The writer’s eternal quest to become a Bruce Springsteen Enjoyer continues with this record.

“Continues?” Yes, Incontinent Reader. I have been struggling in secret with Bruce Springsteen Not-A-Fan Syndrome for years. A lifetime. I don’t always tell about you my struggles, because I don’t feel we have that kind of relationship.

Basically, I was radicalized against Springsteen in my youth, and it wasn’t his fault. I used to listen to the radio show called Opie and Anthony, and co-host Anthony Cumia would do a cruelly accurate impression of the Boss’s singing voice that I have never been able to unhear (“JOY-SEY CITY, BABY! A-WAHH-WAHH!”). So that makes it tough for him.

Apparently every Bruce record is a similar story: between two and four huge irrefutable rock classics like “I’m On Fire” and “Candy’s Room”, along with many other songs that are considerably…more refutable. So refutable that they almost often seem wrapped in email forward tags with MAKES U THINK !! in the subject line. Only the mediocre are always at their best, and I agree with the hardcore fans that Bruce is not a mediocre musician.

Yet even the album’s greatest tracks, like the astonishing “Thunder Road”, have little bits where my reaction isn’t “fuck yeah!” but “…that doesn’t quite work.” He’s overworking the dials, losing the effect he’s striving for. “Well, I got this guitar, and I learned how to make it talk” followed by a cocky twangy pentatonic lick, like we don’t know what a guitar is. It’s condescending and freezes me out a bit: he becomes like a douchey guy who’s brought a guitar to a party.

But earlier, there’s a fantastic line. “Show a little faith, there’s magic in the night / You ain’t a beauty, but hey, you’re alright.” On the page this reads like an insult, but he delivers it with such charm and panache that it reads as “a guy who loves his girl so much they share a wavelength: he knows she’ll understand it’s a joke”.” This is exactly how many couples talk to each other. He totally sells his character here: Bruce could have been an actor. Maybe he is an actor. Truly, are we not all actors, on this grand proscenium called “life”? Except some of us are “townsman #45” and “choir #20” and some of us are shooting up backstage and some of us are being chased by a bear. I don’t know what your situation is, sorry.

Born to Run is a nice little CV of an album. The two albums before have some label interference and artistic confusion. Most albums after it (particulary Nebraska and Tunnel of Love) feel like a commentary and reaction to his own massive fame.

Bruce Springsteen is interesting as a figure: he’s one of the first rockers who feels properly “native” to rock music. Most previous stars of Bruce’s luminance have their beginnings in a pre-rock style (Elvis in gospel, the Beatles in skiffle, Dylan in folk) or had other paths they could have taken. Can you imagine what David Bowie would have been, if rock hadn’t been invented? Yes, easily: he’d be jazzman, a cabaret light entertainer (with a puppet show, a mime routine, or ventriloquist act), or a Captain Beefheart cult figure. Probably all at once. But it’s hard to imagine what Bruce Springsteen would be doing in that world.

Yeah, I guess there’s some Roy Orbison in his voice. Some country and western style storytelling, too. Beyond this, he seems inseparable from rock music. No rock and roll, no Bruce Springsteen. He seems to have sprung from it as Athena did from Zeus’s forehead.

“Thunder Road” and “Night” (my personal favorite) and “Born to Run” are all great songs, partly because they close us off from the future. Where is the road go? What are we hoping to find in the night? Where do we run? No idea. Also, who cares? You sense you’re listening to a life that might be happy now, but will surely end unhappily. But that’s tomorrow’s worry. The sad part has not yet come. In real life, you have no choice but to roll through into the future. In a song, you can repeat time, hitting replay as often as the music will allow. And Bruce Springsteen’s work clearly allows it more times than most.

He is inconsistent. To literalize the rock metaphor Bruce Springsteen is not a single mountain, but a mountain range. Yes, his peaks are high. To climb the Everests and K2s of “Born to Run” etc you must navigate the base camps of “Tenth Avenue Freeze-Out” and “Meeting Across the River”. And the dull near ten-minute “Jungleland” is like being detained at riflepoint by the PLA at the China-Nepalese border while they ask questions about your visa.

“Tenth Avenue Freeze-Out” does have that amazing Clarence Clemonts intro, and lush, sensitive strings by Steven van Zandt. I wonder how many no-show jobs that one cost. How many boxes of zitis. How much gabagool and goomars and oh shut up.

It’s astonishing how ripped-off this album is. All my life I’ve been having “watching Shrek without knowing any fairytales” moment where I’m really hearing pastiches of Born to Run. The “Bat Out of Hell is a secret Born to Run parody album” feels more credible now that I’ve heard “Night”, with the same chord progression as in the “Bat Out of Hell” final movement.

But there’s a problem: rock music usually has a looseness and liberty. Springsteen’s music is drenched in totalizing perfectionism that often proves excessive, even oppressive. The thud and clank of the steel mill echoes from Born to Run‘s soul. It’s an album made of engineer-grade grade titanium, fashioned to millimeter tolerances, its pieces bolted and torqued tight. It’s both amazing and slightly oppressive in how…crafted it is. Crafted like a beartrap, you might say.

The BruceBase Wiki is loaded with wince-inducing asides like “The sax solo on “Jungleland” alone took 16 hours of work” and “The story that the song “Born To Run” took six months to complete is well known, but “Jungleland”, “Thunder Road”, and “Backstreets” all took longer.” The master tape must be so transparent that you can use it to tape broken reading glasses back together.

But if the album’s laboriousness does undercut its effect a bit (for me, anyway), there are pleasures to be had. This is one of the best produced records of the 70s. Every sound is so lush and rich and expensive. I don’t want to listen to it, I want to sprawl out on it like it’s a cabriole sofa, sinking into the rich tones of Clarence Clemons’s sax, rubbing my knuckles on Roy Bittan’s bell-like glockenspiel notes. It has a Tony Visconti-esque care to its sonic composition. But there’s fury raging under it too, tree roots cracking a sidewalk. You sense that Bruce was at war with his own work, remorselessly beating it into shape. He certainly captures Spector’s Wall of Sound, even if he often just uses it to build a prison.

Bruce’s songs about the call of the highway all feel like retreats from himself, fantasies where he’s a different, less worried man. A man who holds life with light hands, and let’s things go. I hear lightness and freedom in his words, but little in the music itself. I hear blood and sweat and grit and iron. I hear Bruce forging his monumental creative vision from what must have seemed like unbearably frustrating tools: tape and wood and microphones and fallible, exhausted musicians (he can’t have been an easy man to work with in the studio). Despite the loveliness and craft it’s often a grueling listen. You’re all too aware you’re listening to take #241, hearing another roll of tape going thud in the trash, with the E Street Band scowling and setting up for the downbeat once again, hoping The Boss will finally be happy with this one, so they can go home.

Like Kubrick, Bruce Springsteen cannot be faulted for his craftsmanship or taste. But like Kubrick I often wish there was a bit more simple joy and spontanuity in his work. His world can be a dark place. Darker than the night. Even the stripped down Nebraska feels very calculated. A record that tries to get ahead of the listener’s idea of what a Bruce Springsteen record is and subverting it. There’s magic in the night. But what’s the use of it, when you can’t forget the day?

The band^[1]Sascha and Loble aside was nearly in their fifties when they wrote *Seven Sinners*. Fifty’s quite an age to be playing in a band called “Helloween”. That thought would probably occur to you during band fights and label disputes and twenty-hour layovers to Tokyo. “I am a fifty year old in Helloween.”

It could be worse—the German power metal scene has no shortage of embarrassing band names. You could be in Edguy. You could be in Gloryful. You could be in Pink Cream 69 (a certain Helloween alumnus actually was.) You could be in Brainstorm. Most direly, you could be in Custard. Encyclopedia Metallum advises that “Chris Klapper is the only original member still in Custard.”*Thank God, the others got away. I mean, obviously my thoughts and prayers are with Chris Klapper and I don’t mean to trivialize his suffering, but at least there’s not five or six people tied to those particular railway tracks, you know?

Helloween further standardize their modernistic sound on Seven Sinners. There’s only about two or three experiments. It’s the first Helloween ever to open with a slow track, the doomy “Where the Sinners Go”. “Raise the Noise” has a Jethro Tull flute solo. The closing track is quite unique, and unlike anything they’ve attempted yet. Otherwise, it’s a very strict remanation of their sound.

The album is also notably heavy: probably their most brutal yet. The only competition is The Dark Ride, which has some darker songs (particularly “Escalation 666”) but also a lot of light power metal. This album is consistently dark. There’s no comedy or silly business: the lyrics are about drug abuse, schizophrenia, and so on. Even the piano-led ballad, Deris’s “The Smile of the Sun” is piercingly bittersweet: the fragrant juice from a crushed flower.

I do find it less charming than *The Dark Ride*. It needs more texture and more light to balance the shade. It’s action-packed and heavy but fairly one-dimensional. Many songs just do not work that well, and a lot of this weaker material is tracklisted at the start. (And some of its greatest songs aren’t on the album at all!)

“Where the Sinners Go”, “Are You Metal?”, and “Who Is Mr. Madman?” are just not compelling song. Sorry. The first is slow and draggy. The others are fast but have weak hooks (“Who is Mr. Madman?” reuses the melody of “Perfect Gentlemen”, and has a spoken word intro by Bill Byford of Saxon. As always, “remember when?” is the dullest form of conversation). “World of Fantasy” is another dud. Just the blandest power metal I’ve ever heard. It sounds like a *Rabbit Don’t Come Easy* song: lots of flash and noise with emptiness at its core.

Weikath’s “Raise the Noise” and Deris’s “Long Live The King” redeem the album for me. Both tracks are ferocious and catchy riff monsters with great choruses—Bauerfeind’s relentless guitar-focused mix makes them as muscular as steroid-pumped gorillas. Deris’s vocals are in top form as well.

“The Smile of the Sun” is another excellent song, then we’re back in fillertown. Sascha’s “My Sacrifice” and Deris’s “Not Yet Today”/”Far in the Future” end the album in good order.

“Far in the Future” is just insane, the song “Who Is Mr Madman?” wishes it was. A seven minute quiet/loud game with guillotine-suspended-by-a-thread tense sections punctuated by explosive steeplechase thrash sections. There’s an energetic Jimi Hendrix-evocative riff section in the middle that evokes *Chameleon* (of all things to evoke!), along with Gamma Ray. A great song.

The bonus tracks for Japan are surprisingly incredible! This has the best bonus material of any Helloween track yet. “I’m Free” and “Aiming High” in particular are blazingly fast and memorable power metal albums. They honestly could have bumped one or two lesser album tracks, like “World of Fantasy” and “If A Mountain Could Talk”, for one or both of them.

The album is a regress from the one before it, but it’s nowhere near actively bad. I cannot get offended by *Seven Sinners* when there are actual tragedies in the world, like innocent humans playing in a band called Custard. I just wish Helloween had changed their sound by adding things instead of removing them. But it’s dark and nasty and heavy enough: sometimes Halloween candy has razorblades in it.

A gross-out sitcom by Whitney Cummings and Michael Patrick King. It contains bawdy jokes and women showing their ankles. This show does not honor Christ.

I had COVID, and needed something dumb to distract me while I was dying. 2 Broke Girl fulfilled the assignment. Not the “distract me” assignment. The dying. The show rapidly accelerated my disease, hurtling me at Mach 5 speed into my grave. Thanks to 2 Broke Girls, I am no more on this world.

Here’s what you need to know about the afterlife: that smug grinning twerp with the book deal wasn’t lying—heaven is for real. The bad news: only half of us gets to go there. I don’t mean “one person out of every two”. I mean half of your body, split down the middle. The other half goes to hell. My right arm is playing a harp, and my left arm is burning in a lake of fire. My upper body has little white wings and a halo, and my lower body has assless leather chaps and a #TWERK4SATAN tramp stamp. This is not what I signed up for, and I would recommend not dying, no matter how cool your friends make it sound. I will talk about 2 Broke Girls.

It is (obviously) a show about Nazi death camps.

Conceptually, 2 Broke Girls is an upstairs-downstairs sitcom about two waitresses from different social classes who start a cupcake business on the mean streets of Williamsburg.

2 Broke Girls shares DNA with Cheers and Laverne and Shirley in the same way your lips share DNA with your asshole. It is profane and gross. People eat meals without saying grace. Unmarried people hug each other! Frontally! And no, they don’t leave room in the middle for Jesus. It’s disgusting what they put on TV these days.

The show is a postmodern reaction to other sitcoms. For example, most sitcoms do not ever talk about money. The cast of Friends live in implausibly huge brownstone apartments: how they can possibly afford to rent them is never discussed in any detail. The Simpsons are vaguely middle class: within those boundaries, they are as rich or as poor as tonight’s episode needs them to be. 2 Broke Girls subverts this: the show’s cast is caught in an unrelenting battle for tiny scraps of money: indeed, money (along with sex) is the show’s primary subject matter.

The show is carried by Kat Dennings, whose character is named Max Black and not Min Black. Her large breasts are an invaluable source of comedy and some episodes would become literal Tiktoks if you edited out references to them. It’s like a joke credit card: whenever the writers are out of ideas (which happens more often than you’d hope), those breasts are just sitting there, ready to bail them out.

But Kat Dennings is more than just a female Atlas, holding the world aloft on her tits. She’s charming and likeable actress with psychogogic screen presence. I wish she was the star of those suck-ass Thor movies. Yes, I know she’s comic relief, and yes, I know you can’t build the entire plane out of black box material because it would be too heavy to fly, but still…I’d rather watch her than Natalie “Boring” Portman, who is attractive but has all the zing and pizzazz of dry salad leaves with no dressing.

Kat Dennings is not a real person. She is a stage name for Katherine Litwack. Either she didn’t like her name, or was told it was an obstacle to getting callbacks.

Natalie “So Boring” Portman is also not a real person. She is a stage name for Natalie “Really Boring” Hershlag. Either she didn’t like her name, or was told it was an obstacle to getting callbacks. Also, she’s boring.

I read a genuinely horrifying short story by Harlan Ellison when I was younger. It was called “Boulevard of Broken Dreams”, and can be read here, assuming the guy hasn’t secured his Amazon S3 bucket by the time you click the link.

The demitasse cup of thick, sludgy espresso stopped midway between the saucer  and Patrick Fenton’s slightly parted lips. His arm froze and he felt cold, as if beads of fever-sweat covered his forehead. He stared past his luncheon companions, across the tiny French restaurant, through the front window that faced onto East Fifty-sixth Street, eyes widened, as the old man strode by outside.

“Jesus Christ!” he said, almost whispering in wonder.

“What’s the matter?” Damon said, looking worried.

[…]

Fenton sipped water. He took a long pause, then said, “I was a clerk at the Nuremberg trials in forty-six. You know. There was an officer, an *Oberstleutnant* Johann Hagen. He was in charge of the mass grave digging detail at Bergen-Belsen. He did things to women and small boys with a pickax. He was hung in June of 1946. I was there. I saw him hang.”

To spoil the story: Fenton is haunted by ghosts of Nazi war criminals. Men who died long ago have returned, shrouded in a purple glow, prowling the streets of a city that is suddenly—oddly—empty and dark. He thought the clouds in the sky were full of rain. But now they are ashen black that reminds him of charcoal.

We learn that “Fenton” is a Jew…

He saw them all, one by one, as they walked past, strolling in both directions, free as the air, saying nothing, hands empty, wearing good shoes.

He tried to grab one of them, Wichmann, as he came by. But the tall, dark-haired Nazi shrugged him off, smiled at the yellow armband Fenton wore, smiled at the six-pointed star on the armband, and shoved past, walking free.

…But his behavior around the Nazis is strange and not what you’d expect. He displays guilt, shame, and defensiveness. He behaves like he’s theone who’s done a wrong thing.

“Changed at Ellis Island!” Fenton screamed at Wichmann’s retreating back. “I had nothing to do with it!”

The story ends with the Nazis’ purple glow settling on him.

What do you make of this story? I’ll tell you my theory: it’s about Jewish participation in the erosion of their own identity.

“Changed at Ellis Island!”—he’s referring to his name. Before Ellis Island, his family was presumably Feinberg, or Feitelson, or Finkelstein. But now it’s Fenton: a name that is not just goyische but grandly, blandly, crashingly goyische. “Fenton” is to names what Natalie “Star Bores” Portman is to actressing.

Even though the name change was (likely) performed by his father or grandfather, Fenton bears the guilt of erasing his Jewishness for the possibility of an easier life. “The Personal is Political”, the feminist slogan goes. By altering his name, Fenton has participated in a personal Holocaust.

Fenton is no Nazi, no brother to these death-skulled reapers of his people. But under this impossible ashen sky, he seems to realize he’s not totally unlike them, either. Hitler, Ribbentrop, Goebbels are dead, but the “decision” (in Fenton’s mind, and perhaps Harlan Ellison’s) is one they would have approved of.

One Jew less.

This is a provocative reading that probably crosses the edge into “offensive” (which is why I suspect it’s exactly the meaning Ellison intended). Is Fenton’s crisis intellectually compelling? Not to me. A name is just a name: heritage goes deeper than that, surely. And even if it didn’t—if Anglicizing your name meant throwing away your Jewishness, root and branch—what of it? Must Fenton serve as the unwilling ambassador for his tribe until the end of time? It’s a free country. Why can’t he not be a Jew, if that’s what he wants?

And while I hate to bring up logic in such a striking story…the Nazis defined racial purity by blood. If the story’s point is “Fenton has spiritually Holocausted himself”, the architects of the actual Holocaust would not have agreed. The Nazis repudiated the idea that a Jew could ever stop being one, let alone by changing their name. They specifically hated efforts to assimilate—hated Litwacks and Hershlags becoming Denningses and Portmans^[1]Portman can be an Ashkenazic surname—it’s Anglicized from German Portmann, but it is also an old English name meaning “burgher”. Less centrally Jewish than Hershlag.. To the extent that that Nazi Germany tolerated Jews, they wanted them to be as visibly, distinctly Jewish as possible.

But the story seems to repel logic, because guilt repels logic. One of the story’s best touches is the transformations that carve out the city like a Halloween pumpkin. Day becomes night in the span of a few minutes. It empties of people while filling with Nazi ghosts. Fenton’s friends apparently cannot see the Nazis. The friends, too, vanish from Fenton’s world at the end, as though they weren’t ever truly there, either. It’s a subjective world with no essence or center, just our beliefs. Even though these Nazi monsters are dead, Fenton feels he has continued their work. The gears of the Holocaust machine creak and turn long after the engine is shut off. And now they creak and turn in him.

Another reading might be the inescapability of the Nazi blood libel: the way it almost might be self-fulfilling. I am reminded of Ari Spiegelman’s Maus. His father was a complex figure—fretful, quibbling, clannish, miserly. Spiegelman understood the terrible circumstances that had made his father. But he was also *horrified* by his father: the man seemed almost like a Nazi caricature of a Jew! There’s some of that in Ellison’s story, too. Fenton’s name change proves he is a literal rootless cosmopolitan, pretending to be something he’s not, like a Plasmodium falciparum travelling disguised between red blood cells. This is the Nazi caricatures of what a Jew is. Fenton feels trapped by these long-dead men: feels their skulls staring at him. He cannot escape being defined by the language and ideation of Nazis. They just have to smile on the street, and a yellow star appears on his shoulder.

Again, it might be illogical for Fenton to feel this way. But logic seems to have fled the city: it is a place corroded by guilt, where basic reality cannot find purchase. A hollow place, with Fenton’s feeble excuse—“I had nothing to do with it!”—the hollowest thing in it. Might as well be “*I was just following orders!*“.

Anyway, 2 Broke Girls—

(What am I doing? Well, on one level it’s a Sam Kriss type thing where he uses banal media as a jumping off point into a more interesting discussion: the sow’s ear becoming a silk purse, etc. Mostly I’m trying to confuse the reader. Tricking them into committing on one level, then the floor gives way and they’re in the middle of something else. “What am I reading? This person is insane.” Insane people are captivating. You can yell at them or stare at them. The thing you can’t do is ignore them.

I think writers should learn from John Coltrane, who would start off with a familiar tune like “My Favorite Things” and “Chim Chim Cheree” then leap into neo-tonal space, tearing down the walls of jazz and then music itself, letting a great wall of light crash in, stunning you, disorienting you, terrifying you with the universe’s awful strangeness. Will you die out here? Die in the awful cold? Don’t worry: Coltrane smiles, whips out a quick 2nd inversion F major V7-I, and suddenly you’re back in “My Favorite Things” again.

Why am I tiresomely explaining the joke to you now? Because I am beginning to suspect it doesn’t work. The modern reader doesn’t “commit”. There’s no frame you can shake or shock them out of. Their auditory canal is a quivering bowel excision with a perpetual enema of noise flushing through it—AI-generated ASMR in one ear, Huntrix JOI (10 hour mix) in the other—with only about four of twenty words registering in the gurgling slop chute of their brain, eventually congealing into some grotesque parody. One that bears as much resemblance to your argument as a heap of gore-splattered fur in a food-blender does to a small tortoiseshell kitten. “So you’re saying Natalie “Turboboring” Portman supports the Holocaust? Burn in hell.” First, I’ve said I already am burning in hell (My lower half is, anyway). Also, have you seen the news lately? Tons of kids with septum piercings and purple hair are already saying that for me, so don’t worry.)

Anyway. 2 Broke Girls. 2 Broke Girls? 2 Broke Girls.

The first season is fun. I’ll give it that.

I liked the cast—Kat Dennings and Beth Behrs have fab chemistry as Max and Caroline. (Behrs is 5ft 5, but looks like a giraffe next to Kat Dennings, who is shorter.)

The jokes are surprisingly funny, albeit in a “A writer pulling out the first bingo ball from their head” type of way.

Han: Hipsters like karaoke.

Max: Replace the word “like” with the word “Hitler” and you’ve got the three worst things in history.

Hipsters and karaoke were very soft targets in 2011. (As was Hitler, I guess.) Most of the gags are “okay” more than “hilarious”, but the writing bombards you with so many of them that even this low hit rate works.

The show manipulates your emotions in a way that’s fun, because it’s done audaciously and without any shame. The sudden whiplashes from laugh-tracked comedy to smaltz are found in every sitcom. 2 Broke Girls doesn’t care that it’s obvious. I liked that.

It has a lot of, well, dated humor. 2011 seems very recent in my memory. But the style of writing feels many years older, like what you’d get from mid-2000s Sarah Silverman or pre-Ozempic Lisa Lampanelli or even a raunchy boner comedy from the 90s like American Pie.

Max jokes about being raped and molested. Oleg is a workplace sexual harasser and this is seen as funny. A lot of punchlines amount to “you talk like a fag and your shit’s all retarded“.

And there’s race humor. Lots of it. Nearly every character is just 3 or 4 somewhat unflattering stereotypes about their respective ethnicity. We get broad one-note portrayal of Orthodox Jews and the Amish. There’s an old jaded black guy called Earl: he’s nice, but everything he says is about how he’s seen some shit, has done cocaine with James Brown, and so on.

Han Lee (Max and Caroline’s boss, played by Matthew Moy) is a particular problem. This character is unimaginable today: a sexless emasculated ABC who talks in fresh-off-the-boat broken English. If you’re hoping for a reunion or revival of the show, the Han character is lurking in the shadows holding a baseball bat.

Worst of all, Caroline is a cruel parody of the most oppressed group in history: rich people. She is blonde, materialistic, obsessed with shoes, her daddy is in jail for running a Ponzi scheme (or something), etc. Frankly, it’s disgusting that this character was put on TV. Caroline is no better than Stepin Fetchit or Fu Manchu: a hateful stereotype that was wrong then and is wrong now. Shame on all involved.

Something I’ve often wondered about…well, you know what a Patient Zero is. What’s the opposite of Patient Zero? The last thing to have a disease?

For example, songs once referred to themselves as “records” but they no longer do. The reference doesn’t make sense as nobody buys records. So, what was the last major hit to talk about a “record”? There must have been one. The last one I know of is 2008’s “Just Dance” by Lady Gaga

>What’s going on on the floor? / I love this record baby but I can’t see straight anymore

Likewise, when was the last time a major TV show could be carelessly “problematic” in the way *2 Broke Girls* is, without becoming a *Million Dollar Extreme* type affair?

Honestly…was *this* it? Was *2 Broke Girls* the last public hurrah? The violinists saying slurs as the ship goes down, as it were?

Culture can go through abrupt shifts 1967-1969 was a turning point. 1991 was another. You look at pop culture on either side of those breakpoints, and it’s like looking at two different worlds.

One of those shifts occurred around the time *2 Broke Girls* was made. A pervasive sense began that Your Words Matter. Shows and movies would no longer throw around “fag” and “retard”. It was very sudden when it happened. 2 Broke Girls does feel like a progressive rock album in the age of punk rock: it was already past its time, even when it was new.

This is not a rant about the woke mind virus or whatever. I don’t really care that much. I’m just interested in the dynamics of how these things occur. What I do care about is the fact that the show starts to suck fairly quickly.

A character is introduced in season 1: Zofia “Sophie” Kaczyński, played by Jennifer Coolidge. If 5’2 Kat Dennings makes 5’5 Beth Behrs look tall, she makes 5’10 Coolidge look like a Biblical giant.

At first, Sophie’s a fine addition to the cast. A human thundercloud: an irresistable, terrifying, inexplicable presence with an unclear and slightly sinister background (she might be the madame of prostitutes). She is socially oblivious, cannot be reasoned with, brays instead of talks, and clearly can only be a powerful ally or a life-ruining enemy. The viewer wants to discover which way the cards fall.

Then she hooks up with Oleg, and devolves into a one-joke character (oblivious foreigner!). This is textbook Flanderization, where an initially complex character devolves into a grating one-note parody of themselves. Named after Ned Flanders, who transformed over The Simpsons’ life. Starting as Homer’s annoyingly perfect neighbor (who happens to go to church), he becomes a raving, sociopathic religious fundamentalist.

I guess the studio has it in their heads that Sophie is a “fan favorite”—whenever she enters the scene, the laugh track roars with Ivy Mike intensity. But I can’t stand her. She is one contemptible note banged out again and again, is in far too much of the show, and I soon began skipping over her scenes. It’s always the same shit. “She and Oleg are gross and hairy Europeans and have gross and hairy European sex. Thanks, got it.”

Sophie’s character Dr Kevorkians the show, but it was already in failing health: by season 3 it’s tottering around with a listening horn and a bottle of smelling salts. I noticed I was not laughing much at all. At anything.

It gets to be kind of a slog. I don’t even think the writing gets much worse. It’s just…there’s only so many jokes you can wring from this setup, eventually every joke has been made, and finally even the comedic credit card of Kat Dennings’ boobs starts declining.

Average season 6 episode of 2 Broke Girls: Caroline sees something gross. “Eww! It smells like puke on top of poop on top of more puke!” Max quips “That’s what they called my vagina in seventh grade!” Sophie walks in and shrieks incomprehensibly to fill up time. Repeat.

Another problem is that the central dynamic (Caroline is a fish out of water, reliant on Max to survive) increasingly falls apart as the show runs on. After 130 episodes, Caroline should have plenty of salt on her skin, and increasingly she doesn’t have much to do. She’s just…another version of Max.

“Outlasting your central conceit” is a classic network TV malady. Adam Cadre describes this in his discussion of The Wonder Years, which launched with a brilliant concept: a twelve year old boy in 1968, coming of age in a country that’s coming of age. Both nation and boy are allowed to become mirrors of each other.

But *The Wonder Years* became a hit and just kept getting renewed for season after season (it ran for the same number of seasons as *2 Broke Girls*), with Kevin growing older and older. Eventually it’s not “a twelve year old growing up in the Summer of Love” but “A sixteen year old in the final year of the Nixon administration”, which doesn’t have the same monomythic clarity.

The episodic nature of The Wonder Years forced Kevin to learn basic lessons about niceness and fairness over and over again. The large number of episodes (plus Kevin’s advancing age) changes how we receive these basic life lessons. Eventually, he’s no longer a naive young kid, but a teenaged idiot.

2 Broke Girls has fewer stakes on the table than The Wonder Years, but S5.E11, “And the Booth Babes”, shows it falling prey to the same problem.

The “plot”: Max and Caroline become “booth babes” at a gaming convention. A few predictable gags are trotted out: the girls don’t want to hang out with gross nerds, the convention is sponsored by Virgin Airlines, etc. Fine. But Max (accidentally) ends up cosplaying as videogame character Murderbitch, who cuts off heads and drinks beer. The writers go absolutely nowhere with this, but it’s cute, I suppose. But there’s just…nothing for Caroline to do. So she ends up wearing a yak costume and being Murderbitch’s sidekick. Don’t worry, there’s plenty of screeching from Sophie. The writers just seem desperately unsure of what *2 Broke Girls* even *is* at this point.

On May 12, 2017, the answer became “cancelled”. Not cancelled in the “gendertwunks with blue hair and septum piercings yell at you” way that Natalie “Incredibly Boring” Portman endured (thoughts and prayers, etc). Cancelled in the “not on TV way”.

Perhaps the show had simply run its course. Or perhaps the cultural forces it had lashed itself to the mast against had finally won (throughout the show’s run, the Han character just provoked nonstop discomfort, if not anger.)

Despite the aching loss of *2 Broke Girls* we feel in our bones, the world moves on. Beth Behrs moved on from being deceptively tall to being a voice-actor for cartoons, Kat Dennings moved on from carrying a sitcom to carrying Natalie “There’s No Way I Move During Sex, Like, At All” Portman in *Thor*, and Harlan Ellison’s story has continued to prove eerily prophetic. Except these days we’re lucky if the undead Nazis aren’t IN THE WHITEHOUSE, am I right? (Clap if you agree. Notice how I didn’t call Trump or Biden a Nazi but gave you enough rope so *you* could do that. They call it “playing both sides”, toots.)

“The nightmare that will never go away.”—Harlan Ellison, Boulevard of Broken Dreams