I’d rather you didn’t “Tell Me You Love Me.”
Okay, feeling old again, because either I’ve suddenly become a prude or I’ve just seen something I don’t “get.” Tonight we just watched the new HBO show, Tell Me You Love Me.
I should preface this by saying that we don’t watch much TV at all. There was much wailing and gnashing of teeth in the house when Sopranos was killed, tho I will admit that Charlie has me watching that damned meercat show, which is horrifying. And addictive.
Oh, and incidentally, I just shelled out an obscene amount of cash for the second season of Rome- so it’s not sex I object to- only the depressing, humorless, passionless, desperate variety.
And ladies, you know all that whining we do about the double standard in entertainment? How women’s boobs are always bouncing around while the men are all modestly covered? Yeah, let’s not talk about that anymore. These people took us seriously and I can now tell you that we’re really not that interested in seeing his equipment (and/or sperm) flying around.
The show revolves around three couples (four if you count the 60-something therapist & hubby) who’re having sexual issues. Which of course really means they’re having relationship issues. So naturally, they compensate by rutting like indiscrete goats all over town and staring meaningfully off into the distance, sighing, grimacing and generally avoiding the issue.
Look – I live in New Orleans. If I want to see people whining passive-aggressively while dodging responsibility, I’ll contact my representative and ask where all that Road Home money is. At least then we can all have a laugh, which is more then these people seem able to do.
As for me, I’ll be skipping this one. Biting my nails and worrying which damned meercat is gonna die next is easier and less painful than this.
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