Previously: Sad queer novels, fixed. Season One Bette Porter breaks up with long-time girlfriend Tina after learning that Tina objects to their using a black sperm donor. They never speak again. After several months of mourning, Bette embarks upon a surprising, intellectually stimulating relationship with Peggy Peabody, a fascinating and challenging patron of the arts. A young widower, Tim Haspel, moves next door after having lost his wife Jenny in a tragic carnival accident.
1. No. No. No. No. No no no. No. NO. 2. YES. 3. Full-body flashbacks and terror-driven night sweats. 4. The Season One hairstyles are as bad as you remember, but the wardrobes are even worse. It's all mirrored sunglasses and peasant tops and dragon-print bandanas and Tevas (TEVAS!) and linen shirts with hummingbirds on them. 5. The secret villain of this show, I have concluded, is not the obvious Jenny, but TINA. Mealymouthed, passive-aggressive,…
The strong woman did a bunch of roundhouse flips across the bar and kicked me right in the face. "That's what I think of you," she said, kicking me a bunch more. "Sexually, you're real indiscriminate, which I don't respect, and your code of honor is just balls." Then she shook my hand. "I guess we have to be teammates." "I guess we do," I said, then checked out her body, because even though I'm…
Tasha Tasha is perfect. Here we have Tasha looking at the sky, perfectly. Here is Tasha smiling. Notice that when she smiles, the entire world turns on. Here is Tasha holding a beer and having feelings. Notice how she does both of those things perfectly. Tasha in a suit. (The suit is perfect, and her jaw has more integrity than the entire Constitution of the United States.) Here…
Heather Seggel's past writing for The Toast can be found here, and it's all really good. On December 31, 1991, I was standing in the middle of the Castro district in San Francisco. Flanked by a group of friends, we had come to ring in the new and absorb a little pride by osmosis. At least that was part of my purpose. Most of my friends went to UC Santa Cruz; I attended the…
May your Jenny Schecters be few and confined to season one; may they never be allowed within a thousand romantic feet of your Shane McCutcheons. May your theme song be brief and unmemorable. May it sound nothing like this. May your episode titles not all have the same series-title-influenced gimmick. May your use of a blue filter be judicious and restrained and not confined only to bathhouse scenes. May your Dana live to a…
