I heart HBO

In the 1980's, they brought me same day coverage from Wimbledon for the tourney's full two weeks. And I loved them. Next came Sex and the City, which finally, fully, portrayed the complexity, joys and fears of being a single woman in the big city. The most important thing for thriving and surviving? Not a man, but a loyal posse of women friends. And I loved them more. Then they redefined the family drama with The Sopranos, Six Feet Under and the current Big Love. And I thought they had reached the apex.

But I was wrong. All hail -- The Wire.

Have you heard about it? The best show on television. Continually overlooked by the Emmy's. The superlatives are all true. I can't do it justice and will refer you to the master on this subject, Tim Goodman, the television critic for the otherwise lackluster San Francisco Chronicle. Have you read his column? Checked out his blog, Bastard in the Machine? Priceless. Hysterical. Snarky (his self-description, Mr. Crankypants says it all). The signature line that never fails to crack me up? " So, don't lie to me like I'm Montel Williams."

Have you watched it yet? You'll be sucked in immediately. I loved Homicide: Life on the Street, David Simon's network tv series. Definitely a primer for The Wire -- set in Baltimore, extended story lines, some of the same actors, a police drama, but so much more. The Wire probes deeper, immersing itself within the gritty, urban landscape, and is the contemporary heir to the classical Greek tragedies. How convincing is the acting? I will never, ever, be able to like Idris Elba in any other role, no matter how kind and gentle, because for me he so fully inhabits the character of Stringer Bell. Always. Forever.

I raced through all three seasons, using a combination of library copies, Reel, my local video store's selection, and Netflix to feed my addiction. And I patted myself on the back as I watched some of the special features on the last disc of Season Three. You see, even though the library didn't have copies of Season Four yet (set in Baltimore's floundering school system, can't wait!), I felt secure with my Reel and Netflix backups. Then, I went to Netflix and found out the distressing news -- Season Four hasn't been released yet. Horror! Shock! Despair! No announced release date even! What am I to do? Why, start rewatching, beginning with Season One. I never stopped to watch the episodes with commentary from cast members, writers and directors, since I was so eager for the next episode. Unfortunately, the library copies are checked out and have holds on them, and Reel has NO copies of Disc One, Season One. So I'm watching the Sopranos, Season Six, Part One for solace. Boo hoo.

Regarding my earlier pop culture reference, in my dream, I found myself huddled with Meredith Grey as writer? new character? on the set of Grey's Anatomy as they were setting up to shoot a new scene for the upcoming season. I was trying to impress upon her how critical it would be to maintain the show's level of excellence this season. Easy interpretation -- I'm sad about how much I'll miss Isiah Washington's character, Dr. Preston Burke. Now, I don't in any way condone what he said and did, and the way they wrote him out was completely perfect. But I'll miss him, his spiffy "lucky" surgical caps, his gorgeous looks, his willingness to put his feelings out there no matter how difficult Christina could be. And Diahann Carroll as his mother -- perfect casting. Even better than her role as Whitley Gilbert's mother on A Different World. In the end, Burke was a man who walked away from his love rather than make her into someone she couldn't be. Which is not a bad way to close out a character. As much as I enjoy all the rest of the cast, I'll miss him.

On the library front, I cleared the deck on Monday. Paid my $10-plus fine (so I could check out new items) and returned all the overdues. Came home with an armful: Penelope Lively's latest, Consequences; Margaret Drabble's The Sea Lady (again); Robert Ellis' City of Fire, a whodunit set in Los Angeles (I'm a sucker for location as a character); and two works of non-fiction, John Sedgwick's In My Blood; Six Generations of Madness in An American Family (yes, he's related to Edie Sedgwick); and Supreme Discomfort: The Divided Soul of Clarence Thomas (how long have we been waiting for this one?). And all the while, under the gun to finish Ann Cummins' Yellowcake, a novel blurbed by Antonya Nelson, Ann Packer and Sigrid Nunez. The long-distance niece is in town for the next two weeks and we're all reading along with her Jhumpa Lahiri's, The Interpreter of Maladies, the summer reading assigned by her school. The two nieces are keeping me busy and introducing all sorts of interesting things I've not experienced (last night, a marathon showing on MTV of America's Next Top Model). You'll probably hear more about this tomorrow!