Another comfortador comes out of the closet

via Whedonesque, a link to a lovely post by a somewhat recent Buffy convert, at Slowly Going Bald. Most of us, even the luckier ones who were viewers from the first season on the air, have experienced at least some of what he describes so well.

I could never pick a favorite season, or episode, or character. I’ve loved a lot of TV shows in my time, and still do, but “Buffy” is one of the few (along with “Sports Night” and a very few others) that transcends the level of beloved show and becomes an almost tangible presence in my cultural life; basically, the show helps me get over. I can’t imagine anyone being able to turn to “Lost” or “Heroes” and find the same kind of emotional comfort and character-derived moments of genuine power like the ones Whedon turned out with stunning regularity. This show has heart, damn it, and that counts for something.

I plan to send his post to my cubicle-neighbor at work, with whom I share an (unlikely) “appointment television” bond. We first discovered this when she (a church-going, small-town Texas Libertarian) confessed she’d gotten hooked on Weeds. She convinced me to watch Big Love (which I don’t really love but find interesting), I convinced her to watch Dexter, and in turn, Six Feet Under. Etc., etc.

When I’ve mentioned Buffy, this woman always just hoots and giggles. The classic dismissive not-getting-it response. But the other day, she happened to catch a few minutes of the early morning FX syndication. “Maybe I was just groggy,” she said over the cubicle wall, “but it was really interesting.”

“Mmmm-hmmm,” sez I, nonchalantly, grinning to myself.

(Restless screencap via Screen-Cap Paradise)