They forced P.J. O’Rourke to write about “Girls” and Lena Dunham.
I had my 14-year-old daughter, Poppet, instruct me in how to watch an episode of Girls on my computer. (Turns out â€œcontentâ€ is not completely â€œfree.â€)
Two seconds into the opening credits I was trying to get my daughter out of the room by any means possible. â€œPoppet! Look in the yard! The puppyâ€™s on fire! Quick! Quick! Run outside and roll him in the snow!â€
It turns out Girls is a serialized horror movieâ€”more gruesome, frightening, grim, dark, and disturbing than anything thatâ€™s ever occurred to Stephen King.
I have two daughters, Poppet and her 17-year-old sister Muffin. â€œGirlsâ€ is about young people who are only a few years older than my daughters. These young people, portrayed as being representative of typical young people, reside in a dumpy, grubby, woeful part of New York called Brooklyn, where Ms. Dunham should put her clothes back on.
I lived in New York for fifteen years. No one had been to Brooklyn since the Dodgers left in 1957.
The young people in Girls are miserable, peevish, depressed, hate their bodies, themselves, their life, and each other. They occupy apartments with the size and charm of the janitorâ€™s closet, shared by The Abominable Roommate. They dress in clothing from the flophouse lost-and-found and are groomed with a hacksaw and gravel rake. They are tattooed all over with things that donâ€™t even look like things the way a anchor or a mermaid or a heart inscribed â€œMomâ€ does, and theyâ€™re only a few years older than my daughters.
The characters in Girls take drugs. They â€œhook upâ€ in a manner that makes the casual sex of the 1960s seem like an arranged marriage in Oman. And they drink and they vomit and they drink and they vomit and they drink and they vomit.
Itâ€™s every parentâ€™s nightmare. I had to have a lot to drink before I could get to sleep after watching this show about young people who are only a few years older than my daughters.
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