potatoradio

Favorite part was paper boy holding up the stun gun and saying "This? This looks AWESOME!" Bwahhh.... How convenient that the cages have wheels? WTF? But, whatever, watching this show reminds me a bit of watching "Wayward Pines." Started out decently and then slid into the ridiculous, but I will be tuning in to see how it ends. Also, I was pissed when Pitch got cancelled so this is also my Kylie Bunbury fix.

Totally misread this as "his group of HERPES." Which, well....with all the talk of hoes and escorts and Pretty Woman dates... Plus, Anna of the "I need to sue my cruel and incompetent prosthodontist club" is originally from Owatonna. But then she moved to Chicago for that big city dream, except apparently Chicago isn't so big. At least, not big enough for a solid pool of escorts that can remain anonymous. My interpretation of Matt's description of Rachel: "She's never the first to approach...she hangs back..." = "I had no clue she was even there until she was selected for the date." "She's not the loudest." = "Haven't heard a thing she's said, but she's sure pretty to a farm boy like me, and you don't have to talk in the fantasy suites if you don't want to...hubba hubba.." A wholehearted second and third to the comments about egging women on to lit-er-ally fight for a man. That's just twisted. And not in a fun twisty kinda way.

I cried about as hard as Peter's mom did when I realized that this little spoiled boy may one day go back to his job and fly a plane that I'm on. So, airplane pilots can't take anti-depressants, but being an utter nitwit who can't navigate a single conversation with the opposite sex is a-ok? I really wanted the crew to make Peter go sit in a corner with his juice box and his gogurt so the grownups could watch more Australian wildlife.

Same. And I thought she had a point (a miracle in and of itself) when she asked why he'd automatically believe some ex with super vague warnings and insist on having a talk on her parents' front porch when her family is waiting. Dude seriously needs to get in some footie pajamas and drink cheap wine at a slumber party so he doesn't miss any hot takes. But then Victoria started winding up with her wailing and whining and....nevermind. "I'm trying sooooo haarrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrd...." To do what, Victoria? Squeeze some glycerin out of your eyes? Relieve your constipation? Sound convincing when you say you're falling for this dolt when it's kinda clear that both of you would ditch each other for either of the country singers? And I would rather watch the mess between those two than watch him play with the Hannah Ann doll, who I am not convinced is actually human and would not be surprised if she came with a twist arm for when it's time to play grown up, aka Growing Up Skipper.

Oh, good. I needed another Gretchen/Anya season of PR in my life. Judges, you have the power to make Victoria go away. Please use that. I am tie-dye ignorant and really liked learning how to make the different patterns. I always thought the process was more free-spirited and random; as in, twist shirt into whatever form it wants to be and soak in whatever colors move you with their aura. Live and learn. And I was pretty impressed by how some of the techniques and colors came out. Sergio cracks me up. Yes, he's a preening, pompous ass, but I think he just may be poking a little fun at how seriously the show takes itself. But it was a little much when someone told him they could see Michelle Obama wearing his dress and he nodded like, "oh, of course...she should be so lucky." Er.....no, Sergio. Britney...just...bugs. Luckily, I don't think, despite the stupid save, her designs are going to get her to the finals. Uh....Delvin's a good tailor? Ouch. Is that kind of a backhanded compliment in the fashion world? As in, you can hammer a nail real good, but you don't have the chops to actually design the church? I really want a pair of Nancy Pants.

And if you spend all that time backing your precious HumVee or whatever into a spot and you STILL manage to park over the lines, I am gonna wedge my car in beside you so tightly (while still in my space, by the way) that you'll need to grease yourself up with Crisco to get into your car. My car looks like shit anyway, so you do what you want with your keys or your door. Normally I'm a big fan of defensive driving, but that bullshit? Uh-uh.

Dropping by with two peeves that struck today and so my ire is fresh. 1. If you call me and I'm not able to pick up the phone, kindly leave a voicemail if you'd like me to call you back. Please do not keep calling like a bunny-boiling psycho and then passively-aggressively stop by my desk to say, 'Oh, you ARE here...' Or, worse, say to me a few days later, "Did you see that I called?" Yes, I am here and yes I can see a number on my caller ID, but since you didn't leave a voice mail, or send an email, I have zero idea how urgent your question is or what it entails, so fuck right off. And no, it doesn't count to leave a vm that goes something like, 'Hi, Potato...give me a call, k, thks.' I don't mean to be a princess about the whole thing, but for god's sake, how hard is it to say, "hi, potato, please call me as soon as you can. I really need to talk to you." or "Hi, I have a question about X, please give me a call back." 2. The office bathroom air freshener is there for a reason. Just sayin'. In fact, we offer TWO kinds: the industrial strength Glade that will make you pass out from the onslaught of apple and spice OR the kinder and gentler essential oil based Poopourri with a calm citrus scent guaranteed to be gentle on sensitivities, yet effective for the olfactory nerves. But you have to use one or the other, OK? Please? I'm not judging anyone's GI; I just don't want to hurl while voiding my bladder nor do I want to have to resort to bringing a book of matches to the bathroom with me.

What happens when you deprive a group of vapid young famewhores of their phones for longer than ten secs? They try to talk in person and use words instead of emojiis and it's just a special kind of hell for anyone trying to follow what they're saying. They hiccup "likes" as often as they probably enter cryinglaughing emojii faces. In fact, I think some of these "girls" were the inspiration behind the cryinglaughing and cryingrillyrill emojiis. Peter is definitely not the eggplant inspiration, sources report. To the poor woman who scored four touchdowns and got nothing for it? Honey - the women's pro football agents would like a word. Granted, it's not a life of fakepretendtwuewuf with a drip who throws you down on a table to prove his budding rose is rilly rill, but there are personal trainers, great camaraderie and loads o' fun. Try it and don't hide that talent. If Victoria (Letter) can't stop squeeing her pants at being ALONE AT CEDAR POINT with UNLIMTED ACCESS TO ROLLER COASTERS (like, rilly rill coaster...like, happycryingsqueeeggplant emojii!!!!...like, the most awesome coasters on the planet...like....) she can go park herself out of the way and let me at it. Let the real woman on the coaster, please, and take the children out of the park. Peter looks like the lamest kisser ever. Peter and Ben Higgins should get together and maybe then we can get clarity on why it's just so difficult for them to ever 'get there' with their girls.

Was Skipper the doll that featured insta-grow boobs by cranking her right arm around a few times? Or was that a special edition? Or am I totally inventing a memory from those 70s? I fully expected the Demi/Kristian scenes to fade to a fuzzy cam and include Wells pouring water over them to get them wet. Show should have checked out the SNL Vanessa Bayer/Kristen Stewart hawt girl on girl action to really get it "right." Barring that, they could have at least played Pittburgh Slim's "I Like When Girls Kiss Girls" as background. You know, real cutting edge bravery...

Thank you, @Aerobicidal. My band really needed a stunning, amazing, season ten worthy name! We take the stage in tight mustard colored pants and our instruments include crab legs (played only by those with shellfish allergies) and the delightful wobble woosh of Aaron's gently tapped and set swinging jowls and a medley of Joe's sniffs. We rock the damn house. Also....hydroplaning mushrooms....Lordy, Lordy, honey, smack me with a spun honey wand and show me the beekeeper. You rock my world. Oh, and Fred got F'd. What kind of consolation prize is it to have him, a creator of refined sugary and pretty things, knuckled under the knobby thumb of Christina Tosi? You know, the one who dumps Fruity Pebbles and candy rocks into a cake batter and then dusts JUST the top (elegant!) with go-go pixie dust? Not that Candace would be much more pleasant, but damn, at least she knows how to frost a damn cake.

Or someone who, for some reason, thinks a side ponytail is rockin' adorbs. Renee, Suzanne Somers called. She says, 'oh, hell to the no, bitch, I'm the only blonde legally obligated to put my hair into ponytails like a three year old. If you're not hawking a Thighmaster, you need to put your hair up proper and leave the toddler grand supreme hairstyles to the pros.' Seems the producers have decided that shellfish allergies are really great dramatic viewing - season ten is so amazing that it's no longer enough to, say, ask a vegetarian to kill a live crab/lobster and season TEN has far more stunning stunts than asking a blind woman to handle a live crab. Dah-ham. Cue the fireworks exploding over the ambulance next, mebbe? If they're looking for someone to consume all that leftover crab? Call me. Too much crab? Da fuq?

So...after someone finished explaining how vitally important a hairstyle was to finish a look and Marni walked right on sporting a messy old maid knot so tight she squinted...was the irony intentional or just unfortunate? I can't tell how much this show deliberately pokes at its viewers. Also wasn't sure how much everyone was paid when Marni completely "saved" a look by pushing the strap-sleeves down over the shoulders. I was kind of hoping all those vapors the judges were suffering were going to turn out to be a joke, but it does appear this show really wants Marni to happen for some reason.

Dear Tessa - A woman's body is not a "situation." You are not the Hermione Granger of the class, love. Now please take a seat or two. Or get therapy. Or, as Hester the Jester's hat says, "Plz Die." Thank you.

The Songbird Drinks at Midnight (also, at 1am, 2am, 3am….) And We Interrupt Your Weekly Pearsoning for a Very Special Supporting Character Backstory OK, so the gang’s mostly all there with Nicky and Kevin has a plan to save him, but then… Randall: OK, I gotta bounce. I just remembered I have a wife who lost her job or her mom or her favorite sweater or something. Kate: Yeah, I’m outtie. I’m pregnant! Kevin: Everybody hates me!! Nobody ever listens to MY ideas! Rebecca: I do! Kevin, I’ve left Miguel behind again so we can have some super special mom/#1 bonding! Oh, goodness, Nicky, you have Jack’s eyes…may I pluck them out and hang them on a chain for my rear view mirror?’ Kevin: *sulks* Anyway, Nicky is led to the promised land of a VA center, but he says, ‘nah…I like my trailer better.’ And Rebecca gives him some stern talking to about Jack, of course, and Nicky says, again, ‘OK…I’m going back to my trailer now.’ Kevin comes with him to replace a tile in the ceiling because Nicky has never heard of a stepstool and isn’t tall enough to reach. Or, he’s been too drunk to think anything other than, ‘oh, cool, waterfall….wait, waterfall…there were falls in Nam, right…drink more…whiskey….’ Kevin and a bottle of whiskey have a standoff. Whiskey wins. Kevin takes a slug and stares moodily out of the window of Rebecca’s car. And because the writers think that a character staring moodily out of a window is a new and novel way to jump into a flashback…here we go… This is Kevin. He is mad. Kevin is mad at dad. Dad is in a bad mood. Dad can’t take Kevin to get his baseball card autographed because mood so his MOM has to take him instead. The blight on this poor kid’s soul! There aren’t enough tears in the world some days. Anyway, MOM threatens to screw the whole thing up and take them out of line to get lunch but Kevin curls up in a fetal position and screams, ‘you’re the worst mommy in the whole world.’ Rebecca says, ‘OK, fuck you, I’m going to get myself a nice hot Auntie Anne’s cinnamon pretzel while you roll around on this filthy floor. Sucks to be you.’ Rebecca learns that Kevin is actually a rather crafty stalker and wannabe celebrity assistant, having researched the baseball player’s options for entertainment in the new city, should he be traded. Baseball player says, ‘yeah, your kid needs to work on getting me the list of girls and booze and drugs for my after game. Now leave me alone. Brunettes are not my thing, honey.’ Anyway, so we’re back on the addiction roller coaster storyline for Kevin and pretty soon he’ll be telling Zoe the same thing he told Sophie and that ride will come to a complete stop amid tears a-plenty. And then maybe Kevin will move into Nicky’s trailer and they can spend their days swallowing whiskey to mask the pain and patching the ceiling from time to time. I call a spinoff. Two Guys and a Leaky Trailer (but not the fun meth kind of trailer). Meanwhile, even though she presumably has to fly back to the West Coast, Kate’s in a car with Randall and I guess they can take a jog past their old house (which will be nothing like their old house because crockpot but hey, surely digging in the old DIRT might feel good!). Who needs to worry about changing flight reservations? Silly, silly reality. Kate is either really moved after meeting Nicky or so daft that after meeting her Drunk Uncle, Vietnam Vet Version, she starts nattering on about The Sequin Fight. Yes, it needs its own article, it was that EPIC. I’ve been to drag shows, Kate. You don’t know shit about epic sequin fights. Anyway, the memory stuck in Kate’s peabrain like a piece of KFC gristle in her teeth is something like this: the day (Everyone Hates) Kevin was to get his baseball autograph, St. Greasefire sits home with Randall and Kate instead. Milo has studied Mommie Dearest, the film, and tries his best Dunaway impression and tells them not to make a mess. With sequins and paper and a million other little crafty sparkly things as they make homemade Valentine’s. Sure, that’ll end well. For the record, Dunaway in a full face of moisturizer, wielding a wire hanger, is truly legendary, so I’m in no way invested in seeing Milo play tortured Dad. So, St. Greasefire leaves the kids on their own and goes out to the…garage?...to pump iron. Ooooooh, ladies! Tightie whitey undershirt Milo time!! Me, I’m wondering who the hell pumps iron in JEANS? Where the hell are the zubaz or Richard Simmons shorts? Or even sweatpants? I mean, Kate and Randall? If you see a man doing bicep curls in an undershirt and jeans, you can be assured that he is, at least, a dumbass who should be left to experience a Darwin award by dropping a dumbbell on his head. Hmmmm….maybe that’s how he REALLY died (or asphyxiated himself doing abdominal crunches while wearing jeans) and ain’t nobody going to bring THAT shame to light. Anyway, maybe because he’s lifting in jeans that cut off his circulation, St. Greasy is crabby now and when he sees a messy table, he….children, hide your eyes, St. Daddy Jack is gonna blow…yells. And throws a plate. My God, Vietnam has no end to its pain. Oh, yeah, and they ordered pizza. But not just any pizza. It’s a PEARSON pizza. With a topping that everyone likes! Genius!! I’ve never heard of such a thing! Now every Valentine’s day, the Big Three Narcissists order a Pearson Pizza and have a sequin fight after Red Leader dresses up like Jack, puts Nicky’s stabbed out eyes in his head, and yells at them. It’s hawt and full of feelz in thirty minutes or less. So, Jack has a temper fit and the kids cry and look scared and then Jack starts throwing sequins. Yay! Sparkle! Now, I haven’t made homemade Valentines in a while, so I’m not an expert on the size of sequin dispensers, but good lord almighty, what kind of a VAT do they have that this flinging of sequins goes on for what seems like hours? Or are we now also trapped in Kate’s perfect little pretty pony memory? God help us. Kate, meanwhile, is still babbling happily about the sequin fight and Randall, desperate to shut her up, decides that stopping by their old house is just the thing. The random, smiling family now living in the newly constructed house is first, like, ‘um….OK, we’re busy, please go, bye.’ But then their moppet approaches the car with big eyes and asks, winsomely, ‘do you want to see my room?’ Kate says, “It’s not your room, BITCH! It’s MINE! MINE! Sequin fight! Sequin fight!” Randall, “Kate, I’m an elected official now. Not that you’d ever know it from how little it’s impacting my life, but I’m only allowed a certain number of crazy, broken down relatives, OK?” So the moppet leads them into the house for a full Pearsoning. The family sends silent pleas for help to the cameras as Randall and Kate wander around and yammer about the Great Sequin Fight. Randall gently breaks it to Katie Girl that, hey, ya know, dad was actually kind of a bastard that day? Kate marvels at this feat of ‘absence makes the heart grow fonder.’ Huh, she thinks, how’d I forget my dad smashing a plate against a wall? Are my traumatic memories so easily suppressed with a shower of sequins? What does that say about me? She then uses this newly acquired wisdom to instruct Tobe Babe that their child will actually have the PERFECT childhood, full of doing whatever said child wants. Just like….wait for it…St Greasy! Tobe Babe says, ‘oh, so you want to spoil our kid and make sure it grows up to be like you? Will that finally make you STOP trying to turn me into your daddy-o? Cos, if so, I’m in like Flynn!’ Randall returns home and gives gifts of hotel lotion. Dude. You’re an elected official now. Looks are everything. Don’t give your kids the freebies from the hotel and expect it to be like Christmas, OK? Although, maybe he also helped himself to the lightbulbs from his hotel room and, first thing, he’s finally going to replace those burned out bulbs in St. William’s old apartment complex to instantly stop crime. Well. I can totally see why a two-parter was necessary for this Feelz-a-Palooza. And let’s just get the next one over with while I’m here. More wine. More Baked Cheetos (shut up, DON’T JUDGE ME, I have to get my feelz from somewhere and a nice orange powder chased by a pinot gris is about my only option, all right?!) Ohhhhh kay, it’s time for Supporting Character Filler episode. OK, I’m hoping for the mystery of why in hell Beth puts up with Randall and in-laws with egos that rival a certain president’s, but I’m guessing this is going to be titled something more like, ‘My Name is Beth. I am Helpless Over my Pearsoning.’ “HI, BETH!” As it turns out, this was actually a nice palate cleanser. I don’t have much to snark on this ep, but I will say that this show has crashed the bar through the floor if the best I can say about the ep that features the most talented actors on this show is that it was OK to watch. Not the most original story in the world (young dancer has to give up dream because Life), but it is remarkably refreshing to watch an hour of anyone but the Pearsons. I give all credit to the acting and even these writers can’t screw up with Phylicia Rashad as Tiger Mom. Also, JACK, if you’re watching from heaven in your tightie whities, THAT is how you parent and support a talented daughter without convincing her that the world should totally stop when she enters the picture because she’s so awesome. Because, see, we get invested in Beth’s success because we see her WORKING for it. Also, the anvils were of the lighter variety, which my aching head appreciated after the solid hour of being Wile E. Coyote I just endured. If I didn’t’ know this show, I might have gotten my hopes up that maybe we’d see more of how being the sole black dancer for a long time in her dance school affected Beth. But that’s not this show, so Beth magically reconciles her past (with support of her Pearson husband, of course) by waltzing into a dance studio, totally wowing the random teacher/owner who happens to be walking by as Beth freestyles a dance that made me feel guilty about even the baked Cheetos and made my knees hurt. Beth announces, like a goddess on Olympus, “I want to teach!” Well OK, then. That was easy. Make it so. The End. However, the seeds are there for a spinoff. Ditch the Pearsons, Beth. Be free. You know you want to. I want you to want to. And you don't want me to keep sounding like a Cheap Trick song, do you? I haven’t seen many promos for this show touting how I MUST WATCH for the amazeballs kick in the feelz lately. Is the hype finally waning? Have they pumped every last ounce of promotion into this mess and are now ready to quietly close the patient on the table and call it? Is it time to harvest whatever viable characters are left in a spinoff? Will it go quietly or will it put up a sequin fight? Meanwhile, back to hoisting the anvils back into place and regreasing St. Jack’s hair. Next time: sushi and pinot noir, maybe. Guess which I’m looking forward to more? Cheers.

Episode (lost count...when, when, will this END?): "Dear Writers....Pssssssstttt....You Picked the Wrong Pearson as Main Character!" Before we get to that oh so powerful moment of the three Pearsons stalking a trailer like a trio of righteous zombies… Jack gets postcards from Nicky delivered to his work. What? Huh? So he’s been pretending Nicky is dead and hasn’t been in contact, but somehow Nicky, living all alone as a drunk demented hermit in a trailer with no internet, natch, gets the address of his workplace? Oh, fine, whatever you need to do, show, to get St. Jack’s face on camera. I can’t actually read the postcards, but I think one of them says “Jack P. is a fugly slut.” Also, Beth has a little thing called a life. Specifically, a few job interviews. You know, so she can stop being so jealous of Randall? Well, she’d kind of like Randall to stay around and, I dunno, support her, but he tells her she’s amazeballs and also hot in heels and besides, he has three full weeks before he has to get to work as a councilman (uh…that’s three more weeks that the noble poor folks have to go without lighting, so thanks for nothing, wunderkind) so geez, please, woman, get thee back on that bass, k? Five minutes in and one Randall speech complete. Sigh. Hmmm. Maybe I should mute the teevee and listen to Nine Inch Nails as a soundtrack and make up my own dialogue? Eh, cat on lap, full wine glass…nevermind. Kate leaves Tobe Babe behind to play with his new figurines and flies out last minute because again, money grows on trees for these people, and apparently it’s no biggie to fly during the early trimesters of a high risk, $20,000 pregnancy. Come ON, show, do you know how many women I know who cancelled vacations and business trips once they found they were pregnant and needed to fly? But this is Queen Kate we’re talking about and she’s probably hoping this new uncle of hers has the undershirt Jack sported in Nam that she can use for a diaper or a Pinterest-inspired hat? As they get into the car, Kevin asks Randall how he’s so calm about finding long lost uncle. Randall says, “well, when you find out your mother has hidden the truth about your birth father from you your entire life and you get an Emmy for that, you’re cool.” Me: Bwahhhhh ha ha ha ha! Me: Meeee-OW, Randall! Cat on lap: Don’t bring me into this, human. After a few minutes of Big Three yuk-yuk, tee-hee in the car that tries so hard I just want to give in and make a donation already to make it stop…here we are at the trailer and the zombie Pearson apocalypse is going to start. Yeah! Kevin starts doing everything but kicking in the door because braaaiiiins…oh, nevermind, no brains. It’s just Nicky tottering up the drive with a brown bag of booze like the drunken Mr. Gower in the unborn George Bailey version of “It’s a Wonderful Life.” Nicky tells them to skedaddle, but Kate is Strong and plunks herself down and informs him that Kevin has flown halfway around the world and his girlfriend ate a BAT so that he could solve the Scooby Doo mystery of the missing necklace. Nicky looks at them blearily, hoping this is a hallucination and the prelude to a merciful blackout, and then says, ‘you’re Jack’s kids all right.’ I know, Nicky, I feel your pain. Back to Nam to rehash the same damn scenes that were clichéd and stupid the first time. They have not gotten more poignant or feelz-y with time, in case you were wondering. Nicky is stoned out of his mind, also crazy from the pain and suffering of war (he’s kinda weak like that), so SOMEBODY is going to die in a horrible way. Like, a lot of fish. Nicky throws a grenade into the water and ka-boom! Fish heads…fish heads..yummy, yummy fish heads… Damn. War is hell. But if you think THAT’S reaching rock bottom…you’ve never watched an After School Special. Of course the poor Vietnamese kid gets blown up because he reaches for the grenade and then Nicky drops it and is too much of a loser to push the kid out of the boat so he saves himself and the writers put their trademark flourish on the imagery (“close up: child size flip flop floating, upside down…maybe change to black and white film and color the single sandal red? Oh, Schinder’s List already did something like that? Well, there were no Pearsons in that movie, so it doesn’t count.”) Oh, Nicky, you’ve done it now. Superman is PISSED. He TRIED to save you, dumb ass. He travelled around the world to find you (whoa…his son would also travel around the world to find him….that’s some deep stuff, there…) and now you’ve gone and screwed up the rescue mission. Be gone, Nicky. So…this is all to reveal that St. Jack is actually an asshole. Well, show, I kinda figured that out, but you go on with your big “OMG” moments. Does this mean no more gratuitous shots of Milo in anything tight and white? More importantly, is this the reason he doesn’t want to wash his hair? Shampoo makes him feel too good or something? Nicky has apparently never had the chance (because it’s against federal law to write, ‘it was an accident, you sanctimonious douche’ on a postcard) to tell St. Jack it was an accident. St. Jack visited once, said ‘no talking about Nam!’ and then said, ‘I have a good life.’ And, to prove it, he shows Nicky a picture of his family. Now THAT is being best. Ya know, Jack, there are less, um, ‘noble’ ways to tell your brother to go piss in the wind. You, too, could pick up a pen and postcard. “Dear Nicky – You are the James Stenbeck of my Oakdale. Everyone thinks you’re dead and is better off for it. If you show your face near my perfect life, I will be forced to meet you in my driveway as I slowly, soulfully, shirtless, wipe down a random car part.” Anyway, Nicky finds out about Jack’s death by Crock Pot and immediately bursts out laughing at the melodramatic irony of it all. No, wait, sorry, that was me. Actually, what happens is the Big Three go away and come back and walk slowly up to the Trailer of Despair as an emo guitar plucks out a water-torture slow version of Genesis’ “Superman.” They edge their way inside to find….don don don…music change to “Janie’s got a gun.” Oh, NO, I never would have guessed he’d be SUICIDAL…. But wait! He’s not dead! Randall picks up the gun and Kevin delivers a Jesus/Jack-shoulder touch and the Big Three fireman-carry a sobbing Nicky to the car and feed him raisins and tell him he’s headed to a wonderful land of Pearson, where problems disappear with one speech and guitar riff! Plus, if he follows The Pearson Program, he might even be able to play Pilgrim Rick next Thanksgiving! Off they go to the bouncing tune, “Oh, Mickey.” Oh, fucking hell, that was only part one?! Zounds…more secrets to be revealed in part two? Like, the secret cookie recipe from Red Leader? Well, show, the secret you ACTUALLY revealed is that you’ve been focused on the wrong damn character. Where has old Nicky been? The actor is fantastic. And if you hadn’t confused “sanitized” with “complexity”, well, you could have a helluva story there. If you hadn’t been so hamfisted with planting “reasons” Nicky fucked up (he was a sensitive lad, abusive dad, bad luck, driven crazy by war and an addict so OF COURSE the tragedy is not that an innocent kid gets killed but rather, Nicky becomes a blight on St. Greasy’s life)…well, you’d have something called an interesting character arc. But we don’t want that, do we? Nah, it’s all about how St. Jack’s life was ruined and the guilt HE carried around because he wasn’t perfect. Christ on a cracker, show, we really need more dramas featuring asshole average white guys with wilted little god-hero-complexes? Hokay, so part II will be Nicky engaging in re-enactment therapy using the Star Wars figures and then Rebecca will say, “you know, Jack wasn’t perfect. he couldn't even wash his hair.” And Red Leader will toss his lovely, styled locks and say, “duh!” And then Randall will take everyone down to the good poor folks to listen to jazz as they finally put light bulbs in the damn lights so the poor folks will stop getting attacked but then Kate will think the glow of new lights is St. Jack’s halo and climb a ladder, hand outstretched, moaning, ‘brraaaaiins…banana ice creaaaaaaammmm..” and then she’ll fall and Kevin will propose to Zoe in the ambulance. I really am wondering how much longer this show is going to hump along…I haven’t seen nearly as many ads telling me that I HAVE TO WATCH and get shanked in the feelz. But I have a bad feeling it’s not going away anytime soon, so…more wine…more happy cat on lap….it could be worse…