Are dramas today so character driven that straightforward stories driven by plot feel utterly empty? Are we so flooded with the complications of the psyche that historical dramas that sidestep Freudian minutiae leave us cold?

Maybe so. But the fact remains that, aside from some aggressive banter between Titus Pullo and Lucius Vorenus, watching "Rome" is like spending time with your really beautiful girlfriend who has nothing to say and won't sleep with you.

A time to mourn, a time to move the hell on
Of course, I know how that feels, since I spent the last week mooning over "Six Feet Under" like a heartsick teenager. I'm still not as bad as my boss, though, who e-mailed me several times this week to ask, "Why did they kill Keith that way, Heather? Why?"

I had almost convinced her that Claire merely imagined that Keith might die that way, until HBO, damn them, put up obituaries for each character.

Why did they do that to Keith, God? Why? Answer meeeeeee!

Heroin soup for the rocker soul
I was in a deep, dark hole and I might never have climbed out if not for the simple pleasures of -- you guessed it -- "Rock Star: INXS."

This show is like heroin. I can't stop watching, and it makes me feel really, really good and really at peace with the world every time I do. Almost everything about it is deeply wrong: Brooke Burke in her terrible outfits, the unseemly fist-shaking fraudience, Dave Navarro's absurd proclamations, the repeated assertion that INXS is or ever was a "supergroup." Plus, having a rock 'n' roll contest, in which "rockers" compete against each other to see who can "rock" the hardest? It just goes without saying how absurdly wrong-headed that is.

But then I got to thinking about how absurd the whole notion is that rock 'n' roll is somehow sacred, like it hasn't already been desecrated by decade after decade of bands like Blink 182 and Third Eye Blind, marching around in full rocker regalia but conveniently skipping the violent outbursts and the droolly, unphotogenic overdoses and the gutted hotel rooms. Why must we remind ourselves that, just like everything else in the world that's pure and special -- or at least just raw and intriguingly self-destructive -- rock 'n' roll has been subsumed by the simultaneously dulling and exaggerative influence of consumer culture. In other words, we can just assume that all the little rockers out there are total fakes until proven otherwise.

Which basically puts the jackass contestants on "Rock Star" on par with pretty much every other rock 'n' roller on the planet. Just because it's rock 'n' roll, that doesn't mean it's any good, and just because these fools are on a Mark Burnett-produced show, that doesn't mean they're talentless hacks. It's up to us -- the fist-shaking audience at home -- to sort through this odd collection and find the contestants with the most authenticity, talent and passion. You know, so they have a shot at leading one of the world's worst bands.

But of course, what could be more subjective than a judgment of an artist's authenticity or passion? I remember thinking the White Stripes were pretty good but sort of phony. And then I went to go see them perform, only to discover that Jack White is the genuine article. What more is there to say? How can I possibly use words to describe the feeling a great performer evokes in an audience? He's committed, he's convincing, and watching him play is just electrifying. Even if Brooke Burke were standing a few feet away in one of her terrible outfits, even if a fist-shaking, tube-top-wearing fraudience were present, even if Dave Navarro cut into the applause by saying, "Jack. I really dig your whole vibe, man," that wouldn't change the fact that Jack White has it. He's the real thing.

Which brings us to the remaining six "rockers," quite a few of whom have proven that they can, in fact, "rock," albeit in ways that seem to demand the requisite minimum of striding confidently across the stage, making those passionate Bono-style fists and shimmying to the end of the rocker plank, then kneeling and reaching out to the squealing sea of, well, sea donkeys. Mostly, I'm amazed at how everyone is setting the bar high, rising above the mediocrity of their surroundings, and turning in some seriously great performances. Mig, Ty, Suzie and Marty are my current favorites, and although Jordis has been on a downward slide, she's still got the talent to make a comeback. In other words, five out of the last six "rockers" kick ass, which means that things are going to be pretty interesting moving forward.

And then there's J.D., who's such a jackass it's impossible to keep your eyes off him. He may be the most self-deluded human being on TV right now, with his little vocal flourishes, accentuated with those odd hand flourishes, just in case you missed it the subtleties of his vocal stylings. The guy is pure comedy, deserves his own comedy show, in fact. They should rename the show "Rock Star: INXS/Comedy Central." Please, if you haven't seen this man perform, TiVo the show and check him out. It's priceless stuff -- you won't regret it.

In summary
What does it all mean? Sadly, in the late summer, when half of the office is on vacation and the other half is pacing around with an empty look in their eyes or sifting through the half-eaten doughnuts from the morning staff meeting, guiding principles and overriding themes are hard to find. Keith is dead and HBO is offering up a deeply unoriginal, far from groundbreaking drama series instead of its usual savory fare. All we can really do is drink to excess, encourage talented "rockers" to join a crappy band, and count the days until we hear Martha Stewart's brand new "Apprentice" catchphrase.

Next week: What will become of Aunt Sassy?

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