I was never a big Gilmore Girls fan, but my mom was. Much like Rory and Lorelai, we were a single mom/only child duo, and back in the show's WB heyday, I would often coast through the living room as she settled in with the denizens of Stars Hollow, lingering for a few minutes before eventually getting bored and going back to see if my crush was on AIM. My mom's insistence that much of its content would resonate with me — Rory writes for her school paper, too! Rory likes Belle & Sebastian, too! — failed to really sell me. For me, the WB's main function had been to bring me the high angst of Dawson's Creek, which I had decided was much more "real" than the comparatively family-friendly Gilmore Girls. Once I got my hands on a copy of The Sopranos on DVD, it was over — I could have all the moral ambiguity and unpleasant people and situations I could stomach, with a sufficient amount of prestige to make me feel smart for watching it. Between the dawning Golden Age of Television and my problematic Tarantino obsession, I had gotten it into my head that there was a corollary between quality and misery. My mom, on the other hand, would frequently balk at my choices when we'd hit up Mr. Movies on Dollar Monday — while I was eager to drink in Magnolia's endless barrage of suffering, misfortune, and frogs, I think she took at least two breaks to go play Snood.