But so now we get to hear Wm. H. Macy yelling operatically about it? First at sweet Lip, and then at strangers? Giving voice to the resentment of an entire shitty self-obsessed generation? Admitting to his faults, but only ever as a passive viewer? Raised watching his own image on the television screen and the endless "Fortunate Son" montages of his memories on a continuous loop? No, thank you. No thank you to that, no thank you to "These kids I have done nothing to raise are still somehow a burden," no thank you to racist outbursts, no thank you to "What about me?" It wasn't just fear Fiona was feeling, when they got closer to the body under the El; it was the cold, gripping hand of Showtime's demographic.

At least Lip tried to be sweet about it, telling him it was only fun to make the Canadian jokes once they knew he was okay; he's not hearing that even when he gets to the Alibi and they're singing "O Canada," with their flags again. He does start listening when Karen's dad sits down and buys him a drink, sharing in the generation-hate and general dissatisfaction of abusive fathers who've found themselves homeless.

"I don't know you, Frank, but it occurred to me, you and I are the victims here. Two hardworking, God-fearing men. We raised our kids in a straight line with discipline and with God's good guidance? My Karen was twelve when I heard her use the c-word. And on a Sunday! And her mother? A woman whose only pleasures in life come from sex, TV cooking shows, and drawing maximum benefits from the welfare state. Hundreds a week. And for what? Agoraphobia. A made-up disease for people who want to sit on their ass at home and watch TV. I don't know where Sheila's dignity's gone, or whether she ever had any in the first place. Her whole world is about this big, and the less she does, the more they pay her..."