I was watching The New Adventures of Old Christine tonight, and Julia Louis Dreyfus was standing outside her front door in her jammies, yelling to her ex-husband about how self-sufficient she was, only to have the door close and lock behind her. Cue shenanigans!

People locking themselves out of their own house while in their pajamas or naked is far more prevalent on TV than it is in the real world, isn’t it? I can't think of a single friend or acquaintance who has ever found him or herself skulking around his yard thanks to an odd gust in his doorway. My friend Dave used to say that if aliens were monitoring Earth only by watching Lifetime movies, they would think that the biggest problem facing our nation was women getting their babies taken away. Well, I would add that TV-watching aliens would also think that Earth would be quite easy to take over, as at any given time, 50% of us are blushingly dashing behind bushes, whispering to neighbors to please get us a spare key. Thanks a lot, sitcoms: you are going to get us overrun with martians.

I would also be interested in comparing the suicide rates on TV versus in the general population. When shady characters on TV realize that their nefarious deeds are about to come to light, they are quicker than I think is warranted in putting a gun under their own chin. No one wants to risk a court of law? I’ve heard juries can be pretty shitty; why not roll the dice? But no, apparently it is better to give up all hope, just for the satisfaction of knowing that when the detective who has been hounding you finally arrives at your door with an arrest warrant, you will be lying in a pool of your own blood. Psych!

Here endeth my “What’s the deal with TV?” segment of today. Check in later this week, when I take on airline food! What’s that? They don’t really serve airline food anymore? Well, what’s the deal with that, then?

On an unrelated note, I have a business plan for Howard Stern, if you’re into that sort of thing.

I had a friend in college who was quite the activist; every time there was a protest or event that spoke out against any –ism you could think of, he was right in the middle, red-faced and screaming. He was a great guy, but when you were sitting in the dining hall, virtually any joke told was met with him glaring and saying, “That’s not funny.” Often I had no idea just what the hell had offended him, since it had seemingly had nothing offensive about it. You had to give your joke the CSI treatment, putting it under an electron microscope to find what trace elements of, say, racism might be there that the naked ear could not pick up, but his supersocially aware eardrums could.

I, on the other hand, tend to think that there are very few things you can’t joke about. There’s a difference between hateful and funny, and if a joke is funny, more power to you. It makes me crazy when religious or pro-family groups target a comedian like Sarah Silverman or Bill Maher for a joke they deem inappropriate; it infuriates me that there is a humorless group out there that thinks that they have the definitive opinion of what should be off limits. (It also bugs me because it makes me feel bad for Bill Maher, who otherwise comes off like a smug prick. When I feel empathy for a smug prick, it confuses me and makes me dizzy.) My views on God are vague and still unsettled, and yet I believe deeply that if there is a God, he has a sense of humor and would not get worked up over jokes; my God would get far more pissed at hypocritical demagogues. I recognize this is a self-serving view, picturing God as someone who likes sitting around listening to Doug Stanhope, Louis CK, and Chris Rock. What a coincidence, God and I are alike in every way! Does he also like Peppermint Pattys and love his DVR like a family member?

I mention all this because I was watching The Daily Show last night and there was a taped piece that John Oliver did at the inauguration. He was mingling with the crowd and making little jabs at their ebullience. And I found myself thinking, “That’s not funny, leave it alone. These people are sharing what they feel is a very moving moment, don’t taint it with your shenanigans. You heard me: shenanigans!” And now I am the hypocrite.

I had no right at all to be annoyed. What, it’s only okay for people to make fun of what I think should be made fun of? If it was McCain’s inauguration, they’d have had to hurl feces for me to think they were crossing a line. And yet, this kinda bothered me. I think it’s because—and I’d like to think this is a nonpartisan observation—everybody at the inauguration was so visibly moved by being at this event in a way that transcended party pride. I wasn’t offended by jokes about the inauguration: when Jon Stewart poked fun of news clips from the inauguration, I laughed. But for this segment, I was irritated on behalf of the people Oliver was jumping around next to; these were people who were freezing their asses off and who had traveled God knows how far to witness what they felt was a historical moment, and now some smartass was distracting them from it. It’s like being at your daughter’s graduation and having Jamie Kennedy bop you on the head with a whoopee cushion just when she gets her diploma.

(Quick disclaimer: Oliver’s bit did have some very funny moments, like when he kept leaning in to kiss interviewees on the lips who were rapturously talking about a new feeling of brotherhood. Another quick disclaimer: this blog won’t let me embed Comedycentral.com clips, so I find myself sucking the humor out of things by telling not showing. Forgive me and my 2000 technology.)

This whole thing made me think back to 1999, when I went with a few friends to see Bruce Springsteen in his reunion tour with the E Street Band. I was never a big Bruce fan; a friend had invited me and I figured I should witness an entertainer so famous for his live shows. We got there, and, having nothing invested in the legend of Springsteen and little knowledge of his songs beyond the Classic Rock radio staples, I spent most of the show snickering at how the stadium was just packed with fat 40-year-olds. I started giggling as we made our way through the tailgating minivans, and kept whispering little jokes through the concert to my friend Katherine, and couldn’t understand why she was getting irritated. I was funny! But I failed to take into account that a Bruce concert reminded her of some of the seminal moments of her youth, and I was interrupting her “Sandy”reveries with my dumb jokes about that bald guy whose back hair was peeking out from his worn Born in the USA shirt from 1984. Maybe, just maybe those observations might have been slightly amusing to her in the car on the way home, but I probably ruined that concert for her. (I should add that making fun of a reunited Van Halen is still perfectly fine in my book.)

I wonder what my guffawing God might make of my visceral reaction to Oliver’s bit. Would he wish that Oliver had given the inauguration attendees a break, or would he call me a prude and ask me whether I’d filed my Focus on the Family dues yet?

I watched 90210 last night, out of obligation to my job. I never watched the original series, so this remake wouldn’t have been farther out of my wheelhouse if it had been a show about people who give a shit about 90210.

Something struck me…and that was how painful it would be to be struck by one of the bony elbows of any of the female cast members. Really, they could slice cold cuts with their shoulder blades. It was an alarming pageant demonstrating just how ridiculously skinny girls have to be to be on television today. It was like an ad for anorexia. There was one scene at a party where all these girls were dancing and grinning and it was like watching a waving wheat field, except with skinnier stalks. I don’t think they were waving their arms because they just didn’t care, I think someone was trying to hand them sandwiches, and they were trying to keep their hands away lest their fingers absorb any passing carbs.

And then, in a commercial break, the CW aired an ad for the upcoming remake of The Women, showcasing the once-adorable-now-frightening Meg Ryan, who has mutilated herself with plastic surgery in, one would assume, a desperate attempt to stay looking young. So this evening was an unrelenting lesson in the stubbornly depressing downswing of contemporary female self-image, both young and old. Ick. And, as the father of two daughters, let me add: double ick.

On another note, I’m not a big fan of these teen dramas. But they all feel compelled to prove themselves “not your mother’s teen show” by beginning with something extreme that will have everybody talking. About ten minutes into this episode, we were treated to the scene of a guy being startled when he was clearly being given a blow job in his car. But this isn’t even shocking anymore; I think that gambit has been used many times, actually. I just saw a BBC-America show, Skins, in which a high schooler was fellated under the table by his girlfriend during a study session in the first episode. Yawn! Call me when someone’s shtupping a yak.

If every teen show feels like it needs to constantly open with some sort of gasp-inducing sex act to get attention, to the point where it’s gotten predictable, maybe it’s worth trying NOT opening with a sex act. Or do we have to wait for the yak? Could this be the moment when people would actually accept a show like Freaks and Geeks? I wonder. I mean, maybe we’ve reached a point where viewers are ready to embrace a smart show that’s truly able to embrace the realistic agony and occasional triumphs of adolescence, and…what’s that? Gossip Girl is on? OMFG! I hope this is the episode where someone snorts coke off a giant pile of heroin that is on top of a trust fund girl’s bare breasts, which have been surgically enhanced with saline and ecstasy!