Everyone has their own Super Bowl, and mine is the conclusion of Downton Abbey, season 4.
I watched all the episodes this week, finishing today.
Edith Grantham is the Jan Brady of Downton Abbey. Less attractive and constantly put upon—fate toys with both girls, not unlike a cat on a ball of yarn. Edith even has Jan’s “crazy” eyes down pat—that look they both give when you know they’re one blown synapse away from killing the whole brood.
Downtown Abbey is better than the Superbowl because of a cracking story line—minus the spectacle, the noise, the infusion of overbearing pop cultural toxins, the artificial happy talk by commentators meant to keep you interested, the dismal commercials mistaken for creativity, the overhyped athletes who now desire more than being just athletes.
Rose’s coming out ball at Grantham House is really my big game, and the rivalry between Lord Gillingham’s valet and Mr. Bates beats any heat coming from this Bronco/Seahawk joke.
FInally, The real challenge for me while watching Downton: not smoking. I haven’t had a real cigarette in over two months, and I knew the only person who could get me started again is the evil butler, Thomas Barrow. Barrow is the performing arts greatest smoker—better than James Dean; Sharon Stone; Denzel in Training Day; DeNiro in Casino; and Clint Eastwood in The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly combined. Every time he inhales, I inhale with him. Thanks to e-cigs, I can pretend.