TV Diaries

The Bingedemic

We’ve watched all of TV. All of us. All of it. Yesterday, I read on Satan’s megaphone, Facebook, that in some quarters there is genuine fear that we, as a semi-intelligent species, may have run out of things to watch, and I know that in my house we have.

I thought I would never go lower than “Tiger King,” and perhaps I have not, though three seasons of “Cobra Kai” strike me as penance for something.

It wasn’t until “The Last Dance” was over that I realized I had been stood up. Where was the compulsive gambling? The hookers? The criticism for the unexplained and deeply irritating baseball farago? I’d been puffed. We all had, but we watched.

With the exception of the always flawless Tony Shahloub, “Mrs Maisal” tried too hard. This is not to say that “Mrs. Maisal” is a bad show, just exhausted. Poor Mrs. Maisal! The manic routines! The kittenish klothes in krazee kolors! She’s not funny but it’s not all her fault, she experiences an entire bi-polar mood cycle during each show. I know, I’ve watched every episode of all three seasons.

There’s more, much, much more. And a lot of it is good, some fabulous, even a few transcendent. Like “The Office,” “Queen’s Gambit,” and every goddamn British series ever made.

Which leads me to “Bridgerton.” The past 11 months have been catastrophic and unspeakable. But there is “Bridgerton,” Shonda Rhymes’ candy colored wet dream of dramatic hair and sculpted abs, of dulcet tones and dewy youth. “Bridgerton” has wit and style and conviction. It is a  bi-racial world of love and beauty. I loved it so. I never wanted to leave. Why would you?