This Sunday heralds the dawning of The L Word‘s Season 2, and we lesbots and admirers are ready with astroglide, arcane adjectives beginning with “L,” organic brown Mexican rice, and beer. A Slate piece by Ariel Levy spells out nice and easy just why the show is worth its sea salt. It also takes (another) peek at what cues it takes from Sex and the City.
Of course Levy touches on that postfeminist old saw: that it’s OK that The L Word cast is comprised of mostly slick-rick lesbianicas with nary a mullet amongst them, because the girls singlehandedly dispense with lesbian bed-death through dental-dam sexual positivity. (Haven’t dykes been compensating for the grim same-sex-by-default politico since at least the early ’90s? And, at that, has anyone actually used a dental dam since the early ’90s? Please advise.) But she’s dead on when she writes that this may be the first TV show to make straight broads feel we merely lack the ingenuity to be gay; to make dyke life seem downright more glamorous. On L Word, the best slumber party of your girlhood never ends. It just ambles, sure-footed, to its natural conclusion — and lingers there. Hotness.