Plugged in and ready to fall

I watched the first four episodes of Entourage Season: 6 last night, and the guilt is already beginning to sink in. I feel like a junkie sobering up after a particularly aggressive weekend of binging on everything from China White to Robitussin. Entourage is the most insidious kind of guilty pleasure because of the delight it takes in glamorizing the lives of a bunch of shallow, skirt-chasing mooks who spend more money on clothes, booze, and cars then most of us will see in our entire lives.



A show like Entourage is even more appalling these days, considering the fact that the national unemployment rate- despite a slight drop- is still alarmingly high. People are being tossed out of their homes and into the streets, and the Car Repossession business is booming, but life couldn't be sweeter for Vincent Chase and Co. I almost laughed out loud during a scene where Vinnie was wandering around his palatial estate (right after rolling off of an attractive, blonde waitress he'd brought home earlier that day), sulking about how "bummed out" he was that his friends weren't there to entertain him.



Seriously? Am I really supposed to feel sorry for an actor who gets more vagina than a bottle of Summer's Eve (You're welcome), and rakes in millions of dollars (despite having the onscreen presence of a melting ice cube) because he's "lonely?" In the words of esteemed Rhodes Scholar and zen philosopher, Randy Jackson: "I'm not feelin' it, Dawg."