I always used to say that Queer As Folk (US) was about as realistic and relevant to my life as a gay man as Smallville was. And you know, I meant it. In every possible way. Nowadays my life is more like Laguna Beach, or possibly freakin' Battlestar Galactica, some days. But the point isn't that I watch a lot of television, the point is this: remember when this show was awesome? It wasn't like real life or real business, and it certainly wasn't an "n-week-long job interview"; however, it was recognizable in the grander scheme as a television show about people doing things. You could at least say that it was realistic in that people are often known to do things. In great variety, oftentimes. But now... I don't know what this goddamn show is about, but it seems somehow less realistic or relevant than ever before. Sorta people sorta doing things. Crazy things that make no sense, or sorta make sense, that is what this show is about. Specifically, the things they are kinda doing this week: yelling, and... screaming. The whole thing was a blur, I have to say. I think this might be the best season ever, now, because you've also got Trump losing his shit in a massive way in the real world, in realtime, to add that frisson of excitement, and also because it is a truth universally recognized that a once-awesome, slipping television show -- much like Richard Simmons, typing pool names, The O.C. or any David E. Kelley drama -- has only one chance: to go from actual quality to shitty to utter cracked-out awesomeness. I feel like I say this every season, but this time I mean it: I submit to you the possibility that this has happened here.
This Show Is Going To Be Cracked-Out Shark-Jumping Awesome: Exhibit A
NYC is rainy and cold, and cold-hearted people with umbrellas scurry about like ants underground, because contrast is the most powerful force in the world. Except in terms of Trump always basing like about 60% of his identity on being a New Yorker and how New York is yooge or whatever, it's kind of a mixed message to be sending. Inside the limo, with loving songs of love, Donald Trump is talking into a telephone which is connected to absofuckinglutely nothing whatsoever, pretending to be having a conversation with his mail-order wifebot and their robot baby. While this is not, in fact, happening, I am at least relieved at the relative quiet of his voice. I was expecting screaming right out the gate. The baby from that Aaliyah song gurgles over the phone, I mean seriously the exact same sound, because not even the person or persons employed to create the illusion of Baron Trump can be buggered to bother this season. Melania, who is not on the phone, and Baron, who is not on the phone, are not in New York, they are in California. If in fact they exist at all. You know the Donald would be just as happy with a hologram. Be for real: as long as he could take it out on the town to prove that a "sexy" hologram like Melania would consent to his oily fearsome touch, he'd be fine. So he's riding in this limo, pretending to talk to his hologram wife, on the way to the airport, so that he can go to LA. He has buildings and things just all over the place, as you might know, and now he's building a house in LA. The loving rainy music goes TOTALLY FUCKING SWANK.