Ocean View
Sopranos' addict 'fesses up
Patricia A. Miller

An active addiction is not a pretty thing to watch.Chances are, my drug of choice is not going to bankrupt me, land me in the slammer, or devour my liver. But it is making life a tad unmanageable.

It all began on an early Sunday evening in March 2006. I was in the ShopRite in the town I live in. It was about 8 p.m. As I meandered through the store, I noticed most of the people seemed to be on a mission to get out as soon as possible. They were wired. Nobody else was meandering. Grown men and women practically careened down the aisles. They scooped up items and flung them into their carts as if they had just won shopping sprees.

"Come awnnnnnn!" one woman with big hair panted at a man who appeared to be her husband. "It's gonna start in less than an hour!"

There were many more scenes like this. Lots of toe tapping and jangling keys in the checkout line. Some customers glared at cashiers who weren't moving things fast enough for them. They shoved their chips and salsa into yellow plastic bags and beat it out of there.

I heard the name "Sopranos" at some point as I waited in line.

Hah! I said to myself. So this is what the commotion is all about. I felt pleasantly superior to the poor souls all around me.

I had always equated "The Sopranos" with all the other dopey shows I'd never seen and vowed never to watch, like "American Idol" and "Survivor" and just about any reality show. I was too much of an elitist to get down and dirty with the television hoi polloi. Give me a good old History Channel documentary on the creation of atomic fission any time.

All that was about to change. I left ShopRite. I went home and unpacked the groceries.

"Maybe we should watch this stupid show, just to see what the big deal is," I said to my significant other, who is a retired Philadelphia police sergeant.

"I saw enough mobsters in my time," he snorted. "Turn it on, if you want."

We clicked on HBO at 9 p.m., in spite of ourselves.

We were hooked practically from the opening song. A crazy old mafia coot named Uncle Jun plugged his nephew Tony when he came to cook him some pasta. There were men with strange names and even stranger hair, like Paulie Walnuts and some guy named Silvio, who looked like Richard Nixon on a good day. Most of the women had nails like talons. They all talked North Jersey.

It's been downhill ever since. We bought every "Sopranos" season ever made. We taped all the new ones. We watch them over and over again. Oh sure, we might start out the evening with a History Channel documentary, just for show. But sooner or later, it's not "Sopranos?" but "What season?"

I stopped just short of ordering a 2007 "Sopranos" calendar off the HBO Web site and the "Sopranos" cookbook off Amazon.

Now I belong. I can discuss the intricacies of "Sopranos" plot lines. I actually know what gabbagool is. I say things like "Whattayagonna do?" and "fuhgeddaaboutit" a lot.

And I can't wait for the next episode in the final season of this superbly written, beautifully acted and sometimes surprisingly poignant show.

James Gandolfini's Tony alternates between being a monster one minute and a teddy bear the next. He looked like the devil himself, seen through a haze of cigar smoke at the Bada Bing Sunday night, as they all laughed at Christopher. Contrast that with the scene in Dr. Melfi's office, where he almost breaks down talking about his son. A struggle between good and evil, in one hulking package.

Edie Falco's Carmela loves her husband, but has sold her soul for the trappings of their North Jersey life and McMansion. All the giant blue sapphire rings in the world can't disguise what her husband does to, as he puts it, "put bread on the table."

The withdrawal symptoms are already starting. I know the end is near. Four more episodes, and that's it.

Where else can you find a show that featured wedding guests passing through metal detectors just to get into the church? Or made-guys Paulie and Christopher munching on ketchup packets for sustenance, after a day lost in the frigid woods after they thought they had whacked the Russian?

You can't. I miss the "Sopranos" already.

I was back in the ShopRite this past Sunday night. I careened through the aisles. I went through the checkout short of breath. I had 15 minutes to make it home before the show. The hell with the History Channel. Now I understand.

But I'm still never watching "American Idol."