Last month AP my landlord informed me that I could watch HBO on my iPad.

“What would you suggest?” I hadn’t watched American TV in ten years.

“A good place to start would be THE SOPRANOS.” The cable series about a New Jersey mafia family had been a success for HBO. Wikipedia called it the greatest TV series of all time.

“I don’t know.” I had seen a few episodes in Thailand. It wasn’t STAR TREK.

“Believe me. You’ll love it.” AP and I had similar tastes in most everything.

That evening I signed into HBO and started a two week blitz on THE SOPRANOS. I fast-forwarded through Tony Soprano’s panic attack and any relationship with his dysfunctional family in which his mother and uncle plot his death. The internecine struggles and cold-blooded murders came a little too slow for my tastes and my finger pushed through any scenes dealing with Tony’s manic-depressive behavior.

Richie Aprile is killed by his sister. His best friend “Big Pussy” is shot for being a snitch.
Christopher kills his longtime girlfriend. She’s a snitch. The deaths and madness never stop and the Ides of March arrived with my succumbing to a recurrent touch of depression.

I wanted to die.

Same as Tony.

He was getting fatter.

And I was girthing a little.

He fucked women who meant nothing.

I was faithful to my wife.

He betrayed everyone for money and power.

I took care of my family.

There was something wrong and I hadn’t recognize the effect of THE SOPRANOS on my fragile psyche.

More people die in the show.

More madness.

My depression deepened through season 4 and 5 and finally 6.

THE SOPRANOS ended with a black scene.

I recovered from the long slog through the series.

I feel better now.

I’m no Tony Soprano.

He is only a TV persona.

We are real.