." She shoves past him, toward them, and Andy grabs at her. "Andy, if you don't take your hands off me right now I swear to God I will kill you." She runs up the hill to where Mike the Coroner stands, alone with a cop, staring down. "Jiminy Christmas," says the man who's not Neil from Kentucky. "That's what happens to vampires?" Mike laughs, because this has nothing to do with him. They stare down into a coffin: it's a soup of blood. "Evidently. Plus, we got three more." The cop is totally grossed out, and Mike keeps laughing. "I hope you skipped breakfast!" He spots Sookie and doesn't really care. "Did Bud send you up here to make an ID? Because..." She barks, a rough and terrible sound, and runs away again. Andy calls after her, but nobody cares. Of everybody on this scene, only one of them had a man in the fire. Everyone else is safe.
Brothers and sisters, if you'll turn now to Hymn #203, "Fuck My Legless Grandmother," we'll see if we can't get to the bottom of all this. Because what appears at first to be a disjointed episode of Thirtysomething crossed with scenes from "Strange Love" is actually a pretty excellent meditation on what happens when you meet the Buddha, if you look at it right. Here's the text from the song:
You want me to complain?
All right then: Fuck this
Fuck you, fuck all of you
With your sniveling self-pity
And fuck all your lousy parents
Fuck my lousy parents while we're at it
Fuck my selfish bohemian sister
And her fucking bliss
Fuck my legless grandmother...
And fuck you for dragging me to this terrible place
And not letting me have a Snickers bar:
I'm going to get something to eat!
If you're not familiar with the poet, Ruth Fisher, the background to this melody is a pretty simple story: a woman loses her husband, not just once but many times, and tries to fill the aching hole in herself in lots and lots of ways. She tries, endlessly, to incorporate herself into her childrens' lives, and is rebuffed. She tries, endlessly, to reinvent herself. She dates souls more broken than her own, and even remarries. But the best thing she ever did was join a cult. And this cult, a self-help forum called The Plan, told her there was salvation from her pain. That emotions are rational and can be thought around, that God is a crutch, that exposition and explosion are the keys to repairing the cracks in our foundation. Not untrue, depending on the context and the history, but more importantly: the only person that hates salvation more than I do is Alan Ball, and this episode tells why almost as eloquently as Ruth just did. At some point you have to realize the story doesn't stop until we're dead. Assigning your pain or guilt or fear a number, like a diet plan, doesn't take them off the table. Everything's on the table, all the time. Giving in to the seductive idea that something, or somebody, can save you once and for all is the first step to getting really fucked up.