L hath no fury, shih says.

"Dana, this story tastes like poopy-shit."

Ah, The L-Word.

Just recently became an L-viewer, so although I began at the beginning (shall we say), I certainly dove in with a decent amount of prior knowledge. Now finished with the third season, I can fairly say I've been blessed, for instance, to know beforehand that Dana was going to - fuck euphemisms - croak (much more on this later). In fact, I'm convinced the only emotionally safe (and intellectually un-insulting) way to tune in is to come padded with massive spoilers and the FF-button (and, for those not yet in-the-know: Bring your own CD-mix because it just doesn't pay to sit through sex scenes accompanied by the kind of music one might normally associate with Ron Jeremy's, erm, face).

That's not to say the show doesn't own its corner o' the market: It's The OC minus the teenagers and straight people and, in general, actual penises (strap-ons not included - much, MUCH more on this later). And that makes addictive television, even though my brain keeps saying "I know better." What can I say? Drama for drama's sake (compounded with the slightest pinch of comic relief here and there) sells, and I'm a compulsive buyer. That, and because every once in a long while, Ilene Chaiken cranks out one line of dialogue that I've actually heard in real life, and that's enough paper evidence for me to write a thesis on why this show has integrity. But the butt-naked truth is, I don't feel a particular need to justify my guilty-pleasure choices, because I belong to an age of cultural mainstream that is all about purchasing cell-demolishing drugs like hot cakes; in this day and age, no one should have to pretend they don't have guilty pleasures, and no creator of any show should be required to mime the usual line of bullshit about storyline integrity. We're gonna bite ANYWAY. So no, I don't think TLW, with all its crazy-ass relationshits and character-assassinating hookups and overall bastardizing writing can keep me away from this sunken ship. Most shows on television are either literally or figuratively sleeping with the fishes anyway - what keeps us tuning in (in my humblest opinion) usually has more to do with the inexplicable feeling (whether it be nostalgia or wonderment or something else equally emotional) we get when we're somehow, in spite of unbelievable circumstances, enthralled by those onscreen lives and personalities we may find much in common with and yet never truly share. And that? Is not character. It couldn't be that simple, because television ain't that easy. There's a reason we feel so personally slighted when some unlucky sod of an actor butchers Hamlet or Willy Wonka or...Harry Potter. They're not killing character so much as they've tampered with our individual, imagined versions of beings that have come to signify a piece of personalized reality. Characters are what we read in books, and because we read them, they are essentially fragments - partial reflections, if you will - of who WE are.

The sharpest distinction in television (and film) is that we are viewing personalities, not characters. These personalities have been decided by the actors who portray them and, much as we may assert interpretative power, much as we may (or may not) relate, they are not organically constructed to reflect us, so...praise or vomit at your own expense. And not just because they are (generically!) prettier, thinner, more successful and more exciting than most of us can ever hope to be; beyond that, they are also intended (creatively and interpretively) as personalities that can never individually or collectively fulfill anyone's world of desire for solidarity or representation. That's fine by me. If the difficult part of swallowing (forgive the word) the material is in dealing with this fact, then I'd say I'm doing just fine. Taken in this context, I GET why this story is about a group of women I've never met and will probably never meet - which is to my credit, because it couldn't be good for my therapy bill to be around personalities so inconsistently kind and despicable, so oddly buried in seasonal fashion hits-and-misses and shameless product placement, so deeply entrenched in shock value. (hel)L, I know why Tina's galloping on a male in Bette's digs, why uber-lipstick Carmen gets Shane-shafted. Most of all, I understand why they killed Dana, even if it never made any creative or professional sense to me. I GET it.

Ratings. Money. Shock-value. Something to get 'em on the map and STAY there. Specifically, it's been no secret that production on this show operates under the belief that ugly drama trumps sweet optimism. What's the word they use? Oh right: REALITY. In REALITY, people cheat, lie, and die. They finger-boff the nearest inmate they can get their hand in (I'm lookin' at you, Bette), and they also die from boob cancer in six weeks. What's more, this reality is INSPIRING. Hey, at least when I watch General Hospital, we both know I'm transfat-ing my temporal lobe. But please, Ayeline, show me MORE things that will inspire me to stay with someone for seven years and forge on with the chemo. Thank you for showing me that at every rainbow's end, there's a pot of poopie-shit. In my country, we call that the chamber pot.

Yet...all this comes with the territory. I can't complain if I've signed up for it, if I'm a consenting adult who knows better but can't help herself. I don't get to kick Mommy (ugh) Ilene in her creepy robot balls for my own masochism. Sure, Dana's cancer storyline (so short it gave fruit flies competition) from hero-to-zero left me feeling somewhat emotionally gutted and intellectually raped, but at least I wasn't dragged through three years (one of coming-out-Dana, one of sweet Danish, and one of Dana and Alice getting castrated by a dry-blade blender) of will-they...oh-they-won't. (Ah, the wonders of pulling all-nighter-marathons with someone else's DVD-set.) And Lord am I happy I'm not Erin Daniels, who probably to this day still wonders whether it was the chin-puppet show or the DVD commentary that earned her this massive knife-in-the-back (probably not the latter, since they recorded that post public lunch at the Ivy avec Iwean...).

But I draw the line at feeding me cow-pies and telling me it's caviar. Really. Because, you know, even if I were blind I'd still have fucking taste. And, contrary to what all the self-congratulatory soundbites on promoting cancer-awareness and educating the public on the realities of cancer will suggest, I didn't feel remotely enlightened. Or moved to check my neighbor's breasts for lumps. Or get my hamster a mammogram. Huh, weird. Especially considering how generously IC gaveth in terms of screen-time to this particular "storyline," honestly exploring the ins-and-outs of a fallen tennis player dealing with a sense of failure, body-shame, self-pity and -hatred, reeling in raw emotion and rare courage. And to think I was SO touched by Dana's chemo-induced plaster bald-cap. It doesn't get more inspiring than telling a touch-and-go cancer story in three scenes and having two of those scenes be occupied either by a singing plant or hippie-haired doctor telling your friend and ex-lover that you just died and then leaving her to bawl her organs out. Seriously, did no one instruct this extra on how to play doctor? Don't they watch GREY'S ANATOMY? Geez-louise, thank God the singing flower had some professional training inside the actor's studio.

Because, in spite of Erin and Leisha's natural abilities geared toward squeezing every last ounce of truth they could find in this moronic (and immensely irresponsible) tale of cancer-cells spreading so fast Dana didn't even have time to take one last leak (while, in the meantime, my friend chest-waxed twice during Alice and Lara's grief-hookup), this storyline was nowhere near educational. No bullshit. I might even be able to forgive Erin's forced-departure had they managed to justify it with decent story. But of course that would require the writers to be informed, to be topical. To have integrity. So scratch that idea; it's just The Lesbian OC, for crying-out-loud. So it's okay to be irresponsible, to butcher personalities and waste acting talents.

But don't name-drop with me. I'm not impressed with your ability to fill-in-the-blanks with "breast cancer," Eileen Tchaykin. It's that much more insulting to KNOW that you probably wouldn't have written the story any differently had it been about Dana getting AIDS. Or deadly love-hives. Or suffered from an allergic reaction to penises. Next time you're writing from getting shitfaced at 3 AM, don't attach the faces and stories of real women who have battled with cancer just so you can sell popcorn AND get face-time with the A(merican)C(ancer)S(ociety).

P.S. Leaving Erin Daniels, who was easily your swan-song actress (along with Jennifer Beals and Leisha Hailey), to the wolves? Dumb move.