Smash

Smating Ritual

Gotta say, I am not smoved by the various love connections, awkward rehearsal-room trysts and tech-related proposals on Season 1 of Smash. Now I love a televised love story; every Thursday I curl up with a bucket of Chai tea and 6 to 10 orders of General Tso’s Chicken and gently encourage my girl Olivia Pope to try to make it work with her boyfriend, The President of the United States (who was in a coma but then woke up suddenly because plot-development and is now fine even though he got shot in the head–it happens–but maybe has a different personality and wants to divorce his pregnant Lady Macbeth wife, which, I don’t know, I’m no Shakespeare scholar, but something tells me it’s not going to go well.)  Oh, Scandal!  Why you so good?!

Olivia Pope (Kerry Washington) Oliva Pope (center) struggles valiantly to restrain her pimp-slapping hand.

Oliva Pope (center) struggles valiantly to restrain her pimp-slapping hand.

Anyway! Smash is many things, but it is no Scandal and so I am ambivalent about whether Derek and Ivy end up together (will it make her stop her doing drugs and free her up to cause havoc? If the answer is anything but yes, I don’t care). I didn’t hate Season 1‘s resident doormat Dev, who was in love with Karen but then resented her for her sudden “theater career” (I use that word with the same level of cigarette smoke-tinged irony  that I use when referring to my own “theater career“) and the slept with her rival (“Of all the bars in all the world, you had to walk into… this creepy Southie dive?  Okay. Sure.”) and then proposed.  I may be getting the order wrong but that’s because it doesn’t matter.

None of the relationships on Smash matter. It’s like they’re all just “theater changing” in front of each other—yeah, your private parts are out, but it’s of little consequence because you’re artists.  And you’re drunk in the back of a cab on your way home from Don’t Tell Mama or whatever.  And you’re all probably gay anyway.

Which brings me to my point!  The homosexuals!  I love a good gay subplot.  I wish it was the main plot, but we live in America not Brokeback Mountain and it gets better, but don’t get carried away.  Love love love!  When the 8th episode of the new Kevin Spacey Netflix series House of Cards took a sudden detour into the Forest of Repressed Same-Sex Attraction I was immediately Clap-Your-Hands-Happy, even though it didn’t make a bit of sense.

Kevin Spacey and Kevin Federline

I have no idea what this photo is from (real life? a movie? A Claymation special called “Kevin Federline resorts to desperate measures to make ends meet”? Who knows?)

 

Who cares about making sense? If God wanted gay relays (can we just call relationships “relays”? I can’t doing all this typing.  I have a day job, dammit)… What? Oh, if God wanted gay relays to make sense… oh, whatever, I lost interest in the joke.

I really want to be invested in Tom’s love life but I also really want to be invested in Exxon stock. It’s just so boring (Tom’s love life, not Exxon. If Dallas has taught us anything it’s that the oil business is scintillating. And that shower stalls sometimes contain holes in the space-time continuum.).

I’m just going to say it: Tom is the most boring gay I know. And I know two gay architects and a gay vetrenarian. Veteranarian. Vetrerenarian. A doctor for animals. When Tom shows up on screen I immediately develop Snarkolepsy, a serious condition which makes me fall asleep and dream of a time when Will & Grace was still on the air and I didn’t have to deal with these nouveau gay hoes. Apparently the latest development in social justice for the homosexual community is the privilege of being portrayed with all the blandness of a sitcom dad. That’s the issue with ham-fisted political correctness (whether well-intentioned or not): it robs you of the ability to create compelling characters for fear of offending.

Anyway! You didn’t ask to read my SMasters thesis (10s across the board).  The point is Tom is a blander than Instant Grits (I’ve been reading The Pioneer Woman!).

Like when he was dating the politician (side note: I don’t like when shows that are not The West Wing have characters that are in politics, because I always feel like they’re not walking and talking fast enough. If you’re not competing in an Olympic sport called “Express Expositing” you’re not really in government.)

Anyway! Tom and the politician were so bored by each that they couldn’t even figure out how to have sex. Which… Okay, can we have a smoment?  There’s  scene where they’re lying side-by-side staring at the ceiling (which is network television code for “we’ve just finished making the beast with two backs”) except… no, that is clearly not what has happened!  Perhaps they’ve just finished reading passages from Tenth of December to each other or discussing paint swatches or running lines from The Country Wife, but they were definitely not smating.

It's not going to suck itself.

It’s not going to suck itself.

What kind of gay sex are they having where upon completion one just rolls off the other and everyone stares soulfully into the air having thoughts? Tom is so boring he doesn’t even know that the point of having a upholstered headboard is so that you can slam various body parts against it for hours on end without injury. But what do I know? Oh, that’s right: EVERYTHING.

Is Tom a neuter? I’m asking a serious question!  Is he a Ken doll?  How is he not spontaneously combusting with arousal over being in flagrante delicto with that total dreamsicle Neal Bledsoe, who is—No Shade—Too Hot For Tom.

Ugh, now I’m just being bitchy. Sorry. I’m a stickler for sex accuracy.  This whole thing has me plum tuckered out.  I was going to go on about Tom’s new boyfriend “Black Man Who Dances and Likes Football” (actual name irrelevant) but I need to go rest my eyes for a spell.

Lord. These hoes.

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