The New Showtime Sunday: A Brief Assessment

Ever since Mad Men ended, my Sunday viewing has been sparse and disappointing, to say the least. Sparse because the only viable option is Desperate Housewives, and disappointing because, well, I don't think that bears an explanation. Naturally, I was more than a little excited to check out not one but two new Sunday shows from Showtime, a network with a track record of producing TV that is both great (i.e. Weeds) and... not-so-great (i.e. Californication).

True to its name, Showtime's newest (attempted) dramedy seems hell-bent on blowing up the appall-o-meter with its diversely messed up characters. Unfortunately, in spite of the semi-interesting premise, I don't think Shameless is a show I will keep watching for very much longer. There's nothing horribly wrong with it, but there's nothing truly special about it either. The show happens to suffer from a mediocre lead actress, but the biggest gripe I have is the huge discord between the gravity of the issues presented and the humorous attitude with which they are treated. Call me stodgy, but poverty and perpetually drunk single fathers-of-six are not that funny, no matter how many horny Joan Cusacks you throw into the mix. And then there's the other thing... Let's just say that in spite of the mixed signals emitted by this show, Shameless does give its audience one very clear, very frequent message: dudes sure be gaga over damaged chicks.

I much prefer Episodes, the new comedy about a grounded (and regular-looking!) husband-and-wife screenwriting/producing team who agree to bring their beloved and successful British sitcom to America, then are subsequently forced to stand by and watch the myriad ways in which the Hollywood treatment fails to deliver on its promises. The show also ushers in Matt LeBlanc's first regular TV gig since Friends (let's just pretend the abysmal Joey never happened), this time playing a hilariously dramatized version of himself, à la Larry David in Curb Your Enthusiasm. Pair a narcissistic LeBlanc with two judgmental Brits and toss them all into a Hollywood studio setting, and you've got yourself some mighty hijinks, my friend. All in all, Episodes is a pretty bloody funny show and home to the single most refreshingly "equalized" romantic partnership I can remember seeing depicted on a sitcom. (A friend jokingly referred to the female half as a "bit of a ball buster," but she's not. She's not!)

My Rock Bottom

 

Just when you thought the red rose couldn't be a bigger cliche...

Unlike my colleague here at our nifty little blog, one of my resolutions for 2011 is to watch more TV, if for no other reason than to accumulate fodder for said blog. (Parenthetically, it will be interesting to see how well this goal will gel with res number two: lose thirfteenleven pounds.) Of course, given the amount of TV I already watch, this decision has forced me in many ways to dip dangerously close to the bottom of the barrel.

Last week I tuned in for the season premiere of The Bachelor, fueled only by my ongoing mission to find the perfect show on which to do weekly recaps. (Spoiler alert: the search continues.) I was hoping the “controversy” associated with this season would provide some mild analytical twists, while the show’s usual antics would lend themselves perfectly to jokes and ridicule. As it turns out, the scandal surrounding this year’s bachelor is hardly enough to make a few ripples in the show’s monotony, let alone an actual wave. In a nutshell, bachelor Brad Womack catapulted himself to notoriety during his first stint on the show back in 2007, by brazenly rejecting both of the final two future Mrs. Womack hopefuls. The nerve.

I stuck around through the end of the episode, if only to relish the inherent hilarity in the fresh batch of women having their “words” with the dude who deigned to screw with the show’s promise of a televised proposal. Because, as all of us card-carrying Ladies often ask ourselves, what’s the point in dating a man while sabotaging other women if he doesn’t give you a big shiny rock in the end? I mean, to not be ready to propose marriage to someone after six whole weeks of dating in a variety of fantasy scenarios? What kind of a dick move is that?! And OMG, like, who would even choose being alone over being with a girl who wears evening dresses and fancy eye shadow every day? Enjoy your TV-lit frozen dinners and bubbleless baths, douchebag!

Of course, the solidarity was quickly abandoned as, true to form, the women’s baby-making instincts kicked in and they began fighting each other in earnest for Brad’s sperm attention. Ugh! I should have known I couldn’t watch a show whose sheer premise fundamentally disgusts me. My favorite moment, if I can call it that, came when one of the bachelorettes, mere moments after meeting him, slapped Brad square across the face “just to get it out of the way,” prompting him to utter the words, “Now I like you even more,” or some such. I get it; who doesn’t love a little abuse now and then, am I right? The whole episode, really, was a rubbernecker’s wet dream, from Brad's awkward confrontation with the two spurned ladies of yore to the gratuitous footage of his Changed Self, a change that—if the circumference of his upper torso is any indication—took place largely in that most sacred sanctuary of dudedom: The Gym. (To be completely honest, this was the first time I’d ever been jealous of a man’s nipple pertness.) What really amused me throughout the whole thing was the level of righteous indignation, albeit short-lived, shown by some of the new women on behalf of the old, rejected ones. I mean, this guy is practically a pariah for making a decision than any rational human in the real (read: unsimulated) world would applaud. It boggles the mind, it does.  

Fortunately, the second show I discovered on my new year’s quest fared much better. In fact, Grey’s Anatomy is actually, sort of, in a way, good. This is a show I had tried out when it first started, back when Scrubs was in its heyday and doctor shows in general were all the rage, but I abandoned it shortly thereafter due to both my general inability to suspend that pesky disbelief and my fear of being associated with that very specific demographic of doe-eyed womanfolk. (Full disclosure: I’ve really been revisiting this show since last season’s finale, which I tuned into after being exposed to endless ABC promos and which turned out to be a positively gripping two hours of television.)

I’m not saying it’s on par with Mad Men or Breaking Bad (seriously, did the AMC execs make some Faustian-type deal back in 2007?), but Grey’s Anatomy is pretty solid, not-completely-ridiculous entertainment. I am also shameless enough to admit that the collective hotness of the cast is likely doing wonders toward helping me forgive those long, impassioned speeches that creator Shonda Rhimes is known for. At any rate, there are some good bloody moments in this show. For example, even though I could have done with less repetitive dialogue, I was totally transfixed when Meredith called out Derek in the OR last week. That scene surprised me, and I was definitely not expecting this show to ever be able to sneak up on me like that. And then there are those awesome shots of the Space Needle between scenes? Sold!

Look at how hot they are!

But, like Sir Isaac Newton once postulated, for every action there is an equal and opposite reaction. For every awesome moment on Grey’s, there’s an equally cheesy one, too. Sure, you might witness a wrenching and plausible exchange between newly-broken-up Drs. Torres and Robbins, but a mere few minutes later you will be cringing through a sappy and clichéd reunion of estranged BFFs Meredith and Christina, set to the tune of the worst '80s Top Gun music I’ve heard so far in this millennium. There’s a good chance you’ll be compelled to nod emphatically through a scene that speaks super true to the harsh realities of post-traumatic stress, but faster than you can say “sassy black lady,” out comes Dr. Bailey summoning her inner Scarlett O’Hara (after the glamour years) to literally look up into the heavens and dem-ay-and—raised fist and all—that God return the life into a patient’s body, hammering home the point that the writers have been bending over backwards to illustrate since Episode 1: that when Miranda Bailey speaks, folks listen, deities included.

Personally I’m thankful for the corny moments because they keep me grounded and a safe distance away from wanting to think this show makes for some sort of brilliant, groundbreaking television. Still, fitting somewhere between the guilty pleasures and the eagerly anticipated must-sees, Grey’s has wedged itself pretty comfortably in my long list of followed programming.  

What are some other shows I should watch and/or recap? Help this tellyphile meet her New Year’s resolutions by leaving lots of comments. Weight loss tips unwelcome.

New Year's Resolutions For the Fictional (They're People Too, Sort Of)

The new year is finally here, folks, and with it the return of some old TV favorites/guilty pleasures (V, Jersey Shore, The Game.) Lately, my TV watching has been sporadic at best, especially with most of my favorite shows being on holiday break (why do you abandon me in my time of need, NBC? Who doesn’t need a break after hours of fruitless after-Christmas shopping?) Nevertheless, it's time to turn over a new leaf and turn on the TV.

Sadly this week does not bring us new installments of either 30 Rock (why, Tina, why?) or Community, and although their absence from the small screen will probably make it easier for me to start on my New Year's resolutions (read more, exercise, watch less TV, etc), it also makes me ponder the hypothetical resolutions of my favorite characters. What is Liz Lemon hoping for in the new year, as she sits at her desk eating a hoagie?

A friend of mine once said, "If I'm not watching The Shield, Vic Mackey isn't stopping crime; I gotta go." I, on the other hand, like to think things carry on in the TV universe. Somewhere Sue Sylvester is throwing out her Christmas tree and plotting her next move, Sheldon Cooper is starting the year out with some deep cleaning and Liz Lemon is eating a second hoagie. Here are some things I think they, and other TV characters, are adding to their list of New Year's Resolutions:

Sue Sylvester: Design world's first armored track suit.

Mr. Schuester: Invest in a manufacturer of hair straighteners; lobby for the creation of a tiny hair straightener. An aside: As a member of the curly hair community I know I should be pro natural curls, but in the words of Sue, "I thought you [Will Schuester] might want to put all of us out of our misery and shave off that Chia pet.” (His hair bugs me. It's irrational. I don't care.)

Sheldon Cooper: Join Germaphobics Anonymous.

Liz Lemon: Begin skincare regimen; explore anti-oxidant properties of hoagies.

Peggy Olson: Read The Second Sex.

Nancy Botwin: Hatch plan to seduce FBI agent/lawyer/judge.

The entire cast of Grey's Anatomy: Stop speaking in soliloquies (or try shaving off a minute from each impassioned speech. Baby steps, people, baby steps.)

What are your new year’s resolutions? And what are your favorite characters up to (hypothetically)?

Of Facebook and Golden Globe Injustices

What's this? A self-promotional filler post on this, the day of the Golden Globe nominations? The nerve!

Indeed, this is merely a brief post to notify all our readers (ha, ha) that we now have representation on facebook. (It's this new social networking thing the kids are using.) So in honor of the impending holidays, please check us out and "like" us here!

As for the Golden Globes, I've always been disappointed with their choices, so I hardly ever let myself get angry over them. Case in point: What kind of Best of 2010 TV Drama List doesn't include Breaking Bad? It's ludicrous! And, I'm sorry, The Big Bang Theory made the cut? Really? We're dipping into the CBS coffers for "good" TV now? Also, I can see why critics like Boardwalk Empire, but I take issue with the acting nomination for Steve Buscemi; I just cannot buy him in the lead role. I must be the only person in America who isn't getting a boner over that guy's performance, but there it is/n't. And here's another one: Julia Stiles for Best Supporting? Please. She may have been a more convincing rape victim than the endless carousel of gals on Law and Order: SVU, but if anyone on Dexter deserves to be recognized for her acting, it's Jennifer Carpenter. Oh, screw it; now I'm angry.

...But join us on facebook!

Ode to Television in Five Parts

TV is the true American art form, I always say. And I do mean true. And I do mean art. Gotta love literature and film, but TV remains my favorite medium for fiction, and here’s why:

1. In Which I Become Found in Translation

TV taught me two languages. Linguists everywhere, listen up because it’s true and not in a lame, imaginary friend kind of way, either. I would literally watch English and Spanish television as a child and eventually found that I could understand the dialogue without consulting the subtitles. I might not have been capable of writing treatises in English right away, and I may presently remember only the telenovela jargon as far as Spanish goes, but still: to a young girl from Bucharest, the extent of language acquisition by TV seemed significant.

2. The Circle of Life

Yep, my reasoning is the title of a song from The Lion King—the one that tried to justify the animals’ need to kill each other in order to survive in the wild. A similar concept applies to television, minus the technicolor bloodshed. I’ve lost track of all the times I lost a favorite show to cancellation, whether timely or premature. Every single time I was inconsolable, fully convinced that no other programming could fill that void in quite the same way. But eventually, I always stood corrected. No sooner had I finished weeping over the demise of my beloved Arrested Development, than Poof (the magazine for magicians): the age of 30 Rock had begun.

3. Longevity

You know those books and movies that are so incredibly good that ¾ of the way through you get sad because you know the end is just around the corner? Well, with a good TV show, you have considerably more time to bask in the sheer pleasure of the escapism. Even the cliffhangeriest of episodes can’t ruin for you the 99 percent certainty that there’s ultimately more where that came from (and that you will be able to experience it from the comfort of your pajamas and beanbag chair). Besides, more often than not, when they do end, series finales provide relatively satisfactory resolutions. Cinema-wise, I still haven’t achieved closure for There Will Be Blood.

4. Absurdity

Let’s face it: TV makes you a little crazy. Endearing-crazy, not Bertha Mason-crazy. (Yes, she does read!) I’m talking about the kind of crazy that finds you screaming at the rapidly deteriorating protagonist you’ve followed for six years because you know—you know—she’s better than that. The kind of crazy that leads you to briefly ponder what Jim and Dwight are up to when the cameras aren’t rolling. The kind of crazy that convinces you it’s totally rational to gauge your rate of personal growth by the speed at which your taste in television evolves. Like I said, endearing-crazy.

5. In Which It Is Revealed Why We Can Be Friends

Generally speaking, where there’s art, there’s elitism; literature, music, even film, are all awash with snobbery these days. And yet, TV is more or less judgment free. TV lovers, regardless of particularity, are all equal. The drama junkie is no better than the comedy junkie is no better than the reality junkie, because we’re ultimately all “losers” who would rather not bother with personal hygiene or proper clothing on our day off. This is because in spite of having a type or two, the tellyphile (just go with it) usually dabbles in other genres sooner or later. We do not have standards or levels to which we won’t stoop. Nothing is completely beneath us. Even I, self-proclaimed TV snob,* have once watched a Flavor of Love marathon. 

* I am also a self-proclaimed paradox fanatic.

It's a Mad, Mad, Mad, Mad Don...

...but oh, how I love watching his roller coaster of a life! This season of Mad Men has been absolutely stunning, and I can finally say it fully won me over (a small part of me had still been uncomfortable with the show's apparent sterility and too-perfect demeanor; I just wanted to muss up its hairstyle a little bit). Quietly complex story lines, pitch-perfect performances, that barely contained anguish... Needless to say I had been simultaneously dreading and salivating over the season finale since last Sunday. When it finally came around, I got comfortable in my pajamas, barricaded myself in front of the TV, and made sure I could watch it undisturbed. And about two thirds into it.....

“I'm in love with you, Megan, and I think I have been for a while.”

(*wipes vomit off face*)

Of course, TV's Emptiest Marriage Proposal Ever came as no surprise, as the episode did nothing but foreshadow it all along, from Don's idyllic family vacation with Megan, to the saccharine “perfect mommy” moments of which she promises a lifefull, to the conveniently timed inheriting of Anna's engagement ring and those subsequent shots of “pensive Don” in the hotel; you can practically see him drawing the pro and con list on a mental legal pad—really, Mad Men, how very uncharacteristically... obvious of you. As obvious as the irony of Don Draper's ring sealing the deal between Dick Whitman and Megan, the woman who makes him feel “the way [he] always wanted to feel,” namely, like the fantasy of Don Draper himself—the man he always struggled to become.

Yep, I knew the proposal would happen just as surely as I knew that Betty would do something despicable to reverse any modicum of sympathy I may have mustered for her this season. Because well-written, realistic characters, much like real people, don't change. But still I hoped. I hoped that this would be the season that Don Draper would change, that he would become that better man we've all been hoping for since the show's inception—the man worthy of those panty-dropping looks of his. But, in retrospect, Don has been slowly morphing into Roger Sterling this entire season, so really, the whirlwind engagement to the beautiful young secretary should not have surprised me one bit. My own fault, that.

And yet I still feel it wouldn't have been totally unreasonable to expect Don to choose Faye, or hell, neither woman, instead of Megan. After all, Faye, Peggy, even Betty all experienced some form of shock and dismay upon hearing the news. Only Joan in her infinite bombshell wisdom was unblinded by Don's appealing veneer and sees him for what he is: just another dime-a-dozen executive who married his secretary. Even though the entire season up to this point has seen him contemplating and re-evaluating his life. Even if he was on the road to self-improvement. Even if hypothetically, Don's entire post-divorce journey could have been setting the stage for a real breakthrough.

In the end, while I am fresh out of respect for Don Draper, I must award a barrel of it to Matthew Weiner and Co. for not succumbing to what I can only imagine were entire sacks full of fan mail begging for a "happy ending" to the season (although arguably, the season does see a kind of happy ending, what with Don's impending nuptials and, thanks to Peggy, SCDP's newfound stability). Mad Men, thankfully, has never been the kind of show that caters to its audience's wishes over its needs, and, hand to God, I hope it never turns into it, no matter how much I may have rooted for Dr. Miller and her possibly redeeming love. After all, I'm just a silly romantic cynic with a silly romantic streak who rooted for Ross and Rachel, and Pam and Jim, and House and Cuddy, and look how boring all those couples turned out. It is this brutal honesty and refusal to conform that may well be making this show more superb with each passing season. They certainly made for a superb finale, from Joan's and Peggy's brief moment of camaraderie over their shared disgust with Don and office politics, to Faye's scathing parting shot to Don.

But don't feel too bad for Faye, folks; she will be fine without her Mad Man, not that he's some big prize in the long term. As for our ever-fickle protagonist, no matter how much we the viewers might root for him—and we will—we should remember that he will always be the kind of character whose cowardly decisions will repeatedly leave us, like Betty, disappointed yet ultimately unsurprised. Still, in the words of Liz Lemon, “that whole Disney prince thing” sure is confusing.

Glee-ping the Faith

It doesn't really need to be said, but not all Christians are anti-science, sexist homophobes. The intelligent among us know this. We believe it. And yet, I find myself compelled to point out this truth on a semi-regular basis. The liberal media—including many publications I respect—as well as friends and acquaintances remind me all too often of the many ways in which people of faith—and thus, faith itself—fall short when it comes to open-mindedness and acceptance. And so, even though most of us know that we cannot and should not pigeonhole an entire cultural group, we still slip into the prejudicial mentality that, ironically, has been attributed to, not directed at, the religious. This is why I was impressed (and a little surprised) by this week's Glee: because even though the wrongness of this stereotype, too, should be implied, many liberal Americans still get a bad taste in the mouth at the mention of religion. I can't quite say I blame us, but I can't quite say I don't.

I admit that I have something of an ulterior motive in writing this, as I had exactly the kind of upbringing that normal (read: non-religious) people imagine when they hear the words “prayer meeting” and the lesser known “Christian music bonfire” (OK, this last one is but a nod to my beloved Arrested Development). The brand of religiosity present in my childhood and adolescence was not malicious or violent in any way, but subtly ostracizing and unwittingly sanctimonious? You betcha. I've since toyed with everything from religious humanism to agnosticism, because that is what you do when you are a thoughtful, liberal 18-year-old with “Devout Protestant” on your birth certificate and scared shitless of being labeled a narrow-minded science basher like “all the other Christians.” Lately, though, I've been getting a wee bit defensive—thank you, adulthood—because try as one might, it's not so easy, this business of denying thy father (heh), but I suppose that's my cross to bear (heh, heh). Don't get me wrong: I still have a chip on my shoulder so big and resilient I'll likely never be fully rid of it, but I like to think I am relatively comfortable with the complexity of my faith at its current state, namely, that while I might not know definitively what I believe, I do believe in God (on most days), and even though I am skeptical about any one too-specific mythology about the divine, it is this skepticism that I am ultimately grateful for, and even though this makes me about 5% afraid for the state of my soul, I am about 95% willing to ignore that fear in favor of my definitions of goodness and morality, in spite of the slight possibility that they will cause me to one day die an eternal and fiery death, though I'm almost positive this is not likely. To skim the surface.

But back to Glee. Sure, this season has been somewhat disappointing and the “I'd like to share my feelings through song!” method of segue into said song is wearing thin (I mean, seriously, Papa, can you hear yourself?), but I enjoyed this episode on the basis of sheer guts; it's not easy to broach a controversial topic to begin with, let alone doing so on a show known more for schtick, less for depth. (Also, the music was fantastic, although a song as awesome as REM's “Losing My Religion” did not deserve to be associated with a plot point as ridiculous as Finn's disillusionment with his grilled cheese Jesus.) And yes, part of me was happy to see a public discourse about faith on non-conservative programming, more specifically, a discourse that neither exalted nor denigrated religion, because God knows I'm sick to death of those. Did the episode reveal more than an occasional trace of the after school special? Of course. But we have to remember we're dealing with Glee, and this rainbows and unicorns stuff is their bread and butter.

The primary conflict this week was between Kurt and the rest of the gang, over their offers of prayer for his ailing father and Kurt's deliberate refusal of any and all faith-based help. The reason the episode worked so well was that it absolutely did not attempt to provide an answer to the “To pray or not to pray?” question—nope, no moralistic agenda here, folks. Instead, it simply pointed out what we supposedly already knew: that in a crisis, some will pray and some will not, and that the faithless can be just as close-minded as the faithful. Kurt was wrong to alienate his friends and they were wrong to pressure him, end of story. Most importantly, he did not go from atheist to believer during the course of an episode, and that's a trap a different show could have easily fallen into. He merely realized that a principle has no place in the simple matter of a friend who, to paraphrase Kurt (and Lennon/McCartney), just wants to hold your hand. And that's something we can all agree on. Not that it needed to be said. 

You're Not Grounded: The Advent of Bad Parenting TV

In honor of Nancy Botwin's imminent return (Monday, August 16, 10 PM), about which I am as giddy as I am terrified.

It started with two Gilmore girls. With their trademark rapid dialogue and superhuman witticisms, Lorelei and Rory Gilmore mini-revolutionized the small screen mother-daughter rapport, setting a precedent that would be difficult to reverse. Even as sensible mothers and daughters acknowledged the scripted quality of the fictional relationship, we still lusted after the Gilmores’ dynamic. The grounding and punishment of unruly children were suddenly obsolete, because Rory was the sweet, obedient daughter every parent dreamed of, and it was Lorelei’s anti-authoritarian parenting style that created this angelic child. And thus spawned the belief that familial behavioral cycles could actually be constructive. What a crock.

Since then, the Gilmore phenomenon has escalated. As television evolved, the “cool” parents have devolved into just plain bad. Having just wrapped its second season, Showtime’s United States of Tara depicts a set of parents so ridiculously laissez-faire, it would make Ward Cleaver’s head spin. Half the time, the titular Tara and her husband Max have no clue what their kids are up to, and when they do, they all but hand them the keys to the gun cabinet. They might offer a half-hearted reprimand here and there but nothing that screams Involved Parent At Work. Take this exchange between Max and 15-year-old daughter Kate, on her way to meet not her Civics project partner but the dirtbaggiest of dirtbag boyfriends.

Max: It’s 9 o’clock, are you kidding me?

Kate: What, are you being, like, strict daddy now? Are you gonna take me to one of those purity balls?

Max: One hour. No negotiating.

Ummm, Max, I believe your exceedingly sexualized teen just negotiated the hell out of you. “I can’t seem to micromanage my daughter’s vagina,” Tara complains after finding a morning-after pill prescription in Kate’s backpack. I guess I’m supposed to feel for them but I just can’t muster the sympathy, when the most displeasure either of them show on the issue is, “I’m not real thrilled with you right now” — oh Max, you’re such a dad! Add an overly exaggerated wagging finger and faux grumpy voice and you’ve got all the ferocity of a Shirley Temple movie.

On one hand, I do have to hand it to Tara and Max, because it’s great to see TV parents who are incredibly and unconditionally supportive of their children in matters of sexual orientation and alternate post-high school endeavors. On the other hand, it is not normal for children to meet with zero opposition from their parents in every situation. Even Lorelei Gilmore had a prolonged estrangement from her adult daughter upon learning she had dropped out of Yale, and justifiably so — it was Yale! For free!

Probably sadder than a shitty parent, though, is one who degenerates into a shitty parent over time. Nancy Botwin, the heroine of the long-running Weeds — also on Showtime — has been steadily hitting a new low every season since the show’s inception in 2005. We all loved her as a recently widowed mother of two trying to keep a roof over her family’s head, but what started as a harmless (ha, ha) stint as a suburban marijuana dealer has turned our Nancy into a morally defunct shadow of her former self. All of a sudden, she’s complicit in human trafficking and getting knocked up by Mexican drug lords. Is this show even a comedy anymore? Because I swear these plotlines are coming straight out of an Inarritu film. Thank God for Andy, Nancy’s manchildish brother-in-law who still manages to bring comic relief to an increasingly tense viewing experience. 

Thus far, Nancy has turned a blind eye to the following events involving her sons: 17-year-old Silas schtupping his thirtysomething neighbor, 13-year-old Shane losing his virginity in a kiddie threesome, Silas selling weed, Shane getting drunk, etc. By the time the latest season finale rolled around and I watched [a possibly drunk] Shane deliver the final blow — by croquet mallet, to a woman’s head, most likely fatal — I simply picked my jaw off the floor and thought to myself, “Well, Nance, there’s no redemption from this one.”

Don’t get me wrong — I love the weekly Nancy-hits-rock-bottom-again drama. I drink it up like the sweet nectar of the gods who birthed it, because in spite of being more uncomfortable to watch than Dexter, the show’s writers are still among the best at dialogue and, aside from the rare Oedipal exception, generally adept at skirting the line between Holy Shit, Did That Just Happen? and Dear God, Look Away!

As entertainment, Weeds and Tara are justifiably cutting edge, but these same shows also make me want to swear off ever having children. When did cutting-edge television start meaning shock factor, pure and simple? We now have TV parents who are philanderers, drug dealers, even serial killers, for shit’s sake. All in all, stuff that would make Uncle Jesse blush straight through that dreamy olive complexion. And I get it. Parents are human beings too, and it’s scripted TV, and it’s why we love it. But suddenly you have bitches like Dina Lohan trying to be her daughter's BFF-who-hits-you-up-for-fifty-grand-once-in-a-while. Or Britney Spears losing custody to the likes of Kevin Federline. Or Jon and Kate dueling it out publicly to the point where you have a tough time deciding whom to write off as The Douche. (Yeah, OK, it’s Jon.)

Yes, I know these are highly publicized, Hollywood-adjacent cases and that the world (and certainly Hollywood) has always been full of shitty parents. I am not attempting to jump on the television-is-the-devil’s-playground train. However, it’s undeniable that society and the media are, to a certain extent, mutually influential.

Ultimately, I’ll continue to watch my favorite irresponsible mommies and daddies on TV, gleefully even. Maybe I’ll even steal furtive glances at tabloid headlines featuring Jon and The Lesser of Two Douches; there’s no real harm in it. Still, amidst all the shoddy parenting that currently seems to permeate both art and life, I have to wonder: which is imitating which?