But okay, we've finally landed on Planet Bawlmore...and we are out of our minds addicted. Hook, line, and sinker hooked. And we're only half way into Season Two. We cannot believe that D'Angelo is gone. My husband swears it's a hoax and he's being hidden somewhere. I am fascinated with my fascination with Omar. How is it that I am actually glad to see him on screen and kicking ass? Avon does not move me in the slightest. And I smell a stinker in Stinger Bell. Of course Wallace broke both our hearts. And all the cops? Damn, don't get me started.
This right here is all the lesson in fiction writing any fiction writer needs. What makes a guy who robs drug dealers sympathetic? Why do we root for D and not for Pooh? Why do we pivot on some pathos and have no sympathy for another sad sack? I scratch my Shingles scars daily pondering these questions and more. But one thing I do know is that fiction loves conflict. Fiction needs complexity and things need to get worse and worse, or the Novaks won't keep driving back to the local (and fabulous) video store, plunking S2 D3 down on the counter, and tapping nervously until the woman returns from the stacks and chuckles as she slides our next fix into our trembling hands (I'll take two red tops please).
For the love of God, don't tell me what happens. But do chime in if you've done the time on this show.