Still to come: NCIS: New Orleans (CBS), Gracepoint (FOX), The Kingdom (DirecTV), Cristela (ABC), The Walking Dead (AMC), Jane the Virgin (CBS), Marry Me (NBC), Grimm (NBC) and The McCarthys (CBS).

33. The Mysteries of Laura (NBC)

A bigger mystery to me than Laura (or even Laura), is why Debra Messing keeps getting leading roles in TV shows. Or rather, how she picked this one, and who thought the Will & Grace and Smash star was a good fit for a brusque, “badass” awful woman cop show. In the opening moments, we learn that she has a black partner who won’t hesitate to cover her “skinny ass,” and that Detective Laura Diamond (a TV name if I’ve ever heard one) is a morose, protocol-be-damned police woman who can’t help but wonder if anybody has jobs, because HOW DARE people hang out in the park on a sunny afternoon. With its ratings already dropping, I wonder if she will have a job much longer.

Hopefully, it’d rid the world of NBC’s “Woman Crush Weddings,” which apparently is lifted from #WCW, a mind-numbing Twitter hashtag. I’m going to start one: #girlsIwanttofuck. NBC’s Wednesday night block is made up of three grimly serious cops shows (Law & Order: SVU and Chicago P.D. round out the triumvirate), so naturally the marketing campaign devolved into relying on Sophia Bush, Debra Messing and Mariska Hargitay’s considerable sex appeal, rather than being tough workplace role models or whatever.

Laura drives a Volvo, shops at Target and comes equipped with an inspired catchphrase (“You’ve gotta be kidding me!”), deplorable parenting skills and an insulting almost ex-husband Jake (Josh Lucas, never worse) who just can’t bring himself to sign the papers, a family dynamic that sets TV back 43 years. She drugs her children for a private school interview (God forbid these tyrants go to public), and blackmailed a gym teacher with a lot of parking tickets to even get them that interview. Laura actually says, “I’m a mother, with a shiny badge, a loaded gun and very little patience.” There’s the logline that sold the pitch! I think she said that on school grounds, but I could just be imagining that specific horror. It’s like a future Melissa McCarthy movie, except Mysteries of Laura takes itself seriously. You shouldn’t.

Favorite Moments From The Pilot:

1) When Laura Diamond makes a house call, a rich housewife bats her eyelashes; heh, you’re cute, you’re a “middle-aged woman cop…just like on TV!” Mysteries of Laura thinks its clever. Just like pilot director McG probably thinks his name makes people think of anything other than a Happy Meal with explosions.

2) Laura calls men sloppy derisively. The frame widens to find Black Partner spilling popcorn all over the place. Hypocrite alert: Laura’s a slob who eats week old burritos she finds hidden among the piles of crap on her desk.

3) Laura’s kids actually deserve to be drugged and/or murdered. They pee on each other in public and just might be insane. Best of all is when Laura gets called into school, her gun automatically out (you don’t want to go into an elementary school unarmed) and there appears to be BLOOD all over the classroom. But no, it’s just her messy children taking over art class, or whatever. Because bloody classrooms are the best setup for a joke.

The pilot has one pleasure: a mini-Galaxy Quest reunion! Quellek (Patrick Breen) has aged into what appears to be a gay Peter Capaldi, and joins his former Thermian leader Mathesar (the incomparable Enrico Colantoni). The pleasure wears off pretty fast when you realize it had to come on this show. Plus, Quellek gets killed off pretty fast (perhaps fitting), and unfortunately, Alan Rickman does not come prancing in, promising that, By Grabthar’s Hammer, he shall be avenged. Even that probably couldn’t save this show.

32. Z Nation (SyFy)

Oh man, this show is so crummy guys (CRUMMY). It’s close to becoming the designated Drinking Game Show of the week, but I don’t know if the show knows how bad it is yet, and I don’t care enough to find out. And I don’t foresee a shortage of drinking in my future.

It’s SyFy’s answer/rip-off of The Walking Dead, set three years after the first infection. You know how screwed the world would be if a zombie apocalypse happened? DJ Qualls, yes that DJ Qualls, would be military. He practically is a DJ here, living up to his name, with “season tickets to the zompocalypse,” working alone at Camp Northern Light, or something. Even in a dystopia, nobody wants to hang out with DJ Qualls. Qualls is late to evacuate the base, and they leave without him; they immediately fly to their deaths. They’d rather die than hang out with DJ Qualls. I’d rather watch almost anything else than Z Nation.

Z Nation is filled with more nonsensical, military BS talk than the “Z’s” themselves (what a clever term for zombies). The world-saving mission that the surviving dregs of the military are on is called “Operation Bitemark.” Seriously. Most of the tomfoolery is uttered by DJ Qualls, rendering any call sign or operation name about as meaningful as a Bluth family mission. I’d take Operation Hot Mother any day, but I’m a Motherboy.

Speaking of children, there’s also a zombie baby stuffed amid a mission to the CDC, a possible zombie cure, and essentially all four seasons of TWD jammed in an hour. For those who bemoan the AMC show’s deliberate pace, Z Nation provides a terrifyingly awful counter argument. There are several deaths, time jumps and tragedies that befall this boring cast of stock characters, but there’s never a reason to give a shit. We need to care about these people before it matters when they die. Of course, Z Nation is a show where you’re definitely rooting for the zombies to tear into these people so we don’t have to waste any more time on them. The more they kill, the closer to the end of the world, and hopefully, the end of this show.

Favorite Moments:

• “He’s a baby. He makes noise.” “Shut up.”
• LOST refugee Harold Perrinau’s Hammond at one point sighs, “God I hate moral dilemmas.” SyFy has a moral dilemma on whether or not they should keep this show on the air.
• Fantastic zombie rules: “A month ago? That’s like 2 years apocalypse time.”

I actually did like the idea of a pop-up weapons caravan that sells various guns, knives, bullets and other hairy concoctions. I also enjoyed the conceit that the zombie’s speed depends on how long they’ve been dead: they’re fast immediately after, then slow as time goes on. This doesn’t explain why a baby turns into a devastating ferret-like monster once bitten, since zombism presumably doesn’t make you faster. Or so one would think. But there’s not a lot of thought put into Z Nation.

31. Forever (ABC)

Ioan Gruffudd might be the most boring actor on the planet, yet he keeps landing TV roles, his career seemingly as immortal as his title character in this dull show.

At one point during this derivative pilot, Henry (Gruffudd) explains to us in a droll monologue: “My life is just like yours, except for one small difference…it never ends.”

I live forever, no biggie guys. I’m just like you. You can empathize me, relate to my suffering. WHAT THE FUCK?! If an immortal prick tried to befriend me, the injustice would be that I couldn’t friggin’ kill him. My life is just likes yours, except I’m Brad Pitt. My life is just like yours, except I own an island. My life is just like yours, except I’m the orphan of a now extinct alien race.

Henry has “seen a lot,” but hasn’t learn shit about life or his condition over the last 200 years of his life. He just knows that when he dies, he wakes up in the nearest body of water naked, not a scratch on him. He’s Ichabod Crane/Sherlock Holmes without the charm or quirks. He’s understandably obsessed with death, so he works at a morgue along with Joel David Moore (Bones, Avatar), who has been neurotic and awkward as long as this show’s title (For-Ev-Er).

In the opening scene Henry’s the only survivor of a massive subway accident, and even before he gets a cryptic villainous phone call, I was having Unbreakable flashbacks. While it’s not exactly Mr. Glass on the other end, there’s someone else like him out there, and they’re about to engage in a Sherlock/Moriarty battle, with New York as the playground. Or something.

What’s depressing about Forever, or at least, a few of the things that make me depressed, is that the wacky premise is just an excuse to throw Henry into a police procedural opposite Detective Jo Martinez (Alana De La Garza), a woman who escaped Woman Crush Wednesdays, and after one case, gets to bring Henry along during investigations until this show gets cancelled. This job tag-along crap is one of my favorite procedural tropes; if there’s ever a murder involving fantasy football, Red Pandas and IPA’s, I might walk away with a job.

Henry’s lifespan and accumulated knowledge only manifests itself in his keen observational skills. He’s another Psych, Mentalist, Sherlock character, because the public loves seeing assholes who can figure out that you’re allergic to coconuts, have 3 cats, like anal sex and are still emotionally recovering from the death of your postman. Women also love men who pay attention, so Henry’s a ladies man. Throw in a little bit o’ Nazi backstory, and you have Forever, a show I’ll be watching…

Never. Never again, anyways. Unless the Moriarty character is played by Alan Rickman.

30. Manhattan Love Story (ABC)

“I want to write a love story set in Manhattan.”

“Oh my god, what a revolutionary idea, and even better, it already has a ready-made, totally informative, awesome title!”

“Love Story Set In Manhattan? Sounds awkward.”

“Manhattan Love Story, silly.”

“OMG, you’re right.”

A studio exec leans over the coffee table, spilling their mimosa. “Excuse me, did you say Manhattan Love Story? We’ll BUY IT!”

Manhattan Love Story sounds like a vague place holder title a writer would have on his To-Do list, or the barebones plot description of this mostly dreadful pilot. But, I suppose it tells you all you need to know: not to watch it.

In the nightmarish opening moments, Peter (Jake McDorman) walks down the New York street, debating whether or not he’d have sex with the women along his path. Coming from the opposite direction is Dana (Analeigh Tipton), who’s doing the same thing…with purses (she’s debating whether she’d own them, not fuck them, I think). When they pass one another, they both essentially say “Yes” to each other, and this is their unfortunate story.

Neurotic, single and “adorkable” Dana just moved to New York because of a new job. Of course, that’s not really important. What’s important is that she’s single and needs a boy, or so sayeth her evil, manipulative, yoga instructor friend/roommate Amy (Jade Catta-Preta), a character type that only exists on shitty sitcoms.

Amy’s that girl who always has to be in control, forcing her husband-or-whatever David (Nicolas Wright) to enlist his brother, who of course is Peter, to go on a date with Dana. You don’t need me to tell you that it goes terribly. Dana is a klutz with technology/everything, accidentally typing Peter Cooper into her Facebook status (a clever joke mined in Trophy Wife last year). She also calls instead of texts, and does the unbearably painful accidental text ABOUT Peter TO Peter (okay, so I’ve been there). Dana’s a mess, guys.

Whereas Peter is a ladies man who sees women as trophies, which makes sense, because he works for a company that makes trophies, a business that is BOOMING, because America loves to reward everything, not just first place, in order to celebrate mediocrity. You could say the same about Manhattan Love Story and network television, though that might be mistaken for a compliment.

Dana cries on her date, Peter makes fun of her cute list of things she wants to do in NY, and the pair have an awful, dueling stream of consciousness monologue happening in their respective heads at all times. It’s a conceit that might’ve been wonderful on How I Met Your Mother, but here, it emphasizes how little you actually want to hear these characters talk.

Peter and Dana, of course, make up, and have a moment en route to the Statue of Liberty, one of the things on Dana’s list. It’s clear the two of them will have a bumpy road, and I suppose that’s the flimsy hook of the pilot: what touristy things are these mismatched heathens going to do next in the most overseen city in America? Perhaps more importantly: will Dana conquer social media? Judging by the final moments, when she has an embarrassing encounter with her FB relationship status (a joke that would’ve felt biting in 2006), the outlook is about as bleak as this show’s prospects. The show probably won’t last, which is almost a shame, because then my spec script Toledo Love Story won’t get off the ground.

29. Bad Judge (NBC)

You’ll hate this show by the opening frame: Kate Walsh, passed out in an impossible position, wearing a leopard print bra, and shimmery sequin underwear, is jolted awake by the omnipresent alarm clock. She’s late to work, and has to pop pills incessantly to get there in time, driving an insane hippie van en route to Van Nuys Municipal Court, while awaiting the results of her pregnancy test. It’s a testament to how lame this show is, that I feel bad that Van Nuys has the unfortunate duty of taking the brunt of the setting, and Van Nuys is the cesspool of the valley.

Kate Walsh plays Judge Rebecca Wright, and she’s actually not as Bad as you think she is: she’s a slutty, messy alcoholic, sure, but she shows up, and goes well beyond her job description when it comes to helping out Robby (Theodore Barnes), a kid whose parents are in jail because Rebecca put them there. As Judge Hernandez states, “You’re a Judge, not a social worker!” but who really cares? Rebecca may have had wine and cake for breakfast, or so she says, and we’re supposed to revel in how screwed up she is, but she mostly just talks about how bad she is, than actually being bad. She saves Robby from bullies and juvie, makes a nice speech at some boring gala and has friends at the Court, while seeing through the inherent bullshit of Douglas Riller (the normally fantastic Chris Parnell), who’s on trial for having two families or something.

The show also stars Ryan Hansen (Party Down) as Gary, one of Rebecca Wright’s many hook-ups (they have sex in her chambers!). After Gary Busey, he’s her favorite Gary, clearly the one that’s supposed to stick (for the four episodes that this show will last). I think Gary Busey could make a more coherent sitcom than Bad Judge.

Bad TeacherJudge was envisioned as a female Eastbound & Down, with Adam McKay and Will Ferrell trying to spice up a show…created by Anne Heche (THE Anne Heche). What remains is a show that doesn’t know what it is, stumbling out of the gates drunkenly in high heels. Its pilot starts abruptly; I felt like I had a hangover similarly potent to Rebecca’s, not the kind of feeling I want when watching TV.

I expected to despise Bad Judge, but instead, due to its limp existence, found myself completely emotionless. Bad Judge not only lacks laughs, but a pulse. There’s some inkling of a Bad Santa-like relationship between Rebecca and Robby, and it certainly was the most tolerable part about the pilot, but to call it disjointed from the rest of the proceedings is an understatement. It didn’t mesh at all with what the show is supposed to be. Of course, I don’t know if NBC has any idea what Bad Judge is supposed to be, and I’m not going to bother finding out.

Tone Bell (…Whitney), who plays Tedward Mulray (really?), the court security officer and pigeonholed black character, remarks: “2014 is a trip.” Excuse the poor writing (it’s not like Bad Judge sets a high bar), but 2014’s Fall TV is a (bad) trip.

28. Mulaney (FOX)

Saturday Night Live writer-performer and stand-up comedian John Mulaney is talented, likable and a star seemingly perfectly suited for a TV show.

But something has gone horribly wrong with Mulaney. I was told by someone I reasonably trust that Mulaney was originally intended as a meta-sitcom hoping to lampoon the very nature of sitcoms themselves. Instead, what came out is exactly the kind of show that John Mulaney would most certainly revel in making fun of. It’s a crappy, cliche sitcom, one so bewildering and unfortunate, that I’m at a loss of what the hell I just watched.

In the show, Mulaney is a struggling stand-up comedian and writer, nervous for an interview with the pompous TV personality Lou Cannon (Martin “Life’s Too” Short “To Be Wasting His Time On This”). He, of course, gets the job, but it’s a mixed blessing because Lou sucks. While Mulaney struggles with his “dream job,” fellow comic Motif (Seaton Smith) finds himself in the zeitgeist with a new hip joke, “Problem Bitch.” Even if it doesn’t have an ending. He has an 18 hour window to come up with one, until the audience realizes they’re “laughing at nothing.” It’ll take you far less time to realize you’re doing the same thing while watching Mulaney, even with the live studio audience somehow churning out a laugh track.

Whenever I create the League of Extraordinarily Awful TV Characters, pretty much everyone on this show will compete for a spot on the hotly contested roster. Jane (Nasim Pedrad) argues convincingly that definitions of “crazy” for men and women mean entirely different things, but she justifies every bad thing a man has thought about a “crazy” woman in this episode. She’s going through a break up, so she breaks into the guy’s emails, stalks him, uprooting flowers that she planted at his apartment. She actually is INSANE. Hilarious. Andre (Zack Pearlman) is the douchiest drug dealer you could come up with, inspiring a Newman-like hatred from Mulaney and the rest of his friends. And that’s the point; the parallels between Mulaney and Seinfeld are obvious. Each episode starts up with Mulaney’s stand up, and he plays a version of himself alongside larger-than-life sitcom characters who “enliven” every scene with big entrances.

The whole show is trying too hard; John Mulaney and company seem so desperate to please, that each tired situation and joke nearly causes physical pain. Everyone is mugging for the camera as if they’re attention starved extras. It’s like watching an ill-advised sketch that isn’t working…that runs for 22 minutes. This show has Martin Short and Elliott Gould, two all-time greats. It can’t be this dire, can it?

Motif’s “joke” boils down to this: “If you don’t know the problem, you’re the problem bitch.” FOX makes an easy target as the problem bitch for a show with so many of them, but I don’t think anyone is innocent. Everyone involved with the show is the problem, bitch.

27 & 26. A to Z (NBC)/Selfie (ABC)

Both of these are grouped together for many reasons. One is so I don’t have to waste the time writing two separate entries, but mostly it’s because both shows are misguided, mostly repugnant sitcoms, wasting the efforts of truly likable people. It’s also because I watched them on the same day, about a month ago, and have blissfully forgotten most of that experience.

How does a show with Karen Gillan and John Cho elicit so much hatred? Because they happen to be in a show called Selfie. It’s an abhorrent title that has no defense, but we as a society deserve at least some of the blame for enabling a studio to even consider this a smart idea. There’s an inherent hypocrisy that “Selfie” is getting such a bad rap for a name, when almost every single one of us are taking selfies whenever possible. But at least we’re not making a TV show about it, you rightfully counter.

The title isn’t the only problem with Selfie, unfortunately. Its first half is as bad and cringe-worthy as you expect a show called Selfie to be, with Karen Gillan slutting it up and bravely becoming the world’s worst human, consumed with likes and follows, with no notion of how to be an actual person. She is the Black Hole of Suck that embodies all that’s wrong with social media. Enter John Cho, as her life coach and I’m sure her eventual love interest, except the show won’t last long enough to get there. It’s a testament to Gillan and Cho’s talents that they can SOMEHOW make the show watchable in the second half, when Gillan’s Eliza Dooley becomes less like a terrifying caricature and a living manifestation of nails on a chalkboard, and someone who just barely avoids deserving a punch in the mouth from every person she meets. It’s actually a mild miracle that could portend a dramatic turnaround a la Cougar Town, but I doubt it.

Sidenote: Is John Cho on a mission to star in every TV show on air? He had Go On, a recurring role on Sleepy Hollow, this mess, and a cush voice gig on American Dad! I guess he figures he needs about 2-3 a season to have one at any given time.

Since How I Met Your Dad didn’t happen, A to Z is the gimmicky, schmaltzy romantic sitcom that hopes to take its place, even gifted with the absolutely adorable Cristin Milioti, who somehow lived up to being the Mother on HIMYM. It also has Mad Men scene stealer Ben Feldman, the Andrew to Milioti’s Zelda (get it, A to Z?). There probably isn’t a more delightful new coupling on TV. Or so you’d think.

A to Z is a show that stars a woman I’m legitimately mad I’m not old enough, New York enough, or talented enough to have met before she was famous. The pilot features multiple Back to the Future references. I still probably won’t watch another episode.

Andrew (Feldman) and Zelda (Milioti) are perfect for each other because the Narrator (Katey Sagal doing her best Allison Janney impersonation, oddly enough) tells us in an obnoxious opener that actually “reveals” that Andrew’s a man’s man who loves sports with the boyz, while Zelda is a girl’s girl…and Andrew sings Celine Dion (who doesn’t?)…blegh. They, of course, have insanely specific shared interests, ones that can be mined for comedy and for stubborn, insistent proof that they are one another’s romantic destiny. Instead, Andrew just comes off as a creep in proving their meant to be-ness. It’s hard to make the charming Ben Feldman creepy, but A to Z manages just fine. That’s what happens when a guy tracks down concert footage to prove whether or not someone you hardly know was in attendance.

Feldman and Milioti are meant for great things, just not for each other, at least not in A to Z. Like Andrew’s character, it’s trying too hard. If it was a bit worse, and I was a curmudgeon, I’d finish this review with the painful retort: “With an entire alphabet to play with, the only letter it reaches is F.”

That’s a failing grade, y’all.

25. Red Band Society (FOX)

Because Fault of Our Stars was a YA sensation, the clear message to advertisers is this: young people love to watch young people die (I guess this is more or less true considering Hunger Games and the string of dystopian successes). But Red Band Society uses this as a shortcut to feels and tragedy, rather than earning an audience’s emotional investment.

In a hospital that has a rooftop perfect for parties, a wealthy hypochondriac recluse who lives in one of the wings and gives dope to kids (An American Werewolf in London‘s Griffin Dunne, actually giving the show a breath of funky fresh air) and attractive doctors, lives a group of kids of various socioeconomic backgrounds, ages, and diseases. They are the Red Band Society.

Octavia Spencer is a “scary bitch,” who relishes in the barista getting her name right on the coffee cup. While the cup reads scary bitch, this is Nurse Jackson, the hardened woman keeping track of all these sick kids, who also has a heart of gold. But she doesn’t want to be muffin buddies with Nurse Dobler (Rebecca Rittenhouse), whose crime is clear: she’s too nice. You made me a plate of muffins? How dare you try to befriend me, you BITCH?!

The Red Band Society comes with a mawkish monologue from coma patient Charlie (name o’ the week nominee Griffin Gluck), who speaks in “this means that” misdirection with a voice that reminds you of Home Alone-era Macaulay Culkin. There’s “…the story you want people to know and the one you don’t.” “How do you tell someone who needs a heart…that she never had one to begin with?” “Luck isn’t getting what you want, it’s surviving what you don’t want.” [When you get sick, people assume] “life stops…but it’s the opposite: life starts.” We have to forgive the Hallmark/inspirational phrase-of-the-day calendar stuff, because Charlie’s speaking FROM a coma: “This is me, talking to you from a coma. Deal with it.” Okay.

Kara (Zoe Levin) is the early favorite for Worst New Character on TV: she’s a Mean Girl cheerleader who coins phrases like “niplash” and after she collapses during practice, she decides to smoke in the hospital, BLOW CIGARETTE SMOKE INTO CHARLIE’S FACE (Charlie being the coma patient), and uses Charlie’s call button to get attention. She treats the nurses like their room service: she actually orders a kale salad from Nurse Jackson. But dammit, she needs a heart transplant. Maybe I should feel bad, but mostly I felt like they were robbing me of my ability to hate this character, who deserves several volumes of text dedicated to hating her. Kara’s not going to be eligible for a heart any time soon, thanks to her wide and varied drug use seen in her toxicology report. Wah wah.

Red Band Society ladles on the sentimentality and depression in equal measures, but luckily, the show’s heart is in the right place, even if their characters may not have working ones. Eventually, being forced to feel actually works, and dammit if something wasn’t stirring when Leo (Charlie Rowe) brings the gang together, and gives them all red bands, bracelets from his various surgeries that he’s kept as horrific mementos, quoting Shakespeare’s Henry V, labeling them his band of brothers. The relationship between Leo and new roommate Jordi (Nolan Sotillo) is the show’s saving grace, as Leo turns into an unlikely mentor for a friend forced to wade through the same tragedy. On the eve of an operation that will leave Jordi minus a leg, Leo promises him: “they can never cut into your soul.”

While Red Band Society smacks of somehow translating cancer kids and their foibles into marketing money, the show still feels like it has one. A soul, that is.

24. Madam Secretary (CBS)

Is “Not Politics As Usual” the most awkward slogan ever? Or is it the title I wish this show to have? Probably both, even if this is very much…politics as usual.

The Oval Office has always needed a middle-aged mother of three. After the Secretary of State’s plane went down, Keith Carradine (joining the annals of TV Presidency) tabs Elizabeth McCord (Tea Leoni) for the job. They apparently used to work in The Company together (we’re so cool we don’t have to call it the CIA). Prepare to hear The Company more times than you care to.

She’s the “least political person” the President knows, the only one he can trust to make real change. After all: “You don’t just think outside the box, you don’t know there is a box.” How do you say no to that pitch?

Ugh. Someone at CBS said yes to this pitch, and while it has many laughable and groan-worthy moments, it’s also very…competent. Elizabeth McCord may think outside the box, but this show is constructed entirely out of boxes. There’s a conspiracy, Elizabeth relies on her skills as a Mother in matters of National Security and diplomatic peacekeeping meetings with equal aplomb, and she even has to weather a new personal stylist. Oh, politics. You’re the worst.

But this show somehow isn’t. It’s so very standard, and predictable, but it’s not bad. It’s comfort food that tries to have edge: Elizabeth has shady contacts! Tim Daly is always shady! There’s a shady death! Politics are so shady, but the show’s tactics are so familiar, that its edges only further embolden the box’s architecture.

Zeljko Ivanek has played so many government aides that it’d be weird for him NOT to be in this show. How many times do you have to play a “combative chief of staff” before he gets grandfathered into the real Oval Office?

Hilariously, Quellek of Galaxy Quest, is ALSO in this show, as the director of the CIA. Good for Patrick Breen. He doesn’t even die!

At some point in this pilot episode, a character (probably a politician), admits, “I don’t think now is the time for substance.” He/she could be talking about this show, this fall season, or network TV as a whole. It’s certainly been CBS’ politics as usual mantra and MO for years (with a few exceptions), and it’s worked for so long, because these are the kind of shows that become hits and stay on for years and years. Why do so many people settle for mediocre, “safe” TV? Because so many people are morons. But with more and more outlets for content, and so many of them outstripping the major networks, hopefully the networks will respond with something bolder than a woman in the oval office.

23. Stalker (CBS)

Kevin Williamson has forever cemented his place in my heart with Dawson’s Creek, but Stalker continues a disturbing trend of horror-shock entertainment, akin to The Following.

We open with a hooded stalker with creepy slits in his mask burning a woman alive in her car. This case is forwarded to LA’s Threat Assessment Unit, where Beth Davis (Maggie Q) and her team excel in tackling stalker cases. How To Make It In America‘s Victor Rasuk and True Blood‘s Mariana Klaveno are Detectives with the thankless duty of holding case files and introducing them, while murmuring about how capable Beth is to the new guy Jack Larsen (Dylan McDermott), who’s hired to make sure the other detectives never have to leave the office. Jack was transferred from NY to LA because he slept with his boss’ wife, he has a big personality, and basically for being everything you personify in a Dylan McDermott character. Meaning: you hate him, just like Beth does when she first meets the lout; it’s slightly clever of Stalker to play with McDermott’s inherent hate-ability even if I question their methods. He’s a smart ass who makes inappropriate jokes (he transferred to LA to meet Scarlett Johansson, presumably a stalking victim) and admits to checking out Beth’s breasts; what’s not to love? Oh, he’s also tailing a blonde woman (Angel‘s Elisabeth Rohm) with a family, potentially a devious stalker himself.

Stalker is slick (because misogyny is cool, yo), mostly well made, but do you really want to spend an hour watching men and women getting attacked? That’s just not the type of escapist entertainment I’m drawn to, and this show doesn’t posit itself as anything more than that.

During a convenient lecture, Beth Davis tells us that over 6 million people get stalked each year; that’s 1 in 6 women and 1 in 19 men. It’s a serious problem, one exacerbated by social media and the unparalleled access people are relenting online. You want Stalker to get into the mindsets of stalkers, to attempt to take some sort of stance, but much like The Following, it’s mostly reveling in the violence, while Stalker‘s crippled with a procedural bent on a case of the week. It doesn’t glorify stalkers like The Following seemingly did for serial killers and cults in a disturbing way, but Stalker is already walking a fine line.

Stalkers are a sticky topic: most people don’t notify the police, or when they do, they can’t prove it. This is the crux of the problem; law enforcement can’t help most of the time, a realization that has spurred Beth to take matters into her own hands, much like a vigilante. This revenge fantasy could turn the show on its head, and highlighting the problems with catching real-life stalkers almost seems important. But it certainly feels like Stalker is going to be a spotlight for creepy, over-the-top horror movie level villains. That’s the mistake Kevin Williamson and company make; they assume the greater the evil, the freakier it is. I daresay focusing on the stalkers we’d find in real life are even scarier.

Note: As long as you avoid the song videos below, there really aren’t any Dawson’s Creek spoilers in the following.

Dawson’s Creek is my favorite television show. That’s no secret; it invariably comes up in less time than it takes to pee. My life is inextricably linked with my favorite residents of Capeside Mass. While Joey Potter spends her entire life trying to get out of Capeside, I’ve always paddled up the Creek, hoping to get marooned in an idyllic glittering small town filled with big problems and even bigger drama. Of course, if I saw Joey sailing in the other direction, I’d follow Joey and True Lovewherever it went. Because if you’ve watched the Creek, you know it’s almost laughable to think of it as anything other than Joey’s Creek.

My first exposure to Dawson I wouldn’t really associate with the show until years later, and that came in the form of Kevin Smith’s Jay & Silent Bob Strike Back. The film bowed in 2001, smack dab in the middle of the WB show’s prime, at the apex of the Joey/Dawson/Pacey love triangle. I was oblivious to the whole thing, but I remember loving this scene, because Jason Biggs is shit on and that’s one of the best things the world offers. A cocky Beek, an attitude that would prove foreign throughout all six seasons of the Kevin Williamson melodrama, rightfully asserts to the Pie Fucker: “You wouldn’t last a day on the Creek!”

I’ve lasted 10 years on Dawson’s Creek, a show that has changed my life.

I. 

She’s so beautiful that every time you look at her, your knees tremble, your heart melts and you know right then and there, without any reservation that there’s order and meaning to the universe. — Pacey

When I was fifteen years old and had my driver’s permit, I was driving my Dad and I to a Mariners game, where I was meeting my childhood best friend John Marsh and his father. I remember it was kind of a big deal, because I had never driven to Seattle before. I was excited, nervous, seemingly ready.

I never made it to that game. Hell, I didn’t make it three blocks from my house. I turned into an oncoming car, momentarily dazed by a blinking yellow stop light. It was one of those horrifying moments where your brain freezes; there was a glitch in the matrix, and even my Dad yelling “Nooooo!” like he was Hayden Christensen in Episode III didn’t fix it. When I finally snapped out of it, it was too late to escape. I managed to speed up and avoid a serious collision, but even so, the white car slammed into our family’s mini van.

I feverishly pulled over, shaking, and my Dad jumped out of the vehicle as nimble as I’ve ever seen him, and went to check on the other car. For a few moments, I considered the possibility that my egregious mistake had cost human lives. There’s not a worse feeling in the world, or at least I don’t want to contemplate one. I started sobbing, pausing when nearby homeowners checked in on me, having heard the noise. They assured me everything was okay, and that it likely wasn’t my fault, assuming incorrectly due to the damage to the rear end of the van.

After it was (thankfully) clear that nobody was hurt (just the cars), and insurance information was swapped, I was asked if I still wanted to go to the Mariners game. The ordeal felt like it had taken hours, but it probably spanned more or less than an episode of Friends, minus the laugh track. Did I still want to go to the ballgame? Despite a lifetime of the Mariners mostly sucking, this was the only time in my life when my answer was No. I called John, awkwardly, holding back tears and embarrassment, explaining our absence. While it wasn’t the last time I talked or hung out with John by any means (our relationship had been fractured well before this moment by his family’s move…only 10 minutes further way; it’s amazing how much a few miles meant when you were a kid), it struck me as a turning point, perhaps because I’m dramatic, and it’s natural to demarcate time based on “tragedy.”

I had had a remarkably lucky and fortunate childhood. I was a tad lonely and shy, not yet coming into my own, but other than my well-publicized failings (only broadcast in my head), nothing bad had ever happened to me. This car accident, no matter how minor, was that thing, as silly as that sounds. I already had a fragile ego and a small reserve of self-esteem, and this didn’t help matters.

Weeks later, after I had passed my driver’s test and had my official license, the DMV sent me a letter revoking it, having just heard about my “Failure to Yield” violation stemming from the accident. I had to wait another six months to get my license, dooming me to another semester on the bus at an age where that spelled social suicide.

While I initially blamed the incident on the confusing light and our recent move to a new house (a move I had been staunchly against), it wasn’t hard to see I was lying to myself. Because I am my own harshest critic (and continue to be), I decided to punish myself. The accident happened right before summer, giving me a wealth of time to do exactly that. My asinine idea? I planned to torture myself by walking and running on the treadmill (the family’s new and “exciting” purchase) every day, while forcing myself to watch what I thought was terrible TV. Enter…

Forget for a moment how prophetic my choice became; it’s pretty telling that my “punishment” was TV of any kind. I wasn’t that hard on myself after all, even if I thought I was subjecting myself to shit. I thought Dawson’s Creek fit the bill, and thanks to TBS airing what I saw as a simpering, sophomoric, trashy soap opera from 10 AM-12 PM everyday, I had a lot of ammo.

It wasn’t very long until I gave up the treadmill and retreated to my room to watch recorded Creek episodes on what became a well-worn VHS tape. If my parents ever got their hands on it, they’d have assumed I was watching the basic cable version of porn: The Man Show, The Howard Stern Show or MTV’s Undressed. That certainly happened, but I stretched this single VHS tape’s capacity to live, recording two episodes daily for several months, luckily discovering Dawson, Joey, Jen and Pacey early in their journey in discovering themselves (I was trying to do the same). I oddly felt ashamed by my growing love of the show, always pausing it when my parents came in, as if I really was watching porn.

While the pilot hooked me hopelessly (I loved the idea of these hyper-literate, smart ass high schoolers who peppered their dialogue with movie references), there are two episodes that stand out to me in the first season: “Detention,” a brilliant reconstruction of Breakfast Club, one of many episodes in the canon directly inspired by a classic movie. The other is “Beauty Contest,” where Dawson finally opens his eyes and realizes that Joey is a Goddess.

It’s also when Pacey cemented himself as Pacey; despite the overwhelming possibility that he’d end up as the town laughing stock (one of Pacey’s biggest fears), he SIGNS UP for an all-woman pageant, and then defies judgment and persecution with a wonderful speech culled from Braveheart. Along the way, he manages to make a rich bitch who loathes him want him by the end of the episode. Classic Pacey.

That Creek summer, which must’ve been 2004, came when I needed it most. It introduced me to Pacey Witter, who became something of my own personal compass. In the pilot episode, with a fresh black eye and a bruised ego (but not that bruised), Pacey notified Mrs. Jacobs (his English teacher!) defiantly and assuredly: “I’m the best sex you’ll never have,” becoming everyone’s hero. Pacey was a perpetual underdog, he was Dawson’s best friend, the sidekick, but He.Was.Better. He was a lover of women, passionate, independent, he spoke what was on his mind, he slept with his teacher, he had honor, a sense of humor, he even FROSTED HIS TIPS, he fulfilled his promises to others and perhaps more importantly, to himself. He was a cook, a businessman, a sailor, a pool shark, Braveheart. He was fearless, and blessed with a gigantic beating heart, much like the one that consistently operated out of the writer’s room.

Pacey had his faults: he had crippling self-doubt, he slept with his teacher, he had a miserable family life and no confidence in himself. He thought he was the town joke, certain that he was never going to leave Capeside, doomed to the existence of a sad townie (“You know, this town is the absolute embodiment of dull. Apart from the occasional sex scandal provided by yours truly, nothing happens here.”).

Instead, against all odds (or so the WB would have you believe), he graduated high school and sailed the world.

This was a guy who knew how to live. This was who I wanted to be.

On the other end of the spectrum was Dawson Leery, the show’s main character, and arguably, its worst. The guy’s self-centered and self-absorbed even by today’s increasing standards. He’s a whiner, a pouter, a man perpetually stuck in his Peter Pan phase, one that his idol Steven Spielberg eventually grew out of, and something that would take the entire show for Dawson to truly evolve from. Dawson doesn’t get the girl; he talks about the girl ad nausea, or ruins it, or is blind to the most beautiful, smart, funny precious girl on the planet (see Potter, Josephine). Dawson is encapsulated in an unfortunate, but no less brilliant gif, an all-timer:

But Dawson had his share of positive qualities. He was a dreamer (a Day Dream Believer?), almost relentlessly optimistic, to the point of vomit. He somehow pulled off sweater vests with white t-shirts on underneath. He was ambitious, he wanted a career in film; he wanted to be the next Steven Spielberg, and was making his own films in high school (and not just shlocky horror stuff; he made a documentary about the indomitable A.I. Brooks, a crotchety filmmaker in the Dawsonverse). He was smart, loyal, and he eventually learned to be a good friend rather than one who had to be the center of attention.

I was closer on the Dawson side of the Dawson-Pacey continuum, a disgruntled fact I couldn’t argue with, but didn’t want to admit. Now, I recognize that both have qualities that I share, and the ideal version is a combination of the two; imagine what their man-child would look like (he/she could save mankind). But at the time, I saw Dawson’s perpetual virginity as a trap I couldn’t escape from.

When applying for colleges, I was gratefully encouraged to try for as many as possible, as far or as close as I wanted. The list included my parents’ alma mater University of THE Pacific, as well as University of Washington, Syracuse University, Ithaca College, Florida State University, NYU and USC. The latter two I was wait-listed for and didn’t get in, likely because I spent too much time on comic-centric message boards of my own design and recreating whole seasons of Seattle Mariners baseball in my front lawn (I even kept stats!). I visited UOP, UW and flew to New York for the first time with my Mom, checking out Syracuse University and Ithaca College.

On the day of the deadline, I had signed my acceptance form to the University of Washington. I would be rooming with my best friend from high school, and going to school with 50 odd people from my high school class, living in a dorm fifteen to thirty minutes away from home, depending on traffic.

Then, in a moment of rare clarity, I ripped the letter up. I decided to go to Ithaca College in upstate NY. Because of my late response, I’d be living in a temporary dorm with four other random (but similarly indecisive) people, and the closest thing I had to another fellow Warrior going to school with me was a quiet Asian girl who lived up to stereotypes and went to Cornell. I never once saw her, not even at Wegman’s.

The decision quite obviously changed my life, and there’s no doubt in my mind it was the right one out of the two finalists (I question the validity of choosing Ithaca over Syracuse if only to have had sports teams to cheer for, but it had gone down to Ithaca or UW). It’d be simplifying the event, with a layer of myth making, if I said that I went to a college in the middle of nowhere across the country because that’s what Pacey would have done, and it probably isn’t even true. Pacey would’ve traveled, something I eventually emulated after college in the form of a three month long backpacking sojourn that was the best decision I’ve made alongside going to IC. But even so, this decision started a pattern in my life of doing what I wanted to do, not what was expected of me, and finding my own path. To be bold, to try new things, a constant struggle because in my heart I’m a gigantic pussy who only wants to watch TV all day. Every day, I’m trying to be more like Pacey, which is akin to a societal version of Sisyphus, but an impossibility I strive for nonetheless.

II.

But… how could it be over? We can’t just say “I love you” for the first time and have it be over. — Dawson

It wasn’t over. Far from it.

The second time I watched Dawson’s Creek was during freshman year of college. It was early in my first semester, and I was taking a piss, or brushing my teeth, or doing whatever it is I did in the bathroom, when all of a sudden I heard the greatest theme song of all-time blaring from a dorm room. Because (surprise!), I’m a man, I was on the men’s side of the dorms, so the aural pleasures of Paula Cole, while welcome, was a startling development.

This was on my door Junior Year. I stole it from the quad.

I followed the noise, and came to an open door, where, sure enough, Dawson’s Creek was playing on a rounded TV that was fashionable when the WB was. There, sitting hunched on his bed, and likely in flip-flops, was Nolan. I believe I uttered in disbelief, “Is this Dawson’s Creek?” He nodded: “You want a beer?” Nolan handed me a Keystone Light, another college love, and after that sacred ritual, we were friends. Through that chance meeting, we bonded, and because he had already befriended that side of the dorm (I was slightly exiled from door-to-door buffoonery living in the temporary lounge), met the rest of the wonderful idiots who lived on my floor.

By the end of the school year on any random weeknight, almost every dude on Clarke 2 (plus 1-2 lesbians!) could be seen watching Dawson’s Creek, drinking Keystone, with at least a few of us crying silent tears, with no judgment from any of the others.

The fellas at Clarke 2 became the best friends I would have at college, the ones that will be forever linked with my best and worst memories through all four years. The guys I lived with throughout my college career and the ones I’ll foolishly spend the next twenty years attempting to relive the glory with at increasingly awkward weddings and reunions. And while I probably would’ve met them eventually, it was Dawson’s Creek that introduced me to them.

Toward the end of Creek (season 6, episode 15, to be exact), I remembered an episode in which Joey shaves Pacey’s beard fairly vividly. At the time, I was rocking a very similar beard (I’ve taken a picture of Joshua Jackson to a barber before), and announced that after an upcoming episode I’d be shaving it off. It was all blustery pomp and circumstance, but it caught everyone’s attention. I was the only one who had seen the show (but not all of it; VHS tapes and my memory in recording the episodes were equally unreliable), so in many ways, I was the host, their guide through Capeside.

Then the scene happened:

[http://youtu.be/atvGORI9I6Q?t=4m54s]

Afterwards, I shaved. And so did everyone else, inspired by the awesomeness of that moment and a few too many beers.

While everyone loved the show to a varying degree, it was on a different level for Nolan and I. We still mark occasions with videos, songs or quotes from the Creek, and that isn’t changing any time soon. We’ll always have the Creek.

Before I continue, I just need to note the sheer number of future stars that appeared on this program (if you like to be surprised by cameos and guest stars, skip to the next paragraph). It’s insane. Jensen Ackles, Ken Marino, Scott Foley, Bianca Lawson, Jason Behr, Eion Bailey, Ali Larter, Jennifer Morrison, Virginia Madson, Eric Balfour, Jane Lynch, Ian Bohen, Christian Kane, Oliver Hudson, Monica Keena, Sasha Alexander, Taylor Handley, Seth Rogen, Melissa McBride, Sarah Lancaster, Melissa Ponzio, Julie Bowen, Sarah Shahi and Michael Pitt. It had Jonathan Lipnicki in it, for Chrissakes. The show became a proving ground for other WB shows, with its tendrils ever apparent in shows like Teen Wolf, The Walking Dead and Once Upon A Time.

III. 

Why am I doing this? Because once upon a time, we were best friends. And, yes, there’s been a lot of bad stuff in between. But none of that matters right now, okay? You need me, I’m there. Any time, any place, anywhere. — Pacey

The third time I watched Dawson’s Creek came in 2012, two years after I graduated college and a couple months after returning from my backpacking trip in Europe. I had little to no money left, but I had made up my mind somewhere along the way that when I’d get back, the first thing I’d do was buy the Dawson’s Creek boxed set. It just seemed like something I had to have, and besides, I had a friend who needed to watch it.

When I arrived back home, I had decided that I would live in Seattle for one year before finally moving to LA. I’d grown up in the city’s shadow all my life, and had even sublet a place in the University District for a month, but I had never really explored Seattle as an “adult.” I wanted to do that, as a hello and a goodbye to the city I had grown to love. A big part of that was living with Ryan, my best friend. We had lived together for one month at the aforementioned house in U-District, but both of us wanted something more permanent. We wanted a place of our own, where we could host parties and have friends over, and so we could watch Dawson’s Creek.

Ryan and I had bonded during breaks from college over Friday Night Lights, so I knew he had the sensibility and heart to truly appreciate Dawson and company, and I wanted to inhabit the role of guide once again, to jump back into a world I had been without for almost 6 years, but had never truly left me. After all, the myriad tributaries of the Creek are permanently flowing in my bloodstream.

Our first act as roommates was to establish Meatloaf Monday’s full-time, an institution that had its origins in U-District, but took on added significance and substance when we had our own place in Fremont. The night was my favorite of the week, and was oftentimes crazier than our Friday’s and Saturday’s. It was a night given to excess, a turn-back-the-clock to college night, when my friend Alex and I would hatch up unique recipes, put the loaves together, cook them, and then eat the majestic meaty molds with an eclectic and diverse group of friends every week. After we ate, things inevitably devolved into a variety of drinking games, dance parties and dessert (cookie butter and/or more meatloaf). Every night ended with a screening of an episode or three of Dawson’s Creek, complete with a drinking game we created expressly for that purpose. That wasn’t all: we had a scoreboard that kept track of the number of kisses and sexual encounters by each character, while scribbling down our favorite quotes on a busy white poster board.

It soon became clear that Ryan had a different take on Creek. He was no less involved as I, but he was Team Dawson all the way, a notion I believed to be incredulous/impossible. I’ve since met other people who shared the same viewpoint, but this difference of opinion characterized the growing schism that threatened to tear our friendship apart. We’d argue vehemently about the characters, about who deserved Joey, which was a deadly mix when copious amounts of alcohol was involved. We were vicious, personal; I’m defensive and take these things far too seriously to begin with, but it wasn’t really about Pacey and Dawson (okay, everything is about Pacey and Dawson).

We were going in different directions, and it put a strain on our relationship. I was biding time until LA, when I was going to leave Ryan and the rest of the Wolf Boyz behind, a notion as painful to me as it was to them. In the meantime, I started dating someone and my priorities shifted, not wanting to go out as much and growing tired of the rave/drug/party scene that Ryan was embroiled in. In the end, I tried to find a bullshit middle ground, which successfully pissed Ryan off, my girlfriend off, and me off, leaving me resentful, “misunderstood” and soon, single. I handled things spectacularly poorly; I was terrified of moving away, but I was also anxious and impatient to just get going with my life and the prospect of another weekend getting drunk at the same places for no reason became a gloomier and gloomier proposition. All that stress and uncertainty came lashing out, with Dawson’s Creek oftentimes as the symbolic battleground. Luckily, Ryan and I reached a mutual understanding. We talked it out, recognizing the shaky ground we were on, and I think our relationship would’ve been stronger for it, had I not moved away, becoming the John Marsh in this scenario.

IV.

Andie: You mean that you guys would rather watch a movie about something than actually doing it yourselves?
Joey, Dawson: Correct.

After we finished Dawson’s Creek, Ryan, Bryan and I devised a list of ten prospective pilots to watch, rate and through an aggregate score, decide on as our next Meatloaf Monday binge show. Beating out the likes of X-Files, Vampire Diaries and Beverly Hills 90210 was a little show called Buffy the Vampire Slayer that would also change my life, but that’s a story for another time.

Like the show itself, my association with Dawson’s Creek wasn’t always a good thing. I could’ve done without Audrey’s descent to madness, or Jack’s freefall into Frat life, or Chad Michael Murray, Jack Osbourne or most of the college years. But I also would benefit from not expecting life to be like Dawson’s Creek. I find myself enmeshed in the same dilemma that Dawson continually faced over six seasons. Life isn’t a movie or a TV show (I know, WHAT?!), but I’m that stereotypical guy who wishes it was, even though the reality of that would likely be a horrible thing. That Dawson-y part of me won’t go away. I can’t help it; I want storybook romances, I want massive declarations of love, I want life to matter, to mean something, if just a fraction of how much it means to the folks living on the Creek. I oftentimes view life as a never-ending blog post, that everything I do in a given day is something to write about, to disseminate out to strangers, that people will give a shit about my random ramblings (case in point). Dawson’s Creek is a show lauded and reviled because it’s a show with characters that talk about sex, but don’t have it. Sometimes living in hopes of writing about it, subtracts from the living part. No more.

As Paula Cole said, I don’t wanna wait, for our lives to be over.

Joey: You never look back, do you?
Pacey: Why would you look back? The future’s out there. And whatever it is, it’s gonna be great.