Ann B. Davis in chains

Sorry for the light blogging. I'm now in the closing days of my three-month work cycle, and after writing/editing serious things at the office, I can only veg out to iTunes and HBO at home. More to come next week, but in the meantime here's another defense of the Dental Arts sign in Davis Square:

Yo, dude! Take a look across the street at Brooks Pharmacy if you want to see an eyesore! If you're gonna be spitting mad about something, how'bout the "Harvard Square-ification" of Davis Square? With Brooks, McDonald's, Starbucks, Bank of America, and now a CVS about to open, Davis is losing its personality. We'll soon have another outdoor mall, a la Harvard Square. Leave the independent storekeeper alone! - Proud Somerville Resident (p.s.- I kinda like the dentist sign)

Point taken. I was horrified to see that a CVS (worst feng shui on earth!) will soon blight Davis Square. I've been boycotting that chain since I tried to buy a newspaper at a CVS by putting exact change on the counter and the cashier yelled at me to get at the end of the line. (Or, more accurately, to pick one of the lines and hope it wasn't the slow one.) I now buy my razor blades and dental floss online, and they're actually cheaper than at CVS. Plus, I can now buy more embarrassing items than I ever dreamed of! By the way, is any neighborhood in the Boston area gaining personality?

Circumcisions fall off

I was startled to read that almost half of all boys born in the U.S. now go uncircumcised. The new data has been giving Andrew Sullivan an opportunity to rant about how barbaric the practice is (see "Scarred for Life"). He may be right, and I must not have liked the pruning as it happened to me, but I've never wished that my parents waited until I was old enough to say, "No thanks, I'll leave it the way it is." (And I've never wished that they protected me from flouridated water until I was old enough to decide that it wasn't part of a communist plot.) I will admit that for years I thought that Jewish guys were uncut because of the old joke about someone's pants being so tight you could tell what religion he was. It didn't make any sense the other way because almost everyone in my locker room at high school was circumcised, no matter what church they went to.

City advises me not to move to South Boston

Via the Boston Globe:

The Boston Licensing Board yesterday morning closed the South Boston bar where a Revere man was stabbed to death in a weekend brawl. The board suspended The 6 House's license pending a July 10 hearing, after investigating the bar following the fight, said Dan Pokaski, chairman of the Licensing Board.

The fact that someone was killed at the bar doesn't dissuade me from moving to Southie, something I've been seriously considering. But if the city finds it necessary to immediately shut down the a after what seems to be a freak occurence (no gangs or bikers involved), that tells me that either the whole neighborhood is incredibly dangerous or it's filled with people who panic when they realize they haven't moved into Newton. Not good either way. UPDATE: Another account from the Boston Herald, which highlights the bar's former incarnation, with a different name, as a hangout of gangster Whitey Bulger (presumably a couple of decades ago). So don't open a bar or restaurant anywhere in the city where Whitey has been spotted during the past 50 years.

"Buses Are for Chumps" Day

Thursday is Dump the Pump Day, and the American Public Transportation Association is urging everyone to celebrate by taking buses and subways instead of polluting the air with SUVs. Putting aside the horrible name ("Hump the Pump Day"? "Pump My Rump Day"?), isn't this campaign self-defeating? If a lot of people really do use public transit for the first time on Thursday, the trains will be more crowded than usual -- and there will be a lot of riders who don't know how to stand in a moving vehicle without spilling hot coffee in people's laps. I can see a lot of people vowing never to take public transit again.

Meg Ryan takes the T

The driver was about to close the door when a petite, attractive blonde woman in her mid 20s raced from the back of the bus and flew out the door. I heard someone behind me say, "Wait... don't." As the bus continued on its way, a young bearded man with a guitar case scrambled to the front and had a few words with the driver, an imposing woman in her 40s. The bus caught up to and went a bit past the blonde, still walking at a brisk pace and refusing to look anywhere but straight ahead. We stopped in the middle of a block and the doors opened. "Hey, you! Get back here! You can't just get off and leave all your SHIT on MY bus!" The woman got back on without a word and followed the bearded guy to the back of the bus. He came down the aisle with the guitar case, a stuffed backpack, and a heavy looking suitcase. She carried a little purse. The bus stopped again and the rear doors popped open. "You getting off here?" the driver yelled. The young guy looked around and saw all the polite passengers staring at him. (The impolite ones were snickering and catcalling.) "Yeah, I guess," he replied. He struggled to get all the luggage off, she followed with the little purse, and the two of them stood on the sidewalk. She glared at him, he looked sheepish, and they both waited for their audience to leave. As the bus pulled away, the guy sitting in front of me said loudly, "I know who's not getting off tonight!" This got a big laugh. Unlike extras in an urban romantic comedy, Bostonians don't applaud when two attractive people kiss in a public place. But if that woman had clocked her boyfriend with his guitar case, all the strangers on my bus would have had instantly become great friends with one another.

Another long-running drama is cancelled

Just a few days after The Sopranos ended, Massachusetts state legislators cancelled Can Heather Have Two Mommies? at the end of its fourth season. No longer can I spend my lunch hour gawking at gay-marriage opponents and cruising-- er, encouraging those on the other side of Beacon Street in front of the State House. There were some exciting moments over the years, but the series had long overstayed its welcome. Great finale, though, even if this plot twist proved unnecessary.

Good riddance, Sopranos

I didn't say it, Josh Glenn of the Boston Globe did:

After viewing a few episodes, I decided that "The Sopranos" was an Aaron Spelling show, plus curse words and boobs, and returned the DVD without finishing it.

Not my opinion, Josh, but you're welcome to express it. That is, you would be if you hadn't violated one of Escar-go-go's cardinal rules of criticism: You can't trash a work of art if you can't name something in its genre that you like better. If you also name a TV drama that you respect and admire ("guilty pleasures" don't count), then you can dis The Sopranos. If you just don't like TV, no one cares what you think about a particular program.

Another way that Massachusetts is un-American: We hate Lassie!

Here's another map quickie for you. As of 2001, pets of both species were big in almost the entire West, plus Maine and West Virginia. Those two states are among the most rural in the East, but it may be significant that they also have very large senior-citizen populations. Cats don't cut it in the South (are they considered Democratic?), and neither kind of animal is very popular in the Midwest or mid-Atlantic.

Dogs aren't so popular in New England (it sounds unbelievable, but apparently there is more sh*t on the ground in Atlanta and Memphis!) or California, which must be due to our smaller houses. But what about North Dakota and Utah? Anyone have an explanation?

As is so often the case, Massachusetts is at the extreme. Only 21.4 percent of households here include dogs, which is the lowest rate in the entire U.S. (Data not available for Alaska or Hawaii.) At the other end of the continuum, 50.3 percent of households in West Virginia have the flea collectors. Massachusetts has cats in 32.7 percent of homes, making us one of only nine states where spooky, cold-hearted parasites outnumber emotionally needy freeloaders.

Cafe Paradiso no mo'

Nuts. Another place to get a snack after 10 p.m. has closed; this time, it's Cafe Paradiso in Harvard Square. (Another hat tip to RealFake blog.) Is Starbucks, which closes almost all of its outlets by nine, part of a national conspiracy to make us go to bed earlier? Are we going to be reduced to munching biscottis and sipping espressos out of tiny paper bags in parking lots while alcoholics get to enjoy four more hours of indulging their habits in comfortable bars?

Lo-fat Sondheim

The "Send in the Clowns" ice cream truck followed me home today! (See RealFake Blog's music video here.) But just when I'd stopped to get a cone, it sped up and passed me by. All together (as arranged by "and J. Ice Cream"): Isn't it rich? Are we a pair? Me here at last on the ground, You in mid-air. Send in the clowns! Send in the clowns! Just when I'd stopped Opening doors-- ISN'T IT RICH? Are we la la? Me here on Christopher Street, You in Times Square Me want some clowns, LOOKIT, MORE CLOWNZ!

The Sopranos: FOURTH best HBO series ever

I forgot about Lucky Louie! No, I mean The Wire, of course. Maybe. It could be a three-way tie for second between The Sopranos, Six Feet Under, and The Wire, but Deadwood is definitely on top. HBO is going to have a hard time living up to the standards it set during the past eight years.

The Sopranos: Third best HBO series ever

Three points: 1.) Escar-go-go got more hits during the two hours after The Sopranos aired than on any day since I started it, and almost all of the visitors came via search engines like Google. Since the blog must rank something like 1500th on a search result for the show’s title, fans must have spent a lot of time reading anything they could find. Bad news for HBO if they really expected viewers to hang around for John from Cincinnati. 2.) The Sopranos is so rich in detail that I haven’t yet seen any comment on the episode’s opening shot, a close-up of Tony’s head resting on a thick white pillow while organ music played on the soundtrack — as if he were in a coffin. (The music came from some art-rock song on a clock-radio that woke Tony up.) 3.) As brilliant as The Sopranos was, something was out of whack when it was allowed to run for 86 episodes (surely no coincidence, that number) when the more nuanced and expansive Deadwood and Six Feet Under fell short of that number. Sopranos producer David Chase made the entirely defensible decision to stick to a narrow view of the world (bleak, bleak, bleak) and eschew any real character development. Almost all of the characters fell into four categories and stayed there: those who became aware that they were living in a moral cesspool but ultimately chose to stay there (Tony, Carmela, A.J., Meadow, Christopher, Vito, arguably Johnny Sack); those who steeled themselves against ever looking down and thus had fewer sleepless nights than those in the first category (Livia, Uncle Junior, Janice, Phil Leotardo); those who were too intellectually limited or innocent to question their moral choices or realize they were making any (Adrianna, Bobby, maybe Artie Bucco); and comic relief characters who never showed enough depth for us to psychoanalyze (Paulie, Silvio). The only moral character was Dr. Melfi, who was tellingly absent from the last episode. Contrast The Sopranos to Deadwood, where self-righteous sheriff Seth Bullock and amoral proto-mobster Al Swearingen evolved over the course of the three seasons until each became more like the other. Some fans complained that Al became too soft or likeable, and some were upset that in the premature series finale Seth condoned the killing of an innocent woman for coldly pragmatic reasons. But it was believable and fascinating to see both characters put aside their mutual loathing for the good of the mining town of Deadwood — their version of “this thing of ours,” to use Mafia lingo. And on Six Feet Under, we watched the free-spirited Nate evolve into a selfish hedonist as the formerly repressed (and closeted) David turn into an emotionally open, compassionate partner and father. Again, many viewers were not happy with the changes, particularly to Nate. The Sopranos deserves accolades, but the fact that it was the most popular of all the HBO dramas proves again that viewers like plot twists but hate real surprises.

The Sopranos

David Chase went with the Cheers finale! Whatever he did would have been criticized, but I do get the sense that he hasn't watched much television and thinks that this non-ending was innovative. It would have been in the 1970s.

Two Gay Pride Day encounters

The first was with a spare change guy (no, not that spare change guy) who greets me outside of a convenience store every morning on the way to work. He looks to be in his 50s, has a beard, and wears a leather jacket and jeans except on very warm days. “Watch out! It’s Gay Pride Day!” he said this morning, apparently not figuring out that was precisely why I was downtown on a Saturday mornng. “Yes, I know.” “I almost hit two of them so far.” “Hit them?” (At first, I thought he accidentally came close to hitting two people with his car, but I doubt he drives to his job.) “Well, they were bothering me.” I looked at him with mild shock and went in to get my Red Bull. On my way out, he accosted me again. “They don’t all bother me,” he said, seeming to sense that he got on my bad side. “Oh.” “But, you know, I don’t like a lot of things that they say and do,” he said, getting agitated again. “That’s too bad.” “I keep control of myself, though,” trying to bring himself back to civility. “Well, that’s good.” “But I just don’t like to be around them.” “Sorry!” I said. Maybe on Monday he’ll start to apologize, and I’ll run away before he can make things worse with the next sentence. The second encounter was with my barber, who has been driving me crazy for about seven years by coming close to, but never saying anything to confirm that he’s gay. He knows enough about Provincetown, dance club music, and local drag celebrities to converse with his mostly gay clientele (and he knows I’m gay), but his knowledge never seems connected to personal experience. Today I thought I had caught him. He started talking about a bartender in a Boston gay club who is less than ideally skilled in customer relations. We traded stories about the bartender’s rude behavior, and it seemed that my barber knew the establishment pretty well. Not so fast: He claimed that he learned of the bartender’s reputation by reading nasty comments posted about him on craigslist. If it were anyone else, I’d think he must be gay if he’s reading “men seeking men” message boards on the Internet. But I could really believe he’s simply doing research to keep up with his customers. The probablility of gayness has dipped below 50 percent in my book.

The world from my office windows

June 9, 2007. With apologies to Andrew Sullivan. Click to enlarge (I hope). I apologize to everyone involved with Boston Gay Pride for bringing my camera and thus ensuring a sunless sky. Top view: Beacon and Tremont streets. Bottom view: Cambridge Street, with City Hall Plaza at left. (For the benefit of non-Bostonians, Tremont Street changes into Cambridge Street for no good reason, so these views really are only a few hundred feet apart.)

Peru Pride

The Boston Globe’s Liza Weisstuch asks whether pisco, a which resembles vodka but is made from grapes, will be this summer’s “it” drink. OK by me. I think pisco sours are delicious, and I don’t mind that they’re made with egg whites. But I didn’t know until today that pisco is a bone of contention between Peru and Chile:

For years, Chile claimed the spirit as its own, but in 2005 the World Trade Organization recognized pisco as a beverage of Peruvian origin. Some are as fiercely protective of pisco as the French are about Champagne. "For me it's an insult to see Chilean 'pisco,' " said Christian Lizarbe, a native Peruvian who was having a pisco sour on a recent Friday at Machu Picchu in Somerville.

I already knew – thanks to Calvin Trillin and his book Feeding a Yen – that Peru is also involved in an international squabble over its national dish. Ceviche is raw fish that has been marinated in citrus juice long enough to taste “cooked” (still cold, but nothing like sushi). It’s usually served in chunks, accompanied by potatoes and by with roasted corn kernels, each one the size of a nail on your big toe. However, in Ecuador, it’s more of a stew, with tomatoes mixed in with smaller pieces of fish. As Trillin says, “I would imagine that Peruvians consider their version of ceviche stately and Ecuadorians consider it dull.” I’ve never gone Ecuadorian, but I recommend the “stately” version at Machu Picchu, in Somerville's Union Square. Just double up on the pisco sours so you’ll get enough liquids.

The curse of Craigslist

Dan Kennedy has a good post on how Craigslist (and Monster.com, etc.) has helped to cripple daily newspapers. Not that it could have been avoided. I'm old enough to remember paying for roommate and personal ads in Bay Windows and waiting for them to mail the responses to me. Then there was the system of charging readers by the minute to listen to classified ads by phone. Nothing like that could have lasted once the Internet caught on.

Cracking down on irrational exuberance

Reason magazine -- oddly enough, a libertarian publication -- has a piece by Steve Chapman on people making too much noise at commencement ceremonies:

Some people think that a commencement is a celebration, and that celebrations by definition should be unrestrained. By that logic, wedding guests should be blowing noisemakers during the recitation of vows. Modern America does not lack for parties. What it increasingly lacks is rituals that treat landmarks in life with a sense of solemnity.

As Chapman reports, a high school in Illinois banned "disruptive behavior" on graduation day, and this year it temporarily withheld diplomas from five students whose family and friends were too boisterous. Sounds good to me. Now if we can only crack down on standing ovations at the theater. I propose a ticket surcharge on anyone whose ass doesn't stay in his or her seat during curtain calls. On the extremely rare occasion when a production is so good that it merits more than applause, remain quietly in your seat -- with a stunned or rapturous expression, depening on which is appropriate -- until the cleaning crew kicks you out. Or you can throw undergarments at anyone exiting the stage door.

Pie-O-My

Today I indulged in nostalgia and had my first Table Talk pie in at least 10 years. The experience was not as bad as when a lingering cold drove me to the only thing that could satisfy my hunger as a little boy: SpaghettiOs with franks. When I tasted those slimy pasta poseurs in that watery red liquid -- a mixture that was stone cold even though I had seen it bubbling like lava on the stove only a few minutes before -- I thought, for a moment, that I had simply lost the ability to feel happiness or pleasure, because how could I have been so wrong about something as a child? I didn't even try any of the franks, instead simply probing one with my tongue before throwing the whole poutine (in its literal definition, "a mess") in the garbage. So, the good people at Table Talk Pies of Worcester, Mass., should be happy that their product did not reduce me to tears. Their individual-size cherry product did remind me why my mother made us eat Table Talk instead of Hostess's sugar rush pies. The crust does need to be washed down, possibly with whole milk but preferably with RC Cola. The cherry filling is definitely preferable to sucking on cough drops, but I remember that I liked the lemon pies best. Cherry filling is never as good as real cherries, but lemon filling is more palatable than the fruit itself. Lemons must be beaten and sugared into submission, and the tartness that survives is just right for a trashy dessert. Under this theory, apple and blueberry pies aren't so satisfying. But what about a horseradish pie? Jalepeno pepper pie? Wasabi and rhubarb? Break the spirits of those flavors, Table Talk, and I'll be a regular customer again.

Spam, spam, spam, spam

Attention, spammers: If you don't know how to write in grammatical English, maybe you shouldn't call your scam the "British National Lottery." I would have gone with "Turkmenistan Lucky Happy Draw." I admit that the signature is a nice Monty Python-esque touch, except that it should read "Mrs. Stella Amas (deceased)" and she should be played by Graham Chapman.

British National Lottery

UNITED KINGDOM

We happily announce to you the draw (#1004) of the British National Lottery online Sweepstakes International program held on 20th May 2007. It is now available for claims and you are getting the final NOTIFICATION as regards this. Your e-mail address attached to ticket number: 56475600545 188 with Serial number 5368/02 drew the lucky numbers: 05, 06, 17, 20, 28, 42 (Bonus 33) , which subsequently won you the lottery in the 1st category i.e match 5 plus bonus. You have therefore been approved to claim a total sum of One Million Pounds,(One Million Pounds) in cash credited to file KTU/9023118308/03.

This is from a total cash prize of £ 1000,000 Million Pounds , shared amongst the(4)lucky winners in this category i.e Match 6 plus bonus. All participants for the online version were selected randomly from worldWide Web sites through computer draw system and extracted from over 100,000 unions, associations, and corporate bodies that are listed online.....

[Blah, blah, give us personal data so that we can steal your money or, if we're only evil by proxy, sell all your data to someone else who will steal your money.]

Good luck from me and members of staff of the British National Lottery. Yours faithfully, Mrs. Stella Amas

Mary Frances comes of age

I've started to read the works of M.F.K. Fisher, considered the first great food writer in the US, and thought I'd share this scene from The Measure of My Powers. No preacher, football coach, or Oscar winner has ever said anything so inspirational. Fisher has just graduated high school and is spending a few days with her uncle in Chicago, "who knew more about the pleasures of the table than anyone I had yet been with." But, intimidated by the big city, she takes little interest in food until their last meal together:

...I looked at my menu, really looked with all my brain, for the first time. "Just a minute, please," I said, very calmly. I stayed quite cool, like a surgeon when he begins an operation, or maybe a chess player opening a tournament. Finally I said to Uncle Evans, without batting an eye, "I'd like iced consomme, please, and then sweetbreads sous cloche and a watercress salad ... and I'll order the rest later." I remember that he sat back in his chair a little while, and I knew he was proud of me and very fond of me. I was too. And never since then have I let myself say, or even think, "Oh, anything," about a meal, even if I had to eat it alone, with death in the house or in my heart.

The Riches: Fork in the road

Last night's first-season finale of The Riches was a bit of a letdown, but maybe I just found it hard to pay attention after the riveting (and commercial-free) episode of The Sopranos on Sunday. At least the show didn't make the mistake of having an obviously intelligent character -- next-door neighbor Nina -- behave stupidly in order to maintain the show's premise. I wouldn't mind if the Malloys really did leave their gated community, and I certainly wouldn't mind if we never saw the Panco offices again, as long as there's a way to plausibly keep Nina on the show.

Know when to keep your mouth shut

A source in Montreal adds another item to my list of old-man noises to avoid, including grunts when I pick something off the floor and exaggerated expressions of satisfaction ("Ahhh!") with a glass of tap water. So I will never check into a room in a bathhouse, take off all my clothes, leave the light on and the door open, lie on my back in what I imagine to be an enticing pose, fall asleep, and snore loudly enough so that everyone in the place wanders by to see who is having his way with an asthmatic water buffalo. The closest thing to making this faux pas in Boston would be to log on to Manhunt.com and send the following instant message to everyone online: SCHKKKONXXX........

The Sopranos: Next stop, last stop

David Chase is certainly getting playful, allowing a character to comment on the show's title -- at least, I don't remember anyone commenting on the irony of the Soprano family having an operatic name until Melfi's smug shrink did so tonight. And the model train sequence was pure Hitchcock, not only because of the imagery but because it ended just the way we expected it to. (This was in contrast to the scene a couple of episodes ago when Christopher righted a small tree that had been knocked over by Paulie and it didn't fall down as soon as he was out of sight.) I have to say that I felt satisfaction at that moment, but maybe it's because I wanted revenge as a third-generation Quebecer. (Remember the season opener?) My theory has been that the ending moments of the series will be all about Carmela, and that was foreshadowed by Melfi's interaction with Tony tonight. I don't think Carm will do as well as controlling her temper.

Malden has twitches of life

“Doesn’t the sun ever shine in Malden?” one friend asked me a few months ago after seeing my cloudy-day photos of my hometown. It still never seems to shine when I’m there, but I did find a couple of oases last Friday evening. One was the Exchange Street Bistro (not safe for work if your speakers are on), which I visited despite a Web site designed to keep me away. Fortunately, the crowd was not limited to thin women in their 20s and the men who lust after them. At 6:30 p.m., the front dining area was Classic Malden, with Early Bird seniors and young families who seemed a bit intimidated by the place. (My mother confirms that the bistro has a local reputation as "expensive," which proves that her sources haven't dined in Boston for the past couple of decades.) The back dining room did seem more Sex and the City, but I only saw it on the way to the bathroom. My hangout was the bar in the middle, where a very nice older gentleman told me three times that the Exchange Street Bistro was “more South End than Malden.” In case I didn’t get it, he also noted that he usually goes to Fritz on Saturday nights. Actually, the bar was neither as pretentious as the South End in 2007 nor as gay ghetto as the South End circa 1990. I felt more like I was in an off-season resort town in Maine or on Cape Cod, which isn’t too far-fetched given how quiet downtown Malden is. The bartenders and waitstaff were having fun, the patrons were chatty, and the dress was decidedly casual. I had three cocktails, including one revelation: a tequila on the rocks that was better for sipping than for downing in one shot. Afterward, I tried the clunkily named All Seasons Table Restaurant -- which, astonishingly, is more Upper West Side than Malden. The décor was subdued but chic, the crowd was largely Asian but inclusive of all ethnic types, and the music was a live band playing Antonio Carlos Jobim tunes (see photo). I had some very good shrimp shumai and a plate of shrimp and scallops cooked in sake and ginger. I think it would have been just as good with ordinary chicken — if the scallops had much flavor, it didn’t survive the sake bath — but the food did make me want to come back. Though both places were busy, I didn't get the sense that there was much overlap in the clientele (no Asians at Exchange Street, though it was otherwise racially mixed). Malden should figure out some way to string its jewels together; this is one case where a bunch of street-lamp banners guiding pedestrians to the next attraction (there are also a couple of Italian restaurants and Irish pubs in the area, but no two places are next to each other) would actually do some good.

In defense of artistic dentists

One reader takes exception to my critique of the sign seen above:

Hi, Robert. I saw your posting about the Dental Arts sign and needed to respond. I live just outside Davis Square and have been a patient there for about five years. The word "dental" turns white at night when it lights up. Pretty cool. If you go by sometime after dark, you'll appreciate it. The people at that office are the nicest people you'd ever want to meet and the three dentists are GORGEOUS (that is my unsolicited opinion, anyway!) One of them did all my porcelain veneers three years ago and he is a true artist. One does indeed want a creative dentist, especially when it comes to cosmetic dentistry, so the name is warranted. I work at Starbucks in Davis Square, by-the-way, and the transformation of Davis Square in the last decade has been fabulous. Once Highland Ave catches up with Elm Street w/ regard to modernization, it will be awesome. I think the sign on the dental office looks great, and that the rest of the street needs to upgrade.... Regards, Claire G.

I guess I'm old-fashioned. I don't flaunt my dental work or shove it down people's throats. I think a dental office should have an unmarked door, no windows onto the street, and staff who are discreet about maintaining the privacy of their shame-faced clients. Cavities are the result of irresponsible behavior (we're not born with them!), and I want a dentist who won't try to cover up my moral failings with "porcelain veneers."

Still, I can't argue with "gorgeous," so you win, Claire.

The Sopranos: Frustrated expectations

The Boston Globe's Matthew Gilbert has a typically insightful take on the impending end of The Sopranos, which includes this defense of its story structure:

Some critics have complained about this flipping and flopping [Tony and others appearing to change for the better, then "backsliding"], saying that "The Sopranos" is weakened precisely because the characters don't clearly change according to a traditional plot arc. But the back and forths are what have distinguished the series; only the more artificially constructed dramas on TV alter characters overnight and build to simple resolutions. When it comes to an epic like "The Sopranos," messiness is a blessing.

I agree, but now that we've had the The Sopranos redefine serial TV, the next great development would indeed be a series (and not a miniseries based on a novel or real events) in which the characters clearly change over the course of a plot arc. David Chase has upped the ante; it's not clear whether anyone will go to the next step.