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You Got a Problem Wit Dat?

Yeah, I do. It’s sucks. It’s boring. And I’m really pissed because nobody’s gettin’ whacked. I was a Sopranos junkie… and for those of you who have never watched or followed the show, this is what life is now like for those of us who lived for the monumental series. On June 11, 2007, HBO aired the final episode of it’s all-time biggest hit, The Sopranos, and ever since then, Sunday nights without Tony, Carmela, Chris, Paulie, and Silvio just ain’t right.

Maybe you don’t like violence? Maybe you deplore gangsters. Maybe you’re the effeminate type and dig Desperate Houswives? Or maybe you’re just a cheap f@#k who won’t spend the coin for HBO? Whatever the reason, you’ve missed out on some of the finest acting and storylines the television world has ever known. The HBO series, which first aired in January of 1999, has become the most prolific drama in the history of television. In TV Guide’s list of the 50 Greatest Shows All-time, The Sopranos ranks number five, behind four legendary comedies: 1. Seinfeld, 2. Lucy, 3. The Honeymooners, and 4. All in the Family. It’s the highest rated cable series ever, and the only cable-show to win the Emmy for Outstanding Drama Series.

For some weirdo reason, perfectly nice everyday honest hard-working citizens were romantically addicted to the exploits of this brutal and violent crime family. Wonderful, law-abiding citizens worldwide were simply enamoured with Tony Soprano and his cast of goombas.“How in God’s name can you like that show?” I have been often asked. “Those people are are thieves, bullies, thugs, con men, philanderers, drug dealers, and ruthless, murdering psychopaths… yet, you love them? WTF?”

Again, for those of you who have never watched the series, for some unexplainable and disturbing reason …we could relate to them. SAY WHAT?! I know that sounds bizarre, but listen to me. The reason that regular everyday folks could relate to these people was because Tony and his family let you into their home and personal family lives. They didn’t live behind iron gates like the Corleones – they lived in suburban northern New Jersey, where mob boss Tony himself strolled down his driveway each and every morning to pick up the Newark Star Ledger. And that is where the brilliance of show creator David Chase comes in. He made them real people with real foibles and phobias. They may be Mafioso by day, but by night they return to their true families and face everyday issues like running a home, raising their kids, investing, paying taxes, dealing with prejudice, and caring for their health. In the past, mobsters were bigger than life as they gunned down their enemies in a blaze of bullets and fire on the silver screen. Tony Soprano visits his son’s guidance counselor, hosts family barbeques, protects his loved ones from a recurring black bear, and drives his daughter to visit a quaint New England college. (But of course while Meadow is visiting the campus, he crosses paths with an ex-mobster in the witness protection program – a guy who ratted – and Tony brutally strangles him with his bare hands. Gotta kill time somehow.)

There’s no denying whatsoever that the Sopranos are an abomination – a psychologically disturbed, ethically bankrupt, spiritually void gene pool. But, fans like myself are obsessed with their lives, and we love them unconditionally – as if they were of our own flesh and blood. When nine o’clock struck on Sunday nights and that magical, hypnotic theme song by the band A3 began to play… Bum, ba bum, bum, bum, wa wa wa…”Woke up this morning and got your self a gun…” like one of Pavlov’s dogs, I’d prop up in front of the TV in a semi-lathered state as Tony drove through the Jersey side of the Lincoln Tunnel, lighting his cigar, pulling the Turnpike ticket from the booth, cruising past, Pizzaland, Satriale’s Pork Store, and the rows of refinery tanks in lovely Newark. For the next 60 minutes, you couldn’t help but become are a blood sworn Soprano.

And now…Sunday nights are a bore. No pre-show pasta and canolis. No cigars with red wine. No hearing the F-word sixty-some odd times within an hour. Nobody getting shot, strangled, beaten, flogged, shoveled, maimed or curbed. No dead go-go dancers, burned up racehorses, pony-tailed assassins, or severed heads in a bowling ball bag… nothin’. Just boring ol’ Sunday night, sitting around with the loved ones.

How uncivilized.

- Zman