I can't believe I have to wait another week to see the final episode of "The Bachelor." My neighbor Francis calls the show "evil" and everyone on it "skanky hoes" - even the guy. But I know that they're just regular people trying to find The One. Freud said that all there is "love and work." And if someone is going to pay them to have private and intimate moments while on their search, then that's really killing two birds with one stone. I feel so sad for the poor girl who gets rejected.
It would have been nice if the guy came up with different things to say to each of them instead of "When I'm with you, all I can think about is you." Won't the girl he picks eventually watch the tapes and figure out that she got a canned line? I guess true love doesn't demand originality.

I'm not a big TV person, but I have been waiting since August for this night...God bless David Chase.

Move over Tony, Christopher's takin' the helm (for those of you not blessed with HBO, some dramatic events ocurred last night that I will try to relay, but that you'll probably figure out by reading this blog).

Prediction: Forever changed by his proximity to death, Tony will have a spiritual crisis that will gradually lead him out of his life as a mobster and towards the dual life as informant to the FBI. Christopher will spiral out of control as the new leader and eventually be on the hunt for Tony (both to avenge the murder of Adriana and to be just plain mean...). Carmella will sell all her material goods and move to Denver where she'll open a boutique catering to rich old ladies, and Dr. Melfi will realize her deep, unconscious, passion for Tony in a fiery love scene that takes place on a kitchen counter (ala The Postman Always Rings Twice).

Or maybe not. But something along those lines.

Just for today, I can make predictions.

Today, I called my cable company and cancelled my HBO. It was a difficult decision and I had to take a moment to grieve this loss. It's not that I can't afford it (though, I never say "I can't afford," but "I choose not to spend money on BLANK") and it's certainly not that I don't love it. I'm like a walking advertisement for HBO. I thought I was the first one to make up the advertising campaign, "It's not television, it's HBO," because I really mean it.

However, certain things weren't happening in my life. Two, to be specific, and they both take place in bed after 11:00 pm. Yes, you probably guessed the first one. Reading. I haven't cracked a book open in the past year-and-a-half since the cable guy came and installed a box a few days after my boyfriend broke up with me. I wept in gratitude knowing that my evenings would soon be filled with high-quality distraction from the heart-wrenching pain of ending a relationship. And I was right. Instead of confronting the deep loneliness of solitude, all I had to do was hit a button, and the next two hours were spent in a coma-like haze of half-consciousness while I surfed snippets of "Enterouge," "Curb Your Enthusiasm," "Ponrnucopia," and the occassional 80's hit ("Pretty in Pink," "Indescent Proposal," and "Pretty in Pink" (I love the scene where Molly "Andy" Ringwald doesn't want Andrew "Blane" McCarthy to drop her off at her house because she doesn't want him to "see where she lives"... I felt similarly in high school, though, I KNOW, Mom, that we weren't that poor and our house was very, very cute). Sure, I can now lip synch whole scenes from "Pretty in Pink," recite every ringer by Johnny Drama, and I know that porn is a niche market, but my grammar and spelling (in case you haven't noticed) has started to deteriorate (actually, that's a total lie...I'm just very lazy), not to mention my attention span (I had a huge crush on Andrew McCarthy when I was ten...did I pay my car insurance?). I was beginning to get all crack-addict-y about it (if this verbiage doesn't make my point clear, I don't know what will), lying awake at 2:00 am to watch the ending of "Don't Tell Mom the Babysitter's Dead" despite having seen it five times and never once enjoying it. Sure, there's "Real Time with Bill Maher" (he rocks) and the occasional educational documentary ("When the Levees Broke"), but for all the programming that nurtured my mind, there were fifty bad movies I couldn't seem to turn off or that I had watched only the middle portion of ten times (I don't think I once saw a movie from start to finish).

Then there's reason Numero Dos. A friend told me that in India the government is planning on giving away TV's to control population growth. There's got to be some reverse correlation between television viewing and sexual activity...need I say more?

Just for today, I can say goodby to HBO.

Today, I called my cable company and cancelled my HBO. It was a difficult decision and I had to take a moment to grieve this loss. It's not that I can't afford it (though, I never say "I can't afford," but "I choose not to spend money on BLANK") and it's certainly not that I don't love it. I'm like a walking advertisement for HBO. I thought I was the first one to make up the advertising campaign, "It's not television, it's HBO," because I really mean it.

However, certain things weren't happening in my life. Two, to be specific, and they both take place in bed after 11:00 pm. Yes, you probably guessed the first one. Reading. I haven't cracked a book open in the past year-and-a-half since the cable guy came and installed a box a few days after my boyfriend broke up with me. I wept in gratitude knowing that my evenings would soon be filled with high-quality distraction from the heart-wrenching pain of ending a relationship. And I was right. Instead of confronting the deep loneliness of solitude, all I had to do was hit a button, and the next two hours were spent in a coma-like haze of half-consciousness while I surfed snippets of "Enterouge," "Curb Your Enthusiasm," "Ponrnucopia," and the occassional 80's hit ("Pretty in Pink," "Indescent Proposal," and "Pretty in Pink" (I love the scene where Molly "Andy" Ringwald doesn't want Andrew "Blane" McCarthy to drop her off at her house because she doesn't want him to "see where she lives"... I felt similarly in high school, though, I KNOW, Mom, that we weren't that poor and our house was very, very cute). Sure, I can now lip synch whole scenes from "Pretty in Pink," recite every ringer by Johnny Drama, and I know that porn is a niche market, but my grammar and spelling (in case you haven't noticed) has started to deteriorate (actually, that's a total lie...I'm just very lazy), not to mention my attention span (I had a huge crush on Andrew McCarthy when I was ten...did I pay my car insurance?). I was beginning to get all crack-addict-y about it (if this verbiage doesn't make my point clear, I don't know what will), lying awake at 2:00 am to watch the ending of "Don't Tell Mom the Babysitter's Dead" despite having seen it five times and never once enjoying it. Sure, there's "Real Time with Bill Maher" (he rocks) and the occasional educational documentary ("When the Levees Broke"), but for all the programming that nurtured my mind, there were fifty bad movies I couldn't seem to turn off or that I had watched only the middle portion of ten times (I don't think I once saw a movie from start to finish).

Then there's reason Numero Dos. A friend told me that in India the government is planning on giving away TV's to control population growth. There's got to be some reverse correlation between television viewing and sexual activity...need I say more?

Just for today, I can say goodby to HBO.

Last night during the Academy Awards Show I noticed that when the montage of Best Actress recipients played that, as the decades progressed through the late 90's and 00's, the displays of emotion became more histrionic and over the top. In the late 70's, 80's 90's recipients like Jane Fonda, Meryl Streep, Emma Thompson, Jodie Foster, Kathy Bates, Marlene Matlin, Holly Hunter appeared to be poised, surprised, kind of dignified, thoughtful, and, sometimes, political...now it's like a therapy session gone bad after a poorly prescribed cocktail of meds. In the late 90's and 00's you got Nicole Kidman, Gwyneth Paltrow, and Halle Berry having an emotional meltdown and, then, Marion Cotillard last night...what's going on? Like their designer dresses, the displays of emotion have to be memorable and top of the line. What's so unglamorous about a simple thank you...works for the Cohen Brothers...

Ok, so I'll admit to my fantasy of receiving an award in a storm of humble tears...but that was years ago when I still thought that things like fame mattered...

It kind of made me glad that dream has never come true before I was able to (sort of) mature.

Just for today, I'm glad I've never been nominated (which would be impossible).

I just watched "Californication" and now David Duchovney is my new boyfriend. Before that it was James McAvoy in "Atonement" and before that it was Matt Damon in the "Bourne Identity" series, and before that it was Leonardo DiCaprio in "Blood Diamond," and maybe before that (it all blurs together from here on out) it was Kevin Connolly from "Enterouge," and before that it was Russell Crow in "Proof of Life," and before that it was Gael Garcia Bernal in "Y Tu Mama Tambien," and before that it was Mark Wahlberg in anything, and before that it was Brad Pitt in "Thelma and Louise," (and, though, I hate to admit it), a little in "Legends of the Fall," and before that - at some point in time - it was Tom Hanks in "Bosom Buddies" and before that it was Ralph Machio in "Karate Kid" and before that Jason Bateman in "It's Your Move."

Just for today, I can reflect on my pathetic personal life.

I havn't been watching the Olympics because I got sucked (or suckered myself) into this sometimes trashy, soft-core porn ShowTime series "Tell Me You Love Me" (on Netflix).

It's about couples going to therapy, and it turned into something like a ten hour movie with lots of front frontal nudity and no plot. I applauded the pioneering attitudes toward geriatric sex during the scene in which the 65-year-old therapist gives her husband a BJ. However, later, it got to be a bit much for me when she started saying things like "Fuck me!" and being multi-orgasmic. As much as I want to revolutionize sexual attitudes, I still want to keep my warm fuzzy feelings about grandmothers.

Just for today, I can get suckered into TV.

Am I the only one underwhelmed by Michael Phelps' post-gold medal win speech? I'm not sure spending that much time in the pool is really good for anybody. Really, I think the guy could stand to crack open a book and expand his vocabulary...I'd much rather hear what the "losers" have to say.

Just for today, I'm bored by winners.

Today, I watched HBO's lauded, addictive, "True Blood," yet, another show about vampires. What is the metaphor? Vampires = Over-sexed people? Middle Easterners? Corporate America? Republicans? Carnivores? Oil dependency? People who shop at Whole Foods? Salsa guys?

The question is, what are vampires not a metaphor for...? (actually, I don't think I need a question mark there).

I know that I'm very afraid of getting the life-blood sucked out of me by the guys who give me laundry quarters at the corner market. If I'm not getting sucked dry by The Man, it's large overweight roller-bladers who follow you down the bike path.

Then there's the whole "dating" scene. I say "dating," because I think "dating" has become a euphemism for sleeping around. "

"Do you think Los Angeles is the sluttiest city in the world?" I asked my friend the other night. "It is, after all, the porn capitol of the world."

"I think New York is worse," she answered.

On top of everything, in reaction to this True Blood world, I'm becoming some kind of puritan. If it's not for fear of diseases, or pregnancy, there's just a general creepiness/perv factor that nobody warned me about in sex education class.

Yes, I get why we need more shows, movies, books about vampires. Our imploding consumer culture can only be headed in that direction...though, I wouldn't mind not aging.

Just for today, I can get into True Blood.

I still believe "Mad Men" to be the most brilliant show since man began painting pictures of elk or deer (whatever they were) on cave walls. However, I don't think cave paintings ever came with commentary, and I think there is a good reason for that. After listening to The Commentary, I began to wonder if Matt Weiner wrote a different show from what I saw in Season 3.

From what I gathered, Matt, (we're very close), feels that he's written a show about the lack of morality in advertising (true), in a world in which such lack goes without consequence (also, most likely, true). I don't argue that advertising is a soul-draining, moral vacuum of decadence and ass licking (not an original metaphor, and, yet, absolutely true). Having worked in advertising, I'm well versed in cubicle cocktail parties, mafia-level "what the *&%?" extraction of knives from the back, and salacious stories about sex on conference room tables. And, no, I never had to worry about breaking a triangle conference room phone in the throws of a passionate "The Postman Always Rings Twice" (another ancient movie references...clearly, contemporary movies suck) affair, but I have written my share of emails under the influence of gin, beer, tequila, wine, or all four together, and counted such experience as one of a few perks for having my soul siphoned out of me like...like what?...like the last bits of oil in the earth! (yet another sucky metaphor). And I'm all for Don Draper getting in on with every hot, frustrated, oppressed-by-1960's-American woman (except for Peggy Olsen...who gets enough office action with her brilliant mind), but the man's bombshell wife is leaving him for a vanilla politician and taking his three kids. Excuse me, Mr. Two Time Emmy Award Winner, you wrote the moral lesson into the show!

Matt also thought the hot, teacher lady was a sexually liberated hippy, looking for a good roll in the hay. I'm sorry, but to me she screamed Fatal Attraction Stalker. I thought they wrote her off the show because if they kept her on any longer, she'd have to boil a rabbit.

I'm not going to listen to commentaries anymore. I know the artistic experience brings with it two parts; the creator who offers the product, and the consumer, who receives it. I just never realized how far apart our ideas about the final product could be. And, yet, in the end, does it matter? We don't all believe Mona Lisa had some dark secret. I think she was just kind of bored.

Just for today, I still love Mad Men.

Someone...organize an intervention (mom?). I'm out of control. Pirated television and me just got a little more intimate. Geez, it doesn't take much. Just slap some medieval garb onto The Sopranos, throw in some pseudo-ethnic looking motorcycle-gang style warriors, an inbred King, and some truly hot knights and my attraction to sociopath-driven blood drama has never shone with more sparkling clarity. Ok, fine none of the female characters make an iota of sense. (Exactly when did the blond Dragon girl fall in love with her rapist husband?). And, no, I don't think those dudes really smelled too good underneath 50 pounds of animal skin. But damn, if incestuous twins, head on spikes, dragons and an ocean of syrupy blood doesn't make for good television.

Just for today, I'm addicted to serial television.