Still no TV, and I often have to kick-start some of these streaming viewers that the networks run, but nothing will keep me from vegging out in front of the TV in one form or another.
I don’t have a TV in my new apartment yet, but I did finally manage to get the Internet hooked up, so I was able to spend the weekend bingeing on some of the fall premieres that I’ve been missing.
Spring filler makes me cranky.
While the return of watchable television means I can spare myself the pain of Skating With Celebrities or Get This Party Started, it comes too late to save me from most of the new shows the networks have rolled out this winter.
It’s not like I had anything but the lowest expectations for this show, but for some reason I was hoping that the last premiere of the Autumn would provide me with some kind of satisfying closure, a lesson that I could take away from all this pilot-watching.
Martha Stewart has become a sort of modern-day Confucius, encouraging us all to observe traditional rituals and relationships in order to ensure a harmonious, tastefully-decorated world.
Despite its constant efforts to kill itself, the three-camera sitcom just. Refuses. To. Die, already.
Entering the last leg of the race to watch all of this season’s premieres, running out of things to say about mediocre-to-bad TV shows.
Beyond an extra helping of paranoia, there’s little to distinguish Close to Home from any other suburban-hell, crusading-lawyer or working-mom show on the air.
Beneath the thin layer of forensic technobabble and buddy-cop banter that most procedural crime shows ostensibly revolve around, there lies a nasty, insatiable appetite for images of mutilated bodies and terrified women. Why watch that when you can watch Gabrielle Union instead?