I just unearthed two of the Netflix DVDs that were lost in the shuffling of furniture I've been doing over the past few days. Okay, weeks. They are both from season four of The West Wing. I started watching last year, after I got inculcated to Aaron Sorkin by wathing Sports Night over a blissful two week period. The first few seasons of the Wing are great. Really great, as I guess every liberal in the country knew except me.
So now I'm trying to stick with the season that Aaron Sorkin didn't write, and I can't. It's lame. It's still better than most television shows, but it's sort of like trying to tell yourself that sleeping with the guy who reminds you of your ex boyfriend is still better than sleeping with most guys. Maybe it is, but that's still sad.
So I think I'm going to start watching Meadowlands. I noticed it on Showtime on Demand the other day, and a new acquaintance at the Dog Park mentioned being intrigued. This heralds a strange and hard-to-follow dose of anglophilia to counteract my Sorkin withdrawl. At least until Studio 60 comes out on video or comes off haitus.
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