Call it a guilty pleasure. Call it an escape mechanism, whatever. And you know what? You’d be right. Tonight, like a lot of nights lately, we unwound, again, by streaming on Netflix an episode of one of our favorite television shows The West Wing.
Back in the day, actually the dark days of the Bush Administration, we were able to escape once a week into an Aaron Sorkin teleplay and the parallel universe many liberals like us needed during those two terms. Living and working in Washington DC, during a post 9/11 miasma of fear, preemptive war and subterfuge, we’d park ourselves in front of the TV to watch President Bartlett lead our nation the right way, the way we thought we were led when we were kids, if only for an hour.
A story-line usually doesn't grab Casey’s attention, but Vic and I are always tempted to select another dose of Martin Sheen and his staff before turning in. Like tonight, when Mrs.Landingham was hit and killed by a drunk driver, setting up episode 44, Two Cathedrals, one of the most memorable hours ever of television drama.
We'll have to fill him in tomorrow night.