Season 2 of New Girl just debuted on Netflix.
I’m not much of a TV while-it’s-happening person at all. I can’t get into it. And with my daddy’s love of HDTV and all that comes with it, everything seems to look more like an episode of Jimmy Neutron than what I’ve always associated with TV. I like lines on my flat people.
I wholeheartedly enjoy movies, as my collection attests. I like to watch them over again whenever it strikes my fancy. Good movies and good books share a problem: they end too soon. So I am addicted to television shows, on my computer, netflix or dvd. Sure, they often last much much longer than they should, leaving the loyal watcher slamming his or her head into any available flat surface wondering why they couldn’t have allowed the show to die a merciful death. It happens to most shows, the Andy Griffith Show being a prime example. I love Andy Taylor, Barney, Opie, Aunt Bea, Thelma Lou, Helen, Gomer, Goober, Otis, Floyd, the Darlin’s, Ernest T. Bass, the whole cast. I’ve seen every black and white episode at least a half dozen times. That is where my loyalty stops though. I cannot stomach the color episodes. With the color came change, and with the change went too many favorite characters and too many favorite story lines.
I do not dedicate hours of my precious time only to be tortured by people “leaving”, but it happens nonetheless. When Eric Forman left his basement to be replaced by Randy Pearson, it seemed a good time to stop watching. When Morgan Matthews returned from “the longest timeout ever” I was confused and had to go back a season to make sure I was remembering properly. I wouldn’t go for years having this boy as my brother and oh, well, he’s decided to go to Africa and make a difference, so I’m going to replace him with this other boy who sort of looks the same. Sort of.
Few shows, if any, end as well as they began, but they still get me addicted. Until about season 6.