Sopranos
For All Debts Public And Private

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Money for Nothing (And Icelandic Chicks for Free)

And now for the touching denouement. Christopher sits alone in a strange house, smoking a cigarette in the kitchen. A couple of pictures of his father dot the table beside him, and I have to say that Michael Imperioli looks exactly like his father. Suddenly a middle-aged woman in a housecoat and curlers wanders in, and she's clearly surprised to see him. The subtext rapidly reveals that this is Mama Moltisanti, and that she and Christopher aren't all that close. They make small talk, which also includes Christopher checking his mother's breath for alcohol, and then the conversation naturally turns to talk of the father. "Did you ever miss him?" asks Chris. "When he was in prison, or after he was dead?" replies Mom. She also takes an inordinate amount of self-righteous pride in the fact that she never "saddled" Christopher with a stepfather. Which probably explains the loneliness and the drinking. In a touching Ruth-like attempt to relate to her son, she offers to make him his favorite food (a fluffer-nutter), but she doesn't have any peanut butter. And if that's not metaphor for dysfunctional family relationships, I don't know what is. Christopher excuses himself to leave, but before he goes, he stops in front of the refrigerator, which is festooned with AA slogans, and pins up the twenty-dollar bill he took from the Daddy-Killing Diner Pirate. Mama Moltisanti might have preferred a book report with an A on it, but for Christopher, that's about the best he could do. And as the music kicks in, and we slowly zoom into Andrew Jackson's left eyeball, the show comes to a close. For the first time in memory, we don't fade to black for the credits, as David Chase simply shows us the money (FS2 = 7).

Well, that's it kids. But before I go, I'd be remiss if I didn't at least mention the news in this announcement. You know, in my brief time as an employee of Television Without Pity, I've seen and done a lot of crazy things. I've shared a hotel room with Shack. I've shared a sofa with Hobey and Little Joe. I've partied with reality TV stars. I've gotten angry email from Mike Binder's little brother. I've at times seen various readers and recappers drunk, stoned, naked, and enraptured by an Elvis movie (though not, sadly, simultaneously). I've been kicked out of bars at 3:00 AM. I've been kicked out of Wing and Glark's house at 4:00 AM. I've signed autographs. I've gotten my picture in the paper. I've stayed up all night writing recaps. I've stayed up all night reading recaps. I've seen some of the greatest television ever produced. I've seen four episodes of The Mind of the Married Man. I once watched someone gleefully bid more than $100 on E-Bay for a single VHS tape containing a '70s era TV Movie of the Week starring -- I kid you not -- Donny Osmond. ["It was Shaun Cassidy, bitch. Also, you're fired." -- Sars] I've been stalked. I've been prank-called. I've been accused of racism, homophobia, extreme long-windedness, and insensitivity towards the morbidly obese. For some reason, a shockingly large number of people want to marry me anyway. I've made great friends, some of whom I've never even laid eyes on. And perhaps most important of all, I'm one of an extremely small group of people on this planet who can honestly say that writing detailed recaps of popular television shows has actually gotten them laid.

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Sopranos

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