If Loving You Is Wrong, I Don't Want To Be Right

When one is craving inspiration, one must be on one's tippiest of toes, alert, aware. For it can be elusive, this sly inspiration - a shadowy figure zipping out of sight, a perfectly turned phrase only half-heard. For the Baroness, it turns up in the weirdest places. Or in the weirdness places. Today's little gem lunged at me whilst I was in the midst of changing the royal linens. I had the music station on the t.v. cranked to 11 - it really does make light of things, la-dee-dah-dee-dah - and the afore-mentioned song came on. If loving you is wrong, I don't want to be right. There's some conviction for ya. I will do something completely against social convention, devoid of acceptable behaviour, in the face of correctness because damn - this is a mighty fine thing. Mmm hmm.

You could not possibly believe how quickly my delicate shell-like ears perked up. I would liken it to the Lemonhundt's head when he hears a jar of peanut butter being cracked open. I'm weak with relief that I did not incur a severe case of whiplash. This, it seemed, to be happenstance. And of a strangely appropriate source. Because there is something I love, and the cultured mucketty mucks among you be damned. I don't want to feel right. I confess to you, dear readers, right here and right now - I love television.

And I miss television. Sure, there's still stuff on, but that's the problem - it's just stuff. American Gladiator? Biggest Loser? Celebrity Apprentice? Don't get me wrong - I'm sure that each of these has its positive features, and a niche target audience. I just don't think I'm in the mix. I realized last night as I watched "House", that this was quite possibly the last one filmed before the writers' strike began. The wheels have finally fallen off the cart. The Baroness finds this extremely irksome, as I have in no way, shape, or form even begun to unravel the mystery inside an enigma dressed up as a gimpy riddle that is Gregory House. I watch every week, in naive hope, that he may actually show some indication of a redeeming personal quality. Now, that smallest of hopes is dashed. Wah. And, yes mom, I know that he's just a character on a weekly series, but when I devote so much mental energy to figuring out what makes this guy tick, he's real enough to me.

And what of those fine folks down at the CSI lab? Who's minding the shop in their absence? Will unsolved crime go rampant? I'm sure that it's just a matter of time before all those chip-clickers on the World Tournament of Poker start to lose it & turn on each other and the dealer. I know that I feel vaguely homicidal when I watch for more than 3.6 seconds. Sunglasses inside? Inane conversation, color commentary on rivers and flops and cameras under the table - this is entertainment? I'd much rather stare at a picture of dogs playing Texas Hold'em. (Watch out for that shephard - he's not to be trusted). As for the Las Vegas crew, I'm quite worried about Warrick - has anyone else heard from him lately? He's on a slippery slope, that one.

Someone else I miss in my living room? Lorelei Gilmore. How I miss watching the weekly saga of the The Gilmore Girls unravel - walking the streets of Stars Hollow, waiting for Kirk to do something wacky, listening to the witty repartee between mother and daughter. What would the imperious Emily be doing to throw a wrench in things? And now they're gone, gone, gone. (I know that this has nothing to do with the writers' strike - I just feel like whining a little more). I recently saw a picture of Lauren Graham at the Sundance Film Festival. She seems to have moved on. Pity I haven't.

So now, with my favorite people/characters all suffering from writer-imposed "locked- in syndrome", I have turned to my standbys - some old, some new - the DVD's of all the television shows I love and miss. Which I believe is how this whole thing started in the first place. Love. So complicated. So wrong. Yet so right.