Am I this shallow?

A recent trend has been noted (by The NY Times, okay, by me) that most of my recent posts devolve into (a) drooling over certain actors' physical qualities or (b) defending my secret relationship with Jake Gyllenhaal to doubters.

You'll hear enough about accusation (b) other places soon enough (oh, it was so me wearing the Chanel and the blonde wig at the Oscars; it was), but I feel I must respond to accusation (a): Yes, I am.

There are, surely, good reasons to watch television other than stars who are particularly fuente, though there are many in the world who will argue that the act of watching television is at best, trivial and at worst, immoral.

Like, I see your point, but on one level that kind of ticks me and Joseph Campbell off.

I'm pretty much paraphrasing Mr. Campbell when I say that the value of television lies in its ability to tell a story, especially long stories. I'm not necessarily saying that Dawson's Creek or Buffy the Vampire Slayer is necessarily equal to The Mahabharata in scale or significance, but I will say that the narratives aim for the similar place in the human spirit, and, I don't know about you, but I need stories like that to make sense of my life.

Which is why I've added Grey's Anatomy to my schedule. It has nothing to do with Patrick Dempsey or the fact that I can now go around calling everyone I know McSomething-I-Just-Made-Up. Also, how cute was that scene at the end with the musical instruments on Sunday?

So call me shallow, but give me a story, on-screen or one I make up in my head (No, Jake's real, I tell you! Real!) -- and I'm in bliss.

(Thanks go out to Tea for her persistence and her scolding on this one.)

Update: Apparently, I'm not the only one Tea has in her sway. Grey's Anatomy beats Desperate Housewives in the ratings.)