malbone street and the true genius of vince gilligan

Great storytellers borrow from history. Great storytellers borrow so well that you don't even realize they're doing it. Which raises an interesting question: did Vince Gilligan draw inspiration for one of the most memorable tragedies in the Breaking Bad universe from New York City's worst transit disaster?

Hear me out.

On November 1, 1918, the deadliest subway disaster in New York City history occurred beneath what was then Malbone Street in Brooklyn. The official explanation is familiar enough: a strike left the Brooklyn Rapid Transit Company desperately short of qualified personnel, so they put dispatcher Edward Luciano—a man with virtually no experience as a motorman—in charge of a rush-hour train. The train entered a sharp curve at roughly five times the speed limit. The result was catastrophic. More than ninety people died. Historians point to a perfect storm of bad decisions: inadequate training, poor management, an improperly assembled train, wooden cars, and an unforgiving curve.

But there is one detail that has always stood out to me.

Just days before the wreck, Luciano's three-year-old daughter had died during the Spanish influenza pandemic. He himself had recently been ill. Whether his grief affected his performance is impossible to know, and historians are careful not to overstate the point. It was one factor among many -- not the cause of the accident, but possibly a cause

Fast-forward ninety years.

In Better Call Saul and Breaking Bad canon, Jane Margolis dies of a heroin overdose. Her father, Donald Margolis, an air traffic controller, returns to work while still overwhelmed by grief. Distracted, he makes a catastrophic error that results in the midair collision of Wayfarer 515 and another aircraft over Albuquerque. It's one of the defining tragedies of the Breaking Bad universe.

Now ask yourself...

A transportation operator.

Grieving the recent death of a daughter.

Returns to work before emotionally recovering.

Makes a tragic mistake.

The mistake kills large numbers of innocent people.

Coincidence?

Maybe.

But what if Vince Gilligan was quietly borrowing a page from one of New York's greatest transportation disasters?

Gilligan is famous for planting obscure historical references and constructing elaborate chains of cause and effect. The Wayfarer crash wasn't just random tragedy—it illustrated how one seemingly private event could ripple outward until strangers paid the price.

That's also, in a way, the enduring lesson of Malbone Street. The wreck wasn't caused by one person's grief any more than it was caused by one curve in the track. It was a cascade of failures: corporate decisions, inadequate training, unsafe equipment, labor unrest, bad luck, and perhaps one exhausted young man who never should have been handed the controls in the first place.

So no, I'm not actually suggesting Vince Gilligan sat down with Brian Cudahy's The Malbone Street Wreck while outlining Season 2.

I'm just saying...

Has anyone ever seen Edward Luciano and Donald Margolis in the same century?

howard hamlin and hannibal hamlin: the detail everyone missed

 

One of the things that separated Better Call Saul from ordinary television was the frightening level of detail embedded into the writing. Nothing in that universe was accidental. Colors mattered. Background objects mattered. Throwaway lines mattered. The writers built entire emotional arcs around whether a coffee mug was facing left or right. Which is why I no longer believe it was a coincidence that the doomed attorney Howard Hamlin shares a surname with Hannibal Hamlin, Abraham Lincoln’s first vice president.

At first glance, this sounds ridiculous. But the more you examine it, the harder it becomes to dismiss.

Hannibal Hamlin famously served as vice president during Lincoln’s first term, only to be quietly replaced before the second inauguration. Historians have long noted that Hamlin was competent, respectable, and ultimately expendable — a polished institutional figure pushed aside as political realities shifted around him. Howard Hamlin occupies almost the exact same structural role within Better Call Saul. He is the embodiment of establishment legitimacy: immaculate suits, careful manners, elite credentials, and a sprawling, meticulously designed law office complex whose polished corporate aesthetic projects permanence and authority. And yet, despite all that prestige, he becomes collateral damage in a transformation he barely comprehends.

That part matters.

Because the creators of Breaking Bad and Better Call Saul consistently portrayed institutions as grand facades already beginning to crack internally. HHM’s immaculate office complex is not merely a workplace. It is a monument to the illusion of stability — carefully landscaped, tastefully modern, expensive without being flashy, radiating the confidence of an institution that assumes it will exist forever. Howard walks its serene hallways the same way late-1850s political figures walked through Washington believing the old systems would somehow hold together. Both Hamlins are men of decorum trapped in eras that have already moved beyond decorum.

And then there’s the visual coding.

The showrunners used color symbolism with almost pathological precision. Howard’s signature blues evoke calm authority, professionalism, and institutional continuity. He practically glows with “respectable establishment energy.” Compare that with Jimmy McGill’s carnival palette and Saul Goodman’s eventual aesthetic descent into Constitution-themed chaos. Howard visually represents the old order — the same way Hannibal Hamlin represented an older, more restrained phase of Republican politics before the country slid fully into existential conflict.

The architecture of HHM is itself part of the symbolism. Rather than a predatory Manhattan skyscraper, the firm occupies a sprawling, serene corporate compound — the kind of place designed to reassure clients that serious adults remain firmly in control of civilization. Which, in the Better Call Saul universe, is usually a sign that catastrophe is about fifteen minutes away.

Even the hidden instability fits the theory. Beneath HHM’s polished exterior sits Chuck McGill’s unraveling mental state, simmering resentments, succession anxieties, financial pressure, and reputational fragility. In other words, it’s basically a metaphorical pre-Civil War Union with valet parking.

The key clue, however, may be Howard’s fate itself.

The tragedy of Howard Hamlin is that he thinks he is participating in a conventional professional rivalry when he is actually standing inside a completely different genre. He believes he’s in a legal drama about office politics. In reality, he wandered into a moral catastrophe populated by cartel psychopaths and human wrecking balls. Hannibal Hamlin faced a strangely similar historical predicament. He entered national politics assuming traditional democratic norms still governed the country, only to find himself adjacent to the collapse of the old political order and the onset of the Civil War.

Coincidence? Maybe.

But this is the same creative team that embedded symbolic meaning into shoelaces, ice cream cones, and parking validation stickers.

You really think they spent years constructing one of television’s most obsessively detailed fictional universes and then accidentally named a major tragic figure “Hamlin”?

still the place to be

I joined a Zoom meeting at work a few minutes early last week, which is always a dangerous time. There’s just enough silence for small talk, and just enough audience for someone (me) to say something.

Someone noted the size of the meeting. “It’s the place to be,” he said.

And before I could stop myself, I chirped in: “Like Green Acres!”

Among people of a certain vintage, this is a layup. The phrase practically demands the response. A few people chuckled immediately.

The younger employees? Blank stares. One of them actually asked what I meant.

Someone else (thank God it wasn't me) helpfully explained the premise of Green Acres—big city lawyer moves to a farm, chaos ensues. He even quoted the opening line of the theme: “Green Acres is the place to be…”

By then, more people had joined, the moment had passed, and we got down to business. But it stuck with me.

Because if a perfectly good Green Acres reference now requires a footnote, maybe it’s time. Maybe it’s time for a reboot.

The Premise Aged Into Relevance

In the 1960s Green Acres was a fish-out-of-water comedy. Oliver Douglas leaves his Manhattan law practice to live his dream on a farm, while his glamorous wife wonders what on earth he’s thinking.

In 2026, that’s not a joke. That’s a lifestyle pivot.

The modern twist practically writes itself: Oliver doesn’t give up his law practice. He just relocates it.

He’s now a remote worker. A Zoom lawyer. A man with three monitors, a hotspot, and a deep belief that he can have it all—peaceful rural life and high-powered professional relevance.

But the farm disagrees.

The Zoom Problem

This is where the show lives now.

Oliver is presenting to clients while:

• a chicken walks across his keyboard
• another one pecks directly at the camera lens
• a goat quietly chews its way through his Ethernet cable mid-sentence
• a rooster times its crowing to land exactly on his most important point

He tries to maintain composure.

“If you look at page—no, sorry, that’s…that’s not a slide.”

He thinks he’s handled it. He never has. The animals don’t respect the meeting. The meeting doesn’t respect the animals. And Oliver is stuck in the middle, insisting that everything is “under control” while the screen share drops and something feathers its way across the desk again.

The joke isn’t that he left the city. It’s that he didn’t. He brought it with him—and the farm refuses to cooperate.

Life Off the Call

And it doesn’t get better when the laptop closes.

Oliver expects:

• restaurants that answer the phone
• stores within walking distance
• cell service that exists

Instead, he gets:

• limited hours that seem more like suggestions
• One restaurant called the Wagon Wheel, with fifteen items on the menu
• a general store that may or may not have what he needs
• a drive that is longer than he thinks it should be, every time
• a signal that drops the moment he needs it most

He sounds, frankly, like an entitled snob.

“There has to be somewhere that delivers.”
“There isn’t.”
“Within…what, ten miles?”
“Within…reality.”

Meanwhile, the locals:

• plan ahead
• fix things themselves
• understand that some problems don’t have immediate solutions

They’re not struggling. He is.

And they’re amused.

Who’s Actually the Joke?

It’s easy to remember Green Acres as a show that made fun of the locals.

That’s not quite right.

Yes, the townspeople were eccentric. Surreal, even. But they weren’t simply the butt of the joke. More often than not, they understood how their world worked far better than Oliver did.

The real joke was Oliver:

• convinced he knew better
• armed with logic, law, and confidence
• and consistently out of his depth

He tried to impose order on a place that ran on its own rules—and lost that battle over and over again.

In other words, the show wasn’t “city vs. country.”

It was certainty vs. reality

The Reboot Gets to Lean Into That

A modern version doesn’t need to flip the premise—it just needs to sharpen it.

The locals aren’t fools. They’re competent in ways Oliver isn’t.

• They understand land, systems, and consequences
• They navigate rules Oliver doesn’t even know exist
• They don’t explain themselves unless necessary

Oliver, meanwhile, still thinks he’s the smartest person in the room.

He knows contracts. They know what happens when contracts meet weather, animals, and time.

And every version of this town needs someone who operates by a completely different set of rules. In this one, she’s less a stereotype and more a force of nature—and Oliver, naturally, has no idea how to handle it.

The Cast (Because This Is Where It Gets Fun)

You don’t reboot something like this halfway.

Oliver: Jason Bateman

A man who insists everything is under control while nothing is under control.

Lisa: Jennifer Aniston

Not the fish out of water this time. She adapts faster than Oliver—and may quietly thrive.

The HOA President: beloved character actress, Margo Martindale

Runs everything. Never says she does. Never needs to.

If you’ve seen her in The Americans, you know the energy: calm voice, measured delivery, and just enough steel underneath that you don’t even consider pushing back.

She doesn’t raise her voice. She doesn’t threaten. She just states things.

“Your grass is out of compliance.”

And that’s it. No explanation, no escalation. You don’t laugh. You don’t argue. You go get the mower.

She represents the rules—not the written ones, necessarily, but the ones that actually matter. The ones everyone else already understands.

With Oliver, she’s patient, but not indulgent:

“That’s not how this works.”
“Legally, I—”
“This isn’t legal.”

With the rest of the town, she barely needs to speak. Things get done.

And when she and Aubrey Plaza share a scene, there’s a sense that they both understand something Oliver never will—and have no particular interest in explaining it.

The Real Estate Agent / Something Else Entirely: Aubrey Plaza

She starts out as the real estate agent who sells Oliver the dream—“charming,” “rustic,” “full of potential”—and then never quite leaves.

After that, she’s just…around.

Sometimes she’s handling paperwork. Sometimes she’s enforcing something. Sometimes she’s advising Lisa. Sometimes she’s just standing there, observing.

Oliver, increasingly unsettled, eventually asks:

“What do you do?”

Her answer never changes:

“I’m involved.”

No one else finds this strange. The town accepts it completely. Only Oliver needs an explanation—and he’s the only one who never gets one.

The Neighboring Farmer: Keith Crocker

The kind of guy Oliver thinks he understands immediately—and completely doesn’t.

He looks like exactly what Oliver expects: pitchfork, overalls, the whole thing. But unlike Oliver, he actually knows what he’s doing.

He doesn’t explain much. He doesn’t need to.

“You’re gonna want to fix that.”
“Fix what?”
“…that.”

He shows up, gives just enough guidance to keep things from collapsing, and then moves on. The rest of the town treats him as entirely normal—which, in this town, tells you everything.

The Local Who Shouldn’t Be Underestimated: Brent Spiner

Seems like the most stereotypical country oddball—until he casually proves he understands everything better than Oliver does.

The Free-Spirit Neighbor: Paz de la Huerta

That “different set of rules” character. Always just around, always slightly disarming, and always treating Oliver’s sense of order as optional.

She flirts with him—casually, persistently, without much effort. Oliver has absolutely no idea how to handle it. He overcorrects into politeness, then into formality, then into mild panic.

Nothing ever comes of it. That’s not the point.

Lisa, importantly, is not threatened in the slightest. She understands exactly what’s going on and treats it as just another part of the landscape. If anything, she enjoys watching Oliver squirm.

“She likes you.”
“I wish she didn’t.”
“Why? You need the attention.”

Which, of course, only makes it worse for him.

The New York Paralegal (The True Power): Kate Micucci

Never leaves the office. Keeps the entire legal operation functioning. Solves problems before Oliver knows they exist.

The Agricultural Inspector: Christina Zuber Crocker

Shows up when things go wrong. Which is always. Takes everything completely seriously.

For those who remember her from The Bloody Ape—where she memorably played “Lady Who Has Her Car Stolen by Ape”—this would be a chance to show off her full comedic abilities. We got a glimpse there. Here, she gets the runway.

She doesn’t joke. She doesn’t react. She just documents, inspects, and enforces—no matter how absurd the situation.

“I’m going to need you to account for the poultry.”
“Don’t take the whole cake. That’s for everybody.”

It doesn’t matter what the situation is. The tone never changes.

And the Theme Song…

You don’t mess with it. Update it, remix it, rearrange it however you like—but there are two lines that are non-negotiable.

It has to begin with “Green Acres is the place to be…”

And it has to end with “Green Acres, we are there.”

Everything in between is up for grabs. Those bookends are not.

Because if you’re going to bring it back, you might as well get the part right that everyone remembers—well, everyone of a certain age.

Final Thought

The original Green Acres didn’t just laugh at the locals. It laughed at the guy who thought he had everything figured out.

A reboot doesn’t need to change that. If anything, it needs to make it clearer.

Because in 2026, we have a lot of Olivers—confident, connected, convinced we can drop into a new world and master it immediately.

And if someone makes that show?

I’ll be there.

heavens to betsy! the perfect spinoff for better call saul

One of the most delightful things about the Breaking Bad universe created by Vince Gilligan and Peter Gould is that even minor characters feel like they could anchor their own show. But there’s one pair in particular who practically beg for it: Craig and Betsy Kettleman.

Yes, I am proposing a full spinoff about the Kettlemans.

And it should be called Heavens to Betsy.

Think about the possibilities.

Betsy Kettleman is one of television’s great comic creations: wildly ambitious, absolutely convinced of her own brilliance, and completely incapable of recognizing how bad her plans actually are. She’s a schemer who lacks two critical tools for scheming: patience and intelligence. Her plots are always just a little too loud, a little too obvious, and a little too reckless.

And yet she barrels ahead anyway.

Craig Kettleman, meanwhile, is the perfect comedic counterweight. He’s a timid, slightly bewildered man who knows the plan is terrible. You can see it in his face every time Betsy explains the next brilliant idea.

Craig: “I don’t think this is a good idea.”
Betsy: “Craig.”
Craig: “…okay.”

And off they go into another catastrophe.

What makes the Kettlemans funny isn’t just that they commit crimes—it’s that they commit crimes in the most amateurish way imaginable. Remember early on in Breaking Bad, when Jesse and Walt stole a barrel of methylamine from a warehouse? I'm talking about that level of incompetence or worse. They’re not criminal masterminds. They’re not hardened operators. They’re the kind of people who would attempt a sophisticated fraud scheme after reading half an article about it online.

Every episode practically writes itself:

1. Betsy hatches a bold new plan to “get what they deserve.”
2. Craig raises mild objections.
3. Betsy steamrolls those objections.
4. The plan spirals out of control in increasingly ridiculous ways.
5. Craig suffers the consequences.

And, crucially, there is a running gag.

In every episode of Heavens to Betsy, the Kettlemans have a lawyer.

Not the same lawyer.

A new lawyer.

Betsy insists on hiring “top legal talent” to support whatever the current scheme is. The lawyer—who is invariably competent, cautious, and increasingly alarmed—spends the episode trying to explain why what the Kettlemans are doing is illegal, inadvisable, or both.

Betsy interprets this as negativity.

Or worse, a lack of vision.

By the final act, as things are collapsing, the lawyer is urgently advising them to stop, to cooperate, or at the very least to not say another word.

Betsy responds by firing them.

On the spot.

“We need a lawyer who works with us, not against us.”

The lawyer exits, stunned.

Craig, watching this unfold, realizes—correctly—that the lawyer was the only thing standing between them and total disaster.

It is, of course, too late.

For example, imagine an episode where Betsy decides the Kettlemans should start a “consulting service” helping small businesses reduce their tax bills. Her plan is to charge huge fees for advice she mostly invents on the spot.

Craig points out that neither of them knows anything about tax law.

Betsy reassures him that “tax law is just numbers.”

Within a week they’ve accidentally advised a client to commit three different felonies and attracted the attention of both the IRS and the state licensing board. Craig spends the episode trying to quietly undo the damage while Betsy insists the problem is simply that they “need better branding.”

Or imagine another episode where Betsy decides the family should get into real estate. She’s convinced the key to success is buying distressed properties cheaply.

Unfortunately, the property she finds is cheap because it’s currently being used by an extremely unfriendly criminal organization.

Craig realizes this almost immediately.

Betsy insists they have “every legal right” to renovate it.

Things escalate.

Rapidly.

And then there are the moments where the Kettlemans brush up against the larger world of Breaking Bad and Better Call Saul—without having the faintest idea what they’re dealing with.

In one episode, Betsy becomes convinced that they need to “scale up” and start working with more serious, high-level operators. Through a series of wildly misguided assumptions, she identifies Lydia Rodarte-Quayle as a “corporate logistics expert.”

Which, to be fair, is not wrong.

It’s just…incomplete.

Betsy aggressively pursues a meeting—emails, voicemails, an unsolicited “proposal packet” with color-coded tabs and completely nonsensical projections. Craig, meanwhile, is quietly unraveling.

The meeting, when it finally happens, is excruciating. Betsy pitches something like “regionally optimized embezzlement services for mid-sized municipalities,” while Lydia stares at her with a mixture of confusion and alarm.

By the end, Lydia is taking steps to ensure she never hears from these people again, while Betsy insists this counts as a “successful first contact.”

It does not.

Or worse: Betsy decides they need “muscle.” Not because they actually need it—but because, in her mind, serious businesses have muscle. Through a chain of terrible decisions, she ends up attempting to establish a relationship with associates of Jack Welker.

Craig immediately understands that this is not a situation they should be anywhere near.

Betsy interprets their hostility as a negotiation tactic.

She responds by trying to out-negotiate them.

There has to be a scene where Betsy is confidently explaining payment structures and “long-term partnership opportunities,” while everyone else in the room is trying to figure out who these people are and why they are still talking. Craig, sitting next to her, looks like a man actively reconsidering every life choice he has ever made.

The resolution, of course, is not success.

It’s survival.

They walk away convinced they’ve taken a bold step into the big leagues.

They have not.

And then there’s the episode that really defines Heavens to Betsy.

In the aftermath of the Wayfarer 515 plane collision, Betsy becomes convinced that what victims’ families need is “financial guidance.”

Specifically, theirs.

She creates a “support and recovery service” to help families manage settlements and “maximize outcomes.” In practice, it consists of vague advice, homemade pamphlets, and a fee structure that is both confusing and aggressively expensive.

Craig immediately senses this is a terrible idea—not just legally, but morally.

Betsy reframes it as compassion.

“Craig, we are helping people.”

They begin reaching out with unsolicited mailers, awkward phone calls, and deeply inappropriate in-person visits that somehow manage to be both overly cheerful and wildly tone-deaf.

Every interaction goes badly.

Craig tries to scale things back. Betsy insists the problem is “messaging.”

Naturally.

What makes it work is that the Kettlemans never quite grasp why people are reacting so negatively. Betsy thinks it’s a branding issue. Craig understands, dimly, that they’ve crossed a line—but doesn’t have the backbone to stop it.

The inevitable result isn’t profit.

It’s consequences.

And a hasty retreat.

Followed by Betsy insisting that “the concept was sound.”

What would make Heavens to Betsy work is that the Kettlemans would never become competent. In a franchise full of masterminds, professionals, and terrifyingly disciplined operators, they would remain exactly what they are:

People who wander into crime the way someone wanders into a glass door.

Again.

And again.

And again.

And the audience would know, from the moment Betsy unveils the plan, that this is going to end horribly.

The only suspense would be how.

In a universe famous for brilliant criminal strategists, Heavens to Betsy would give us something even better:

The world’s least competent crime duo.

Which is exactly why their show would be amazing. And it's exactly why Joe would give it a ten!

the crossover chicago needs

 Television keeps rebooting things that already ended properly. Meanwhile, one of the most structurally inevitable crossovers in TV history has never happened:

Married... with Children and Shameless.

They share a city. They share a worldview. They share a spiritual allergy to self-improvement.

And here’s the key: Married…with Children never had a real finale. It didn’t conclude. It just stopped in 1997. The Bundys were left wandering Chicago continuity without narrative supervision. Shameless ended — and in doing so, it killed Frank Gallagher.

Chicago now has a vacancy.

And Chicago does not tolerate a vacuum in dysfunction.

What Happened to the Bundys

The Bundy house survived decades. What it could not survive was property tax reassessment and a variable-rate mortgage Bud once described as “strategically aggressive liquidity optimization.”

Al described it differently.

“We didn’t lose the house. The house lost us. It couldn’t handle the pressure.”

Bud Bundy, improbably successful in crypto-security compliance, convinced his parents to extract equity. Then the market shifted. Then taxes rose. Then Al ignored mail.

“I don’t open envelopes,” Al explains. “That’s how they get you.”

Peggy refused to “downsize into moral surrender.” Kelly assumed escrow was a person. Bud called it “temporary dislocation.” Al called it:

“Living proof that America hates a man who once scored four touchdowns in a single game.”

Bud purchased a distressed two-flat on the South Side as a “cash-flow property with urban upside.” Al’s review:

“So we downgraded from a house we couldn’t afford to a neighborhood that can’t afford us.”

Bud also acquires the commercial note on the building housing the Alibi. Al finds this out the hard way.

“So my son doesn’t own the bar,” Al says. “He just owns the panic attached to it.”

The Gallaghers, Post-Frank

Frank Gallagher is gone. The Gallagher house still stands — stubborn, dented, defiant.

Fiona Gallagher returns to stabilize paperwork and destabilize herself. Lip is sober and tense. Ian and Mickey are married and combustible. Debbie is running three side hustles and one emotional deficit. Liam is the only adult within a five-mile radius.

Bud shows up to inspect his investment.

Al comes along. Al surveys the block.

“I like it. It’s like our old neighborhood — but honest about it.”

Inside the Gallagher house, Al studies the chaos.

“This isn’t neglect. This is efficiency. Why clean something you’re just going to disappoint again?”

Within weeks, Al has adopted Frank’s old stool at the Alibi.

“Relax,” Al tells the regulars. “I’m not replacing the guy. I’m just here to lower expectations.”

Fiona and Bud

Fiona meets Bud in his upgraded form: tailored suits, controlled tone, generational resentment. They bond over paternal disappointment. Al finds out.

“You’re dating my son?” Al says to Fiona. “That’s like trading in a broken appliance for a refurbished one.”

Kelly discovers the affair and arrives on the South Side in full influencer mode. She launches a lifestyle stream titled “Suburban Goddess Goes Urban.”

Al watches one episode.

“You know, Peg, if stupidity were electricity, we could power this block.”

Debbie immediately monetizes Kelly’s following. Lip distrusts Bud’s money. Al distrusts Bud’s existence.

“I raised him to be a failure. Now he’s a success. Where did I go wrong?”

Peggy Finds Her Climate

Peggy Bundy thrives. The Gallagher block runs on entropy, unpaid utilities, and creative denial. Peggy calls it “community.” She and Mickey bond instantly.

Peggy to Al:

“I finally found people who understand that housework is a social construct.”

Al replies:

“So is marriage. And yet here we are.”

Marcy and Carl: The Cougar Doctrine

Marcy D'Arcy meets Carl Gallagher. Carl is younger. Uniformed. Confident in the vague way authority sometimes is. Marcy frames it as mentorship. It escalates.

Jefferson objects. Marcy informs him she is “evolving.”

Al weighs in:

“Marcy trading in Jefferson for Carl? I guess she finally decided to date someone with arrest authority instead of just arrest potential.”

Carl, navigating midlife suburban ambition, asks Al for advice. Al considers this.

“Son, if a woman tells you she sees potential in you, run. Potential is what women see when they don’t like the current model.”

Liam writes a school essay titled Late Capitalism and the Migration of Sitcom Predators.

The Central Conflict

Bud restructures the Alibi’s lease. Al explodes.

“I don’t need a landlord. I need a liver.”

Bud pitches a neighborhood redevelopment scheme involving digital escrow and tax incentives. Al’s summary:

“So the plan is we fix everything by charging ourselves more?”

The deal unravels. Fiona nearly leaves again. Marcy files paperwork. Carl investigates a complaint that circles back to Bud. Kelly livestreams the collapse. Peggy orders takeout.

The Gallagher house remains theirs. The Alibi survives. The Bundys remain displaced. Al returns to his stool.

“You know what the difference is between me and Frank Gallagher?”
He takes a sip.
“Timing.”

Why This Isn’t Nostalgia

In the 1990s, the Bundys were exaggerated stagnation.

In the 2010s, the Gallaghers were exposed precarity.

In the 2020s, those aren’t different genres.

They’re neighbors.

Married…with Children never got a finale. Shameless lost its patriarch.

Chicago still has room for one more man sitting where responsibility should be.

Al Bundy walked so Frank Gallagher could fall down the stairs.

Now somebody has to keep the stool warm.

the reunion we need. the reunion we deserve.

TV keeps rebooting the wrong shows. Enough already. What we actually need is a BJ and the Bear reunion movie.

Picture this: BJ McKay rolls back into Orly County for Sheriff Lobo’s funeral. The man was a pain, a bully, and—let’s be honest—a legend. The town turns out. There are speeches about “law and order” that somehow leave out the part where he terrorized long-haul truckers for sport.

BJ reconnects with Deputy Hawkins, who—miraculously—has aged into exactly what he always was: a straight-arrow, by-the-book lawman who still thinks the system works if you just follow the rules hard enough. Hawkins is genuinely happy to see BJ. Less happy to see Bear riding shotgun, because some things never change.

Enter the problem: Sheriff Lobo’s son. He’s running for sheriff himself, fueled entirely by resentment. He grew up hearing bedtime stories about “that drifter trucker and his damn monkey” humiliating his father on a weekly basis. He bears a grudge. (Yes. Bears. I regret nothing.)

At first it’s petty harassment—traffic stops, inspections, old ordinances dusted off for no reason. But it escalates when BJ realizes Orly County has been “cleaned up” in the worst possible way: small operators pushed out, corruption repackaged as respectability, and Lobo Jr. using his father’s legacy as a cudgel. Hawkins is stuck in the middle, trying to do the right thing while pretending this isn’t personal.

And Bear? Bear sees through everything. The chimp knows the score immediately. He becomes the moral center of the story, which feels right.

By the end, BJ isn’t just passing through anymore. He’s forced to decide whether some towns are worth fighting for—even when the fight looks suspiciously like the same old one. Also there’s a truck chase, at least one courtroom scene that makes no legal sense, and Bear absolutely steals a set of keys at a crucial moment.

Tell me this wouldn’t work. Tell me this wouldn’t be better than the ninth reboot of something nobody asked for. And Joe will give it a ten!

cinema history class: three tv episodes

The session: "Bring Your Own Movie Month"
Our annual session in which each of us in the class takes a turn sharing a movie of his choice.

As always, there may be spoilers here. And the trailer may be NSFW and/or NSFL.

Week 3: three television episodes
                (Joe's pick)

Joe's big thing for Bring Your Own Movie Month is to make a whole program out of the evening. Whereas the rest of us each choose one movie to share, Joe has typically shown a movie along with a related episode or two from the realm of television. This year he left out the movie part and gave us three television episodes joined (he said) by a theme.

In "Werewolf" (Voyage to the Bottom of the Sea -- S3E2), a crewman is bitten by a werewolf and becomes infected. In "The Werewolf" (Kolchak: The Nightstalker -- S1E5), Kolchak finds himself on a cruise ship. Instead of interviewing singles as planned, he's chasing down a werewolf. In "Maria" (Alfred Hitchcock Presents -- S7E3), a circus performer buys a monkey who turns out to be more than he expected.

It was clear to me what the connection was between the first two episodes Joe showed us, as they both involved werewolves. The connection to the Alfred Hitchcock episode was a little less clear. It could be that it starred Nita Talbot, who also starred in the Kolchak episode. The other possibility I can think of is that the plot involved a woman in a chimpanzee costume* which, I guess, is sort of like a man turning into a wolf.

Showing TV shows instead of a movie is, by definition, a risk. A movie, unless it's a sequel or an entry in an established franchise, is meant to be enjoyed on its own terms. With TV shows, the dynamic isn't the same; there are characters and context that are already established and not exposited. Which is not to say that TV episodes can't be enjoyed as self-contained units. These three shows were all from before the current age of arc-driven shows. You can't just sit and watch a random season 4 episode of Game of Thrones or Boardwalk Empire unless you have already seen all that leads up to it. By contrast, you can do that with Bewitched or The Six Million Dollar Man. You'll be missing some context, but those latter shows were written and presented for single-episode consumption. And so it was with the shows Joe showed us.

It's kind of hard for me to get into Voyage as a TV show. Perhaps if I had seen it as a kid I'd be into it -- sort of the way I'm into Star Trek** now. Or, maybe not. I saw Lost in Space (which, like Voyage, was an Irwin Allen vehicle) as a kid, and never really took to it. I could enjoy this episode for what it was, but not much more. Kolchak interested me more. As a miod-1970s series with cinema-like presentation, it fit into my comfort zone better. But my favorite of the three was clearly the the Hitchcock episode.

And I think that's because Hitchcock Presents was the most movie-like of the three. Hitchcock was primarily a movie director and that is reflected in his sensibilities. Further, Presents was an anthology show with no connection between episodes. So each episode was more like a mini-movie than a typical TV episode. I enjoyed that one episode to such a degree that I am tempted to buy the series on DVD. Maybe I'd just pay to stream it -- but if I did that, joe would feel a disturbance in the Force.

It was difficult to rate Joe's offerings. Perhaps I should have tried -- Joe even suggested that we could rate each of the three pieces or the whole. or both -- but I declined. Others went there and gave the everything very high marks. Sadly, I can't find the pad of paper on which I wrote the grades. Sorry.

_____________________________

*They keep saying "monkey," but it's clearly a chimpanzee costume
**To be clear, I'm talking about the original series and, I guess the spinoffs through Enterprise.

what really happened on june 14, 1987?

 I've been watching Seinfeld, the TV series, on Netflix. I never made a point of watching it in its original run. Over the years, I've seen a bunch of the episodes and lots of clips. I'm familiar with a lot of the catchphrases and the major characters. But now I decided to watch it from episode 1...start to finish. Except, I suppose, for that one episode in the last season that's unavailable because it offended people. I'll let Joe address that issue.

I'm in the third season; last night I watched the two-part episode, "The Boyfriend," in which Jerry strikes up a friendship with Keith Hernandez, the former baseball player. Part of the episode centers on Kramer and Newman hating Hernandez because they believe he spat at them after a game. The whole thing is played as a parody of the Kennedy assassination, and it's done pretty well. I won't go into detail, since that would take too long and I won't do it justice.

But the one thing that annoys me.

The episode would have you believe that, on June 14, 1987, the Mets lost to the Phillies because of a crucial error by Hernandez. In truth, on that date the Mets beat the Pirates 7-3 (in Pittsburgh). That totally ruins the plot for me (/sarc). Keith Hernandez played for the Mets for six and a fraction seasons. I can't help but assume that, during that time, there was at least one loss that could plausibly be blamed (at least in part) on him, and used for the plot. 

In fairness to the writers, I do acknowledge that the episode  was made in the early 1990s. Back then it wasn't so easy to look up what happened on any given date, or search to find a game that suits the needs of the episode. It's not as if I actually remembered what happened on that day. I looked it up on baseball reference. Were it not so easy to uplook such things, I never would have checked.

when breaking mad became merrie melodies

As a big fan of Breaking Bad (and, while we're at it, Better Call Saul), I want to talk about my biggest quibble with the show. It's actually about a scene that, judging from what I have seen on the interwebs, is a fan favorite. I'm talking about a scene near the end of season 4, episode 13. Gus Fring's death.

I won't try to set it up. Those who watched the show know the backstory, and I can't possibly do it justice for those who haven't watched it.

I get what people like about it. At that point, Gus was the major antagonist, the focus of the fans' hatred. And we all knew that he would kill Walt if Walt didn't kill him first. As always, it was fun to watch one of Walt's elaborate plans come to fruition. And we loved watching Gus -- gloating in his victory over Hector, the experiencing that moment of panic as he realized he was about to get blown up. Then the explosion. But somehow Gus manages to escape. He steps out of the room, seemingly unharmed. He even starts to straighten his tie -- such a classic Gus Fring move. But as the camera pans we, the viewers, see the injuries. Our jaws drop as we wonder how he survived. Then he collapses. And we breathe a sigh of relief, marveling at what we've seen.

Yeah, I get it.

But I really hate the way they did that. BB  was a serious show. There were lighthearted moments that served to cut the tension. Remember when Walt threw the pizza on the roof? Remember when Walt spent a whole episode trying to kill a fly? But the show never descended into cartoonishness. Except for when Fring died. That was some major Wile E. Coyote vibe happening. And it didn't belong.

To be clear, my objection isn't just about the lack of realism. There are other places in the show where the science is wrong or things just don't add up. But these examples all serve the greater purpose of great storytelling. But this? Cartoony shit, and by far the worst moment in the series.

who makes the fog surrounding the golden gate simply disappear?

When Phyllis, Cloris Leachman's spinoff from The Mary Tyler Moore Show, I wasn't what you'd call a regular viewer. I loved MTM, but just didn't get into the spinoff. I vaguely recall trying a couple episodes and not liking it. But I have few specific memories other than frequent mention of "Lars" and the clever theme song. So, for decades I thought of Phyllis as a sort of inferior copy of MTM.

But, recently, I found the first episode on Youtube. I forget how or why it came up, but there it was. And I started watching it. And found it quite funny -- not hysterical laugh-out-loud funny, but clever. So now I've been watching complete episodes on Youtube -- sadly, I can't seem to find them anywhere else.

I think my favorite character is Audrey (Phyllis' air-headed but well-meaning mother-in-law). One of my favorite exchanges (as Phyllis, Audrey and Jonathan (Audrey's husband) are sitting down at a fancy restaurant):

Audrey: Why, they serve every kind of fish in the sea here. I can't imagine why we haven't been here before.

Jonathan: You hate fish.

Audrey: Maybe that's it.

Another (when it dawns on Phyllis how old her daughter is getting):

Phyllis: It was only yesterday that I nursed her at my breast, played pattycake with her, put on her booties, sprinkled talcum on her little bottom. Only yesterday...

Audrey: I thought you went to that new Woody Allen picture yesterday.

Who knows? Maybe I'll even give Rhoda a shot. I really hated that when I was a kid.

south park: a kosher contradiction

 I've been streaming a bunch of South Park because reasons.

And there's something that has me confused. In "Mr. Hankey, the Christmas Poo" (the show's first Christmas episode), Kyle laments his fate as a lonely Jew on Christmas. At one point, he sings, "instead of eating ham I have to eat kosher latkes.

But one episode earlier, in "Starvin' Marvin" (the show's first Thanksgiving episode), we see Kyle at a buffet with his parents and some other cast members. He is clearly cutting himself a big piece of ham.

This has me so confused...

the end of the f***ing world as we know it...and i feel fine

I'm not sure why I started watching The End of the F***ing World on Netflix. Certainly the provocative title was part of the decision-making process. Also, I vaguely recalled seeing trailers for it a few years ago and thinking it looked like it had promise -- though I didn't actually remember what was in the trailer. And, I was kind of bored looking for something to watch.

TEotFW is not like the other serial dramas I recently bingewatched. The Sopranos, Breaking Bad and Boardwalk Empire were all "adult" shows about grownups in grownup situations. TEotFW is about teenagers being teenagers. They are extremely issue-laden -- even for teenagers, and their decision-making lacks the thoughtfulness that comes with adulthood. As with the protagonists in all my favorite shows, they're flawed. Very flawed. I wasn't sure I'd like it. Actually, I was guessing I wouldn't like it. But I was curious. And bored. And it was billed as a comedy. A good laugh is always a good thing.

In the event, the show was dark and depressing. And utterly compelling. As the first episode ended, I was wondering if it was over already? I had to find out what happened next. I'm still not sure where the comedy comes in. Though there are occasional tension-breaking comedic moments, it's not what I would call a comedy. Those comedic moments are of the type where you kind of chuckle and then say "Oh, was that one of the funny bits?" Much more British in its approach than American -- which, I guess, makes sense since it's a British show.

Few productions have such brilliantly-curated soundtracks. I kept noting how perfectly the songs complemented the story.

And, while we're at it, Alex Lawther and Jessica Barden are very well cast as James and Alyssa. Both are quite effective at portraying the teenage awkwardness that's so vital to the roles. And Lawther especially has the difficult task of portraying a dead-to-the-world blank slate at the beginning, and then slowly blooming and coming into his own. I remember seeing him in "Shut Up and Dance" which is one of the better (and more disturbing) episodes of Black Mirror. And I remember noting that he nailed that role as well.

Interestingly, the show only had two seasons of eight episodes each. The episodes are generally being between 20 and 25 minutes long, so each season is about the length of a long movie. So these are perfect for bingeing.

When I watched the trailer I learned that the show was based on a graphic novel. Since I can appreciate a good graphic novel -- my favorites are RASL, The Sculptor and Watchmen -- I was looking into buying this one. But the reviews made me think twice. If you are reading this and have read the graphic novel, please let me know what you thought of it.

space: 1999 -- season 2 episode 24 -- the dorcons

Season 2, Episode 24: The Dorcons
This blog comes with the generalized warning that any post may contain spoilers. That is especially true of these Space: 1999 posts. So if you haven't seen this episode, intend to watch it, and therefore don't want spoilers, then don't read.

Plot Synopsis
Alpha is approached by a Dorcon ship. The Dorcons want Maya; with her brain stem, their leader can attain immortality. The Dorcons are the most powerful race in the galaxy (of course!), so Alpha is seriously outmatched.

My Thoughts
The premise is really stupid, but beyond that, the basic plot could have made for compelling television. Of course, it could have used a couple tweaks to make it remotely plausible. There's even some royal intrigue about a conniving prince, which adds some extra interest.

There were some other positives to this episode. Maya's use of her shape-shifting abilities was understated and handled seriously. This wasn't simply another laughable big ugly creature costume. And the scene where we see it had some good suspense. Will the Dorcons recognize her? And I did appreciate hearing the line "Resistance is futile" in science fiction predating Star Trek: TNG.

But, for the most part, this episode was poorly handled and just came off as inane. And so, Space: 1999, a show on which I pinned so many hopes when I was a little boy, ended with a whimper.

space: 1999 -- season 2 episode 23 -- the immunity syndrome

Season 2, Episode 23: The Immunity Syndrome
This blog comes with the generalized warning that any post may contain spoilers. That is especially true of these Space: 1999 posts. So if you haven't seen this episode, intend to watch it, and therefore don't want spoilers, then don't read.

Plot Synopsis
A landing crew is exploring a planet that looks promising. But things start going wrong -- crewmembers are going insane, and the hospitable environment is turning decidedly dangerous. The key lies in the recorded log of another expedition of another race that experienced the same thing.

My Thoughts
At this point, the show is striking a very uneasy balance between serious science fiction and kid-oriented silliness. As with several other episodes, this one starts with a reasonably interesting premise that could make for an engaging show. But the script and effects are just horrendous, leaving us with something that's as cheesy as Lost In Space*, but without the charm.

As before, they seem to be inventing new gadgets for each episode without regard for any kind of logic. Now they have a glider for entering a planet's atmosphere? They never had that before, and it makes no sense that they have it now.

So, what's the discipline situation here? This is a pseudo-military outfit. It started out as scientific, but in this season we've seen a sharp turn into military -- probably in an attempt to imitate Star Trek. Whatever it is, this is an outfit where discipline and self control are vital. So, on the planet, when a man is dead from a laser gun wound (and another has run off). The doctor, examining the dead man, concludes, that it was a fight. "I'd say it adds up to a stupid accident. They fell out, a weapon was pulled."  And he and Koenig seem to find that explanation perfectly plausible. Excuse my French, but what kind of outfit is Koenig running?

I'll also note here that I don't like the little episode-closing music that they seem to have in each show. It makes it sound like we're watching Eight is Enough or The Love Boat. They should get rid of it. But with only one episode left, I guess it's a bit late for that.

*To be clear, I'm talking about the original series from the 1960's.

space: 1999 -- season 2 episode 22 -- devil's planet

Season 2, Episode 22: Devil's Planet
This blog comes with the generalized warning that any post may contain spoilers. That is especially true of these Space: 1999 posts. So if you haven't seen this episode, intend to watch it, and therefore don't want spoilers, then don't read.

Plot Synopsis
After surveying a planet and realizing that everyone there is dead, Koenig finds himself on that planet's moon, where there's a penal colony. Prisoners are kept in line via the hope of returning to the planet -- not knowing that the return would be fatal.

My Thoughts
I remember when Star Trek: The Next Generation was first on TV, and they introduced the Ferengi. One of the stupid things about that new race was their weapons. They had these goofy energy whip things. Now I see that that was ripped off from S99. The guards keeping the prisoners in line with whips is just ridiculous looking. Maybe it was taken from Wonder Woman.

And that seems to be a good example of what's wrong with the episode. The idea behind it is interesting. And, done well, it could have been a compelling story. But it was put together so ham-handedly that I just had to laugh. Even the death scenes are comical. People step out of the transporter booth all smiles and happy. Then they get this melodramatic look on their faces, and keel over like high school actors. I really wanted to like this episode, but I just couldn't.

The thing that really puzzles me is the ending. It seems to me that once Koenig is rescued, the crew of Alpha should implement Operation Exodus and go to the planet of the dead people. Sure there's some kind of contagion that kills the natives of that planet, but we know that humans are immune. So why is there not even a mention of colonizing the world?

space: 1999 -- season 2 episode 21 -- dorzak

Season 2, Episode 21: Dorzak
This blog comes with the generalized warning that any post may contain spoilers. That is especially true of these Space: 1999 posts. So if you haven't seen this episode, intend to watch it, and therefore don't want spoilers, then don't read.

Plot Synopsis
The moon encounters a ship that's signalling it has a plague. Despite the plague, its captain signals she must land. It turns out that the "plague" is a Psychon -- presumably the only surviving Psychon other than Maya -- who is being held in stasis because of his criminal nature and his hypnotic ability to control others.

My Thoughts
There's too much in this episode that doesn't make any sense. From the way Dorzak is portrayed, to the unexplained fact that Maya's perception of him is so terribly wrong. Perhaps if there were some action, then the logical flaws could be forgiven. But as it is this is just slow-moving and boring. It's supposed to be a kind of three-way chess match between the Alpha crew, Dorzac and Sahala (the alien ship's captain). But the twists and turns are largely predictable.

I suppose that if I want to find something good to say about this episode (which I don't, but what the hell), I'll note that I like the way they worked Tony's beer-brewing into the story-line. In fact, a part of the plot turns on Tony's beer. Still, though, no follow-up on Helena's sculpting.

space: 1999 -- season 2 episode 20 -- the seance spectre

Season 2, Episode 20: The Seance Spectre
This blog comes with the generalized warning that any post may contain spoilers. That is especially true of these Space: 1999 posts. So if you haven't seen this episode, intend to watch it, and therefore don't want spoilers, then don't read.

Plot Synopsis
The moon is on a collision course with a planet, so they have to blast it off course. Meanwhile, a messianic-type is leading a mutiny to prevent any moon-saving action.

My Thoughts
After the exciting two-parter, we get right back with a regular ho-hum episode. How many times has an episode hinged on the moon being on a collision course with something? At least this time it didn't end with some kind of weird existential mumbo jumbo like a couple of season one episodes whose names mercifully elude me. This time things are complicated by the messianic (and mentally ill) Sanderson who is convinced that the planet is habitable. In some ways it seems like an interesting character study. He's charismatic, and his followers are torn.

There are a couple of plot devices that seem unnecessary and implausible. Why did Sanderson and his followers hold some kind of seance to come to his determination that the planet is habitable? Surely the writers could have leveraged his charisma on that front. Related, as the episode opens, there is restricted access to the Command Center because Koenig is hesitant to raise the crew's hopes in case the planet turns out to be uninhabitable. After all these episodes, now he decides they can't handle it? I don't buy it. Especially since Alpha has gradually become more and more of a military outfit this season.

I continue to be of a mixed mind regarding Maya's shape-shifting. She does another one of her strong creature transformations, which look like someone went into the prop room or Party City looking for any weird costume. Of course, at another point, when Maya was trapped behind a chair after her eagle crashed, I found myself screaming at her --"Just turn yourself into a bird and fly away!" Instead she turned into child-Maya, which was actually a disturbing sight. Of course, turning herself into a tree when she did was actually a very clever plot device which I applaud. It also had the added benefit of being a fresh use of her ability.

I suppose I should acknowledge that if I was screaming at the screen (as I admitted to in the last paragraph), then the episode does have at least some suspense.

I note that we haven't heard mention of Tony's beer-brewing in quite a while, and there's been nothing about Helena's sculpting since it was first introduced. And, while we're onto random observations, it seems odd to me that, according to Helena's log entries, we are now in the sixth year since they left earth's orbit.

space: 1999 -- season 2 episodes 18 and 19 -- the bringers of wonder

Season 2, Episodes 18 and 19: The Bringers of Wonder
This blog comes with the generalized warning that any post may contain spoilers. That is especially true of these Space: 1999 posts. So if you haven't seen this episode, intend to watch it, and therefore don't want spoilers, then don't read.

Plot Synopsis
An expedition has arrived from earth with the the news that, with new faster-than-light travel, they can bring the whole Alpha crew back home. But through Koenig's eyes these saviors are hideous monsters controlling everyone else's minds.

My Thoughts
The producers got ambitious, putting out a two-parter. Creatively, at least, it was a success, as this was one of the better episodes. The drama was quite effective, and they managed to pull off the suspense. And the moment where the first part ends is a good cliffhangery point, so kudos the them for that.

 But those costumes! For this episode they had to make the aliens very non-humanoid, and they succeeded at that. But what they ended up with were these blobs that kind of look like piles of vegetable refuse in back of a restaurant. And at some points they appear to shrug, which can be kind of comical. But I suspect that part of the problem is that I'm watching this on a high definition TV. These aliens weren't intended to be viewed in quite so crisp a format, and they probably looked better on TV's of the 1970's. Actually, that's true of a lot of the aliens in Space: 1999.

There's one way that I would have written this differently. The conflict in the show arises because the aliens need nuclear radiation; for them, it's food. When Koenig finds out he suggests that Alpha can just give the aliens their waste and it would be a win-win. But it's explained to Koenig that the aliens need an explosion, so they plan on detonating Alpha's nuclear waste dump (shades of the series premiere?), which will kill all the people of Alpha. What this means is that, for Alpha it becomes an "us or them" situation. If I were writing the screenplay, I would have worked it out so that Koenig's win-win can be worked out -- Maybe they build a protective shield; maybe they figure out a way to get the waste into space to explode away from Alpha. I don't know exactly how I'd do it, but I would do it. Now, that may be because I grew up watching Star Trek reruns. The way I would have it would be more in keeping with the Star Trek ethos. Of course, it's hard to say whether it's in keeping with the Space: 1999 ethos because, deep in the second half of the second season, there really isn't any coherent ethos.

I also notice that there's a certain flaw in the logic of the episode. The only reason Koenig doesn't fall for the aliens' mind control is that he had just undergone some kind of experimental brain therapy. The therapy was necessitated because he crashed an eagle. He crashed the eagle because the aliens were controlling his mind. They were controlling his mind because they wanted him to crash and die -- because they were concerned that, with his strong mind, he wouldn't fall for their mind control. Put simply, they controlled his mind to try to get him out of the way because they were worried they wouldn't be able to control his mind. So, that doesn't make sense. But, moreover, there's the irony that, if they had just left him alone, Koenig would have been taken in.

I have come to find that Maya, played by Catherine Schell, is increasingly annoying. Blair says she seems like a Dr. Who babe, but I can't really confirm or deny that -- I was never a big Whovian. But her shapeshifting is usually silly. They need someone strong, so she turns into a gorilla. Or a strong-looking alien. Or they need something strong and bitey so she turns into a tiger. It's tiresome. At least in this episode she turned into one of the aliens so she could spy on them. This led to one of the funnier moments, as the aliens realize that, though she looks like one of them, she is not. At any rate it's not clear to me why Maya found it particularly more repulsive to be one these aliens than any of the other things she's turned into.

At its end, the episode addresses the philosophical question which I believe underpins the movie, The Matrix. I say "I believe" because I have never seen that movie or its sequels. The issue? Suppose you could live out a full life of happiness, realizing your dreams and suffering no adversity. But it was all a lie -- a life you were living in your head while you were blissfully unaware of reality. Would it be better to have that life, or to live in reality? Koenig clearly prefers reality. I am not so sure I would.

As much as I have issues with it, this is really one of the best episodes in the series. Aside from the tension and suspense mentioned above, it got me thinking. And, despite a certain silliness, I kind of liked the aliens.

One final note: Part one contains the best quote from any episode of the show: "I haven't had so much fun since I burned grandma's wig!"