Do you and your partner squabble over what to watch on TV in the evenings (assuming you’re so inclined; of course I spend my evenings reading great literature, and thinking deep thoughts)? I ask because I’m trying to sample the first few minutes of “My Big Fat American Gypsy Wedding” and my husband just referred to TLC as “the hillbilly channel.”

I take offense! The L clearly stands for “learning.” And I am learning about American gypsies.

And these people are some serious hillbilly gypsies.

As a reporter, your only connection with gypsies is the semi-annual press releases issued by the police department, about traveling home-improvement scams — old women who get only half their house painted (or painted with watery paint that disappears after a single rain), people who get their wallets lifted when someone comes inside for “interior measurements,” the usual. So it’s a little odd to see a show about people who make their living by buying a load of asphalt in the morning, and go door to door throughout the day, trying to sell it. Somewhere this must work, but man, these aren’t my people. I keep yelling at the screen to slam the door and call the Better Business Bureau.

They certainly do favor a ridiculous style of wedding dress. Tonight they’re making some poor pregnant teenager drag 75 pounds of satin, tulle and Swarovski crystals around Nowhere, W.Va., and all to be married in a tiny church, followed by a reception at what looks like a VFW hall.

And that will be our dose of reality TV for the night, the week, and most likely the month, if not the rest of the year. America is such a freak show; no wonder we’re on top of the world.

Another work-at-home day, but not so much bloggage today. But a little, both rants of a sort:

First, Gin and Tacos on that magical threshold beyond which an American plutocrat cannot fail. In this case, it’s Jamie Dimon:

I guess that whole “maximizing shareholder value” thing, the Commandment that has done more to turn this country into Dogpatch than anything else in the last three decades, doesn’t apply when it comes to doling out money at the top.

We might expect that the shareholders would be inclined to save money rather than spend it, and certainly to avoid rewarding people who perform so poorly. But a stockholders’ meeting is little more than a boys’ club operating under the pretext of a transparent process of corporate governance. The kind of heavy-hitting institutional shareholders who decide these votes – mutual fund managers, fellow banking executives, and so on – are either in Dimon’s position or expect to be there someday if they can make it to the other side of the shark tank. Perhaps getting to the top, into a position like Dimon’s, is so difficult and unpleasant that the people who manage to do it feel entitled to endless compensation to make it all seem worth it.

And here’s Angry Black Bitch on just another day in the Missouri legislature, which this week honored native son Rush Limbaugh:

Limbaugh arrived with 40 state troopers (did my tax dollars pay for that?) and was smuggled into the Capitol where Republican lawmakers and their staff greeted him much like North Koreans used to greet Kim Jung Il…and then Limbaugh was honored at an invitation only ceremony on the House floor that was closed to the public.

The other day at work we were looking at the current electoral-vote breakdown for the November election, and someone remarked that calling Missouri a toss-up is wishful thinking in the extreme. It’s as much a part of the modern confederacy as Mississippi. Looks like it.

With that, the hour grows late and bed beckons me. I hope I dream of anything but gypsies, Jamie Dimon or the sex tourist from Cape Girardeau. A good Thursday to all.

Yeesh, what a cold, miserable day. Please, never mind that I didn’t wear a coat. It’s mid-April, and I’m done with coats. A sweater was it, then, which underlined the misery, but I didn’t have to be outdoors long, and ah well — you have to go through a few of these days every spring, and Tuesday was one of them.

Tomorrow will be warmer. Winter is going.

Which seems a nice transition into the new season of “Game of Thrones.” I’m watching, yes, although this is the beginning of the long slog of the middle of “A Song of Ice and Fire.” I petered out somewhere toward the end of “A Storm of Swords,” and there’s still another doorstop of a volume before “A Dance of Dragons,” and guess what? Winter has not yet come, although it’s autumn, and the book after that one is, I believe, “The Winds of Winter,” and there’s another book beyond that, and yikes, I just don’t have time. Catching up via HBO seems the most prudent course of action. If anything, the visuals are even more arresting than last season — the budget must have gotten a boost — but I remember this passage of the story as mostly about rain and blood soaking into the mud of Westeros, along with the usual dragons and ice-zombies and the like.

And speaking of dragons, we saw “The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo” over the weekend, which settled any question I might have had about that series — ick. It was competently done, even beautiful in that David Fincher-esque way, but I’ve had it with perverts, rapists and fucking Sweden. Also girls on motorcycles, coffee, mysteries outlined via charts on walls and Rooney Mara. Where are the romantic comedies of yore, I ask you. I just scanned the trailers of coming attractions on the Apple movie-trailers site, and didn’t see a single thing that looked like much, and quite a bit that looked like dreck. “That’s My Boy,” in fact, might be the worst of the lot.

Back to novels for the summer, I fear.

So. Sayonara, Ricky Santorum. It’s a sign of this crazy year that he lasted this long, but there are many others. Here’s a column from the Indianapolis Star about Richard Mourdock, who is challenging Richard Lugar in the primary and just might win:

In politics, there are partisans who truly believe in and fight for their principles and policy ideas as they seek to craft solutions to big problems. And then there are people like Mourdock — unbending ideologues who believe the only acceptable outcome to any argument is a complete victory by their side. In a diverse nation, such victories are largely impossible. And, so, under this type of thinking nothing gets done.

That’s your choice, Hoosiers.

Hell, let’s look at the wind map instead. Very soothing.

Happy Wednesday. Think I might take Kate to see “Titanic 3D,” if she’s up for it. Our hearts will go on.

Thank our lucky stars above for the Mad Style postings of Tom & Lorenzo. Those two queens may not have lived through it, but they understand fashion in times gone by. It so happens this era on “Mad Men” — 1966 — is when I first started paying close attention to what women wore, and what it said about them. This post is dead on. In fact, I think that whole party scene was staged to give T-Lo something to write about.

And if you can’t get enough — and who can ever get enough ’60s fashion? — Slate has a slideshow with commentary by the costume designer.

Spring was here and not so much anymore, but the calendar says yes and so it’s time to start thinking Easter. And what does Easter mean? Newspaper-sponsored Peep contests, that’s what — so let’s check out the winners of the Washington Post Peeps Show contest, eh? A fun way to blow five minutes.

And while we’re speaking of Easter and birds, Coozledad’s story of how a four-legged chicken came to live on his place:

Our first chicken was a by-product of a Perdue farm. Every twenty thousand iterations or so of their bloodline of Cornish Rock moribunds they get a chick that manages to form up from two yolks, crack the shell, get up on its multiple legs and avoid the cruel fate of being eaten by its thousands of broodmates. A friend of ours whose father contracted for Perdue told him about us, and he hit on the idea that we might be the perfect kind of idiots with which to place one of these grievous instances of broiler production.

He was right. When my wife broached the subject at dinner I was naively enthused. I pictured a sort of plush chicken car with legs instead of tires.

When it arrived, huddled and wheezing in its travel box, it looked more like a late model sedan pulling a homemade trailer brimming with liquid shit. I wasn’t just deflated, I was a little horrified.

If I had more to do, I’d be the president. Good night and good Thursday.

I’ve run through the “Mad Men” premiere episode twice now, and my conclusion is this: Too much is written about this show. So I don’t have much to say about it, other than: I hope this season delivers. The number of commercials in the second half were over-the-top obnoxious, but I can’t deny it — it’s good to see the gang back together, dragging their old baggage, along with a few new pieces, just for grins.

I caught much of Matthew Weiner’s “Fresh Air” appearance today, and I’ll give him the benefit of the doubt. But like Hank, I can find myself oddly impatient with it — the weird diversions (creepy Glen, and I need say no more), the slow-moving plot lines. On the other hand, is there anything on TV close to it (at the same time)? Not bloody much. I’m in for the duration, and I’m glad it’s back. A few random impressions:

Joan’s mixed feelings of being torn between work and motherhood are so common now I don’t think their uncommonness in 1966 is playing well. Joan’s baby’s name is Kevin. I don’t know any Kevins under the age of 20 these days.

Megan = fabulous. I’m so glad hemlines are climbing and the hair is softening. I’m sure T-Lo will have a great Mad Style post on her any minute now. The sexual interlude toward the end suggests the Draper marriage is an entirely new things, however — she’s madonna and whore, and looks great in a miniskirt.

Don’s journey no longer interests me. It doesn’t interest him, either.

Peggy, now — that girl has some serious pluck. Hair looks great this summer, too, especially when she accessorizes with pencil.

What are your thoughts?

More madness than you could ever ask for, via Zorn.

I need to go to bed.

I didn’t make a pie for Pi Day. But I did eat a cupcake, in keeping with my contrarian mindset.

I wished it was pie. But sometimes you settle.

Another day I’m ending with a cluttered head, but nothing really coming to the forefront. I’m more of a stew today, so let’s see what sort of things will rise to the top with a good stir.

“Luck,” the HBO series about horse racing, was cancelled today, after a third horse had to be put down, following an on-set injury. Hmm. I’ve been giving it a chance, but I wonder why — it’s a little too self-consciously arch. (That’s redundant, isn’t it? Archness is self-conscious by nature, right?) But I liked the racing scenes, and the horses in general, although if you know anything about riding, you could see the jockeys struggling to ride the races they’d been directed to, with some hauling so hard on their mounts, the horses’ mouths gaped open. There was one making-of featurette that showed just how the cameras got that close — jib arms and a speeding truck, mostly. I liked Gary Stevens, a real jockey who acts on the side. I liked Kerry Condon as an Irish exercise rider trying to break into the bigs.

Didn’t like: All that Milchian dialogue, which some people love, but mostly gets on my nerves. And the dead horses, of course.

Great headline on a newspaper story — the only place you find ’em anymore — about the primaries Tuesday.

Page through a WashPost special section on cherry blossoms. (Man, I’m getting tired. I just typed “cherry bottoms.”)

And while we’re there, check out the photo gallery for the White House state dinner last night. As usual, Shelley O shut it DOWN, as T-Lo would say. But there were some other contenders.

And now it’s the Ides of March, only it feels more like the Ides of April around here. Yesterday I opened the windows for the first time, and once the morning rain passes, I think I’ll do it again.

But before that? Poached eggs.

Oh, it’s so nice to watch “Project Runway” again, in real time. Lifetime has done its best to ruin it, but it’s still worth your time, if you don’t mind all those promos for “Dance Moms” along the way. Tonight’s challenge is to make a ball gown suitable for opening night at the opera. The winner was one of two or three that deserved it (Austin). Now here comes the boot. I’m thinking it’s going to be Sweet P. And yes! I’m right. I knew she was toast. Her dress looked like something you’d wear to a beach party, not the opera.

Reality television. It’s not my thing, but sometimes, it’s my thing.

Every so often I think about what the next new thing’s going to be, in any field. Not long ago we were talking about R.E.M., which broke up after 30 years. The Beatles were together for, what, seven? When was the last real new thing in pop music? Hip-hop, I figure — something no one had ever heard before, that enough people flipped over (and the right people hated) that it took its place in the parade. Same with TV. Reality TV made its first big splash with “Survivor.” A friend told me it wouldn’t last. “Reality TV is OVER,” he was always declaring. The last time he did, it was 2002.

Reality TV. Not over.

How about some bloggage?

A very oldie, but something I hadn’t read before, until someone unearthed it for the New Hampshire primary — Henry Allen on New Hampshire. Cruel and unfair, but it feels right to me. The place sounds like northern Michigan.

Six things I love about Detroit, by some Internet guy I should know more about, but don’t.

Matty Moroun’s terrible, awful, no-good, very bad week. And one that made applause break out in the courtroom.

I’m going to bed.

I had a chore I was determined to finish this weekend — purging my office, a merciless throwing-away project that left me with two full baskets of shred, a garbage bag of trash and best of all, a clean, airy room again. These projects are notoriously boring, which is why they get put off over and over, but this time I decided to try the HBO Go app on the iPad. I’d downloaded it weeks ago, but couldn’t get through an episode of “The Wire” without a freeze every 90 seconds or so.

They must have reamed out the pipe since then, because it worked like a charm and over the course of two days, I watched (in the iPad-propped-against-a-lamp-while-I-worked sense) six episodes of season two, which is in many ways my favorite of the five. The show was building its reputation but hadn’t yet become a Thing, so it was possible to enjoy it as your own secret, while still finding fellow travelers from time to time. The setting of the Baltimore waterfront provided a rich array of dramatic possibilities and big themes, along with a visual environment that looked like nothing you’d seen before. It might be that I enjoyed it more this time because I’ve been thinking, lately, of the great economic restructuring we’re undergoing now, and a question that occurs to me a lot in the course of living in what was once the great, steaming heart of the country’s manufacturing economy: What are we going to do with these people?

The central narrative of “The Wire’s” second season was this very problem, as illustrated on Baltimore’s waterfront: Technology at ports requires fewer and fewer dockworkers, but the people who have done it for multiple generations have failed to get the message, and the economy has failed to offer any alternative other than “work two jobs.” Our society has always produced people across a range of intellect and abilities, and for most of its history, the bargain we made with them was simple: If you’re willing to work, we’ll find something for you to do, and — this is key — you’ll be able to make a living at it. It might not be a lavish one, but if your dreams are modest, there’s a place for you.

I was in a dollar store in Warren a few years back, and saw a young couple there. The woman looked older than her years, but had the sort of whip-thin edge that suggests a survivor — cosmetologist, shift supervisor, maybe a waitress. Her companion, on the other hand, was dressed in the oversized clothing favored by hip-hoppers, which made him look like a toddler playing Eminem dress-up. He tagged along behind her like one, too, occasionally goosing or otherwise bugging her, and you could tell she wasn’t enjoying any part of it. For the first time, I got an idea of why women like this would rather not marry the fathers of their children. The baby has an excuse, pops. What’s yours?

The morning is moving toward maturity, and it’s Hella Monday, so here goes with the bloggage:

New York City’s least-known, but hardest-working, casting director.

An electric fence at the Mexican border? Shucks, I was just pullin’ your leg! And all the people who cheered were, too.

Let’s try for better tomorrow. For now, gotta run.

I don’t have much time to write this morning; I used up 23 minutes of my allottment on email, venting about a particularly annoying Free Press columnist (not you-know-who) and asking Hank Stuever how I might get to see the rest of “Homeland” without subscribing to Showtime. The first episode is on iTunes, and it’s much better than I expected. I was able to get past the oh-sure-Claire-Danes-is-a-CIA-analyst thing fairly easily; it helped that the producers styled her against her beauty, at least a little. I’ve been watching “My So-Called Life” lately, and it’s interesting to see how losing the last few pounds of adolescent fleshiness seemingly made her eyes grow three sizes.

Oh, hell, why not say, “the usual actress diet starved her into a Keane kid,” but she’s good at what she does.

So let’s go for bloggage today, because I don’t have the steam for much else.

Only one day later, and I’m already tiring of the Steve Jobs tributes, even as they move on to second-day stretches like this: Jobs understood our individualistic culture, and that is applicable to politics somehow, which I’m going to show with a lot of sweeping generalizations. Watch how I do it:

At the same time, while Mr. Jobs saw a society moving inexorably toward individual choice, he also seemed to understand that such individuality breeds detachment and confusion. And so Apple sought to fill that vacuum by making itself into more than a manufacturer; it became a kind of community, too, with storefronts and stickers and a membership that enabled you to get your e-mail, or video-conference with your friends, or post a Web page of your vacation photos.

But that’s nothing compared to the Corndog, at National Review Online, where the ideologues do what ideologues do: Seek to see the whole world through their special glasses:

That old Motorola cinderblock (cell phone) would cost about $10,000 in 2011 dollars, and you couldn’t play Angry Birds on it or watch Fox News or trade a stock. Once you figure out why your cell phone gets better and cheaper every year but your public schools get more expensive and less effective, you can apply that model to answer a great many questions about public policy. Not all of them, but a great many.

OK, I’m going to try to “figure this out”: A cell phone is not like public education because? One’s a cell phone, and one’s public education! What do I win?

I don’t always visit Sweet Juniper’s occasional posts on children’s literature, but I should, because of this explication de texte of “Goodbye Rune.” Killer line: I do feel like I understand Lars von Trier a little bit better now. Me, too!

OK, gotta run. We’re pulling the boat today, a bit early, in preparation for Alan starting a demanding new job at the paper later in the month, one that may well dictate that he never see his beloved sailboat again. Kidding. But at least we have good weather for it — Indian summer with a vengeance. Have a great weekend, and I’ll see you after it’s over.

When the YouTube video of Michele Bachmann’s husband started circulating, the one that purported to show what a screaming queen he was, it was of such low quality, it was hard to see. Stupid cell phones; is this what killed the Flip? Then I watched it again, and OK, it’s there — he’s the kind of man who throws his hands in the air and wiggles them around as a way of greeting others. Swish, for sure. Gay? Jury might still be out. Then I watched it again, and thought, Nance, you are slipping. Mr. Gay from Gaytown, right there. Population: Him.

I’m embarrassed it took me three viewings to pick it up.

And then this morning I watched the clips from last night’s Daily Show, and hello, Mary. The relevant portions start around 3:30, although you should watch the whole thing, so you can behold the misery etched on the face of one of Dr. Queerton’s “patients,” who went to him (he’s a clinical psychologist) for how-not-to-be-gay therapy. His specialty. Yes, the irony is downright cartoonish, isn’t it? And while I know it helps to laugh at people like this, that laughter is really the only defense possible against such sparkly queens and their enablers, like the Bachmanns, I still get pissed. I’m more aware of the time slipping past every year, but I really, seriously cannot wait until we look at these two, and all their ilk, as the 21st century equivalent of people who sold bleaching creams to black people in the 20th. They aren’t just ridiculous figures, they are evil. Speaking of Satan.

I’ve known gay people who get these sort of mailings from their parents, helpful books and brochures and spiritual advice on how not to be gay, on how to reform and renounce or, if you can’t do that, to simply live a celibate life, as Jesus is calling you to do. I’m pretty sure that even though they’re laughing when they tell me about it later, that they weren’t laughing when they got the mail that day. They likely weren’t laughing at the Thanksgiving table last year, or at Christmas, or whatever. One of them told me that when he came out to his family, his father started going to Mass daily — a daily Communicant, as the good Cat’liks say — to pray for his son’s deliverance from evil.

So no, I can’t laugh at the Bachmanns anymore. Although I do crack a smile, imagining their sex life.

Meanwhile, relationship advice from a gay man. Pretty sane, I’d say. (But language makes it NSFW.)

Looks like we’ve transitioned into the bloggage, then? Let’s hop to it:

So, a friend from way back in the day called the other night, and mentioned going to the Ohio State Fair. Which made me think of Miss Citizen Fair, about which I’ve bored you before, but led me to google the phrase “You are Miss Citizen Fair.” Hit No. 1: Me, in 2007. Hit No. 2: Bob Greene, two years later.

I’m not sure what this means, but it certainly freaked my cheese. We traffic in a certain amount of nostalgia here, but I hope it’s distinct from the Greenian school of Everything Was Better Then. The column linked above is from Bob’s book about the good ol’ days of the newspaper business, when Bob fell in love. In fact…

It was a time when newspapers were still such a fundamental part of everyday American life that there really were too many young women on the fairgrounds who fit the Miss Citizen Fair profile, too many young women for us to narrow down the field.

Too many young women walking around the Ohio State Fair carrying copies of that morning’s local newspaper. It was utterly common: a person at the fair, young or old, carrying the latest edition. It’s what people did: Purchase a paper every day, and carry it around with them.

Yeah, yeah. And men wore coats and ties to a baseball game. We get it.

Emmy nominations today, but nothing for “Treme.” Sorry, Khandi Alexander.

And as the hour grows late, I think I will fly.

Before too much more time passes, I have to say something about “Treme,” which wrapped its second season this week. Y’all know my conflicts/prejudices. I feel bad about not writing something sooner. Back before the show even launched, I was asked* about contributing to Back of Town, which quickly became the definitive “Treme” blog, but it became obvious I was out of my league there, and anyway, I didn’t have time.

*My memory may be faulty here; it might have been another work-of-David Simon blog. One of those.

Also, while it’s true I have an opinion on pretty much everything and can overanalyze with the best of them, I’m claiming my TV more for entertainment these days. I’m reserving the right to sit back and enjoy more. The world isn’t short of people who can slice, dice, unpack, unravel and unwind TV with the best of them, and for this one, I mostly choose not to participate. To fully appreciate, “Treme” requires a knowledge of New Orleans that is both broad and deep, and mine is neither. To illustrate, a sample conversation with the late Ashley Morris:

Me: I love New Orleans. We went there on vacation a few years ago.
AM: Oh?
Me: Yes, we stayed in a guesthouse on Ursulines Street. Run by a couple of gay men.
AM: Well, that narrows it down.

So let Ray Shea and the rest of them at BoT do the heavy lifting. Me, I just watch.

As frequently happens when quality television is involved, second seasons are when the ripening occurs, and that’s been the case with “Treme.” The show started with enormous expectations — anything that followed “The Wire” had to — and swiftly disappointed many by not being “The Wire.” But it was definitely in the mold of other Simon work, which is to say, it was about cities and how they work (and don’t work). You’d think, given where people live in these United States, we might want to see more of this. But the world is also full of people who, when they sit down for a night of telly, want the sweet balm of escapism. There are quite a few more who believe urban America is a hellhole, and seek confirmation in following bullet trails through viscera, because that’s what happens to you when you go there — you get shot.

There’s also been some critical backlash, like this piece, which basically says: Yawn. BO-ring. I disagree, obviously. You don’t need multiple shootings and drug busts to give a show forward momentum. “Treme” runs at a more leisurely pace than “The Wire,” but has no shortage of pleasures, the most obvious of which is the music.

The music this season has been wonderful, and there’s more of it than in season one. Every city has its own soundtrack, but New Orleans’ might be the richest on the continent, and the show goes out of its way to depict it, from high to low, to show how its threads weave together and keep making New Orleans’ musical tapestry so unique. I’ve always thought the most interesting places on the map are those where worlds and cultures collide, and they’ve been colliding in New Orleans, at the end of the big river, for centuries, and nowhere is this more evident than in the music coming out of every window and door. Truth be told, if “Treme” was little more than an excuse to link performances together, I’d probably still watch. (And if Albert and Delmond Lambreaux ever release their mashup of modern jazz and Mardi Gras Indian chants, I’ll probably buy it.)

Some of the efforts to include the city’s other big cultural scene, food, feel more strained. Anthony Bourdain got lots of writing credits this season, and while his pen is talented, I hope he doesn’t quit his day job. The scenes of Janette the chef’s evolution as a culinary artist were my least favorite of the season. (Although I probably will never cook fish again without thinking I should listen to it more.) Also, I’m in full agreement with the writer at Dark Brown Waffles who found Lucia Micarelli’s Annie Tee character a big bundle of who-cares. She spent several episodes struggling to birth an unmemorable song. Which goes to show you that in a musical town, some are bandleaders and composers and some are just players. Annie’s a very fine player. End of that story.

You can quibble over the details, but to me, “Treme” is at its best when it shows what’s wrong — and what’s glorious — about urban America, where the country built its strength and lost its way and now can’t come to grips with. We’re a mobile society; we like to strike it rich and find the next thing. New Orleans — and Baltimore, and Detroit, and many others — are reminders that we can’t just move on, that we owe cities something. The road to figuring that out is what “Treme” is all about.

New York magazine’s critic was kinder than the Atlantic’s. You might want to read.

In bloggage today:

I flipped on Nancy Grace last night for about half an hour while I worked. I’ve never watched more than 30 seconds of the blonde harpy, and I wanted to see if the top of her skull would blow off last night. I lasted longer this time, but not much; this clip should give you an idea why. What the–? Is this typical? If so, Fox isn’t the only cable-news outfit with an embarrassment to apologize for. That Susan Moss person! I’m still traumatized.

My appreciation of Monaco’s new princess continues. I tried to link to a single photo from this slideshow, but failed. If you have time to page through, it’s the very last one that made me laugh out loud, no. 27. Princess Stephanie, in her tobacco-colored tan and wrist tattoo — she’s the French version of Aunt Mimi in “Treme.”

And now, the hour grows late, and I gotta go. Happy Wednesday, all.