Storytelling impedence mismatch
There's no accounting for taste, I suppose. Don't get me wrong--everyone is entitled to enjoy whatever kinds of TV shows and movies and such that strike their fancy, but I still reserve the right to chuckle derisively about their choices. My poor sister is saddled with an affinity for some undeniably sappy movies, for example. I don't have anything against Hugh Grant, to take one random example, but the man plays exactly the same character regardless of what movie he's in.
Then there's my father. He's a real meat-and-potatoes kind of movie fan, which is to say that he's an action-and-explosions movie fan. Again, nothing wrong with that, but it would shatter his world if he ever found out that Steven Sagal is actually three feet tall, and a woman.
Of course, sometimes my family surprises me: my father really liked Amelie, a movie with about as many explosions as a moist towel. And, to her credit, my sister really likes the movie Goonies. At least, I think she does. Well, she'd better like it.
So it's no surprise that I always saw my mother as the last bastion of artistic taste, even though she, too, likes her fair share of sappy, weepy flicks as well. At least she doesn't fall asleep if there is more than five lines of dialogue in a row. And so it was my mother who I so ernestly tried to introduce to my favorite TV show, and perhaps the finest show of all time: Futurama.
