Just Guilty Pleasures

I love the CW Network. There simply can't be a better panacea for placing worries aside and vicariously dismissing ones moral platitudes than settling into the guilty pleasures of CW prime-time.

I'm entirely enamored with Gossip Girl. Such a steady barrage of upper east side adolescent narcissistic scheming and backstabbing, heavily accented with tartan plaids, dramatic rhetorical inflections and good old fashioned passive-aggressiveness. Chuck Bass is a balls out man bitch, always at the ready to laser all adversaries with his piercing glare and sharp, succinct tongue. Santa, please add Gossip Girl seasons one to forever at the top of my Christmas list. I've been a good boy. Really. When compared to Gossip Girl, at least. Gossip Girl is a bit like Las Vegas. When you're finished with the experience, you need to shower twice to get the filth off of you. Then you can't wait to go back.

One Tree Hill is another hook of mine, although it defies both logic and odds that an entire gaggle of a high school clique could all graduate from high school, head off to college, and then all move back to tiny Tree Hill, North Carolina to enjoy life with such immense professional acclaim. Let's take a roll call. Lucas is a best selling author, Brooke carries her own clothing label, Payton founded and manages a record label (after a failed internship in LA), Nathan still chases the dream of playing pro hoops (in his Range Rover) and milking his seemingly endless shoe contract endorsement money, all earned before his brush with death two seasons ago. Hayley, Nathan's wife, apparently used to be a pop star bigger than Brittany Spears, yet managed to do it all from the comfort of Tree Hill.

Despite its complete lack of believability on a most basic level, I'm a One Tree Hill disciple of the highest order. I just want to know where this magical land of opportunity, scandal and hot girls is on the map. We need to move there.

Tree Hill may be the answer to our great recession.