The wife and I have been watching the Lindsay Lohan docu-series on Own:


Guilty pleasure, sure, but we’re not ashamed. This is what celebrity culture/fascination should be – a look inside her life, with her permission. All of that in a decent package. Lots of single camera shots, a question or two from the camera wielding producer, some planned meals (read: multi-camera shots) with her family and life coaches and assistants. A wise word or two from Oprah herself.

This is exactly what I need in these last cruel throes of winter.

We get the sense, as viewers, that we are getting an inside look. A peek into the mysterious celebrity life. Lindsay knows we’re watching but she’s relaxed enough to give us a little. More, at least, than the annoyed but pleased look she gives the paparazzi-hoard as she leaves a restaurant:


My real complaint with the show comes at the commercial break. We start with some plugs for the channel – Oprah interviews and Oprah specials. Fine, that’s fair. Then we get a little sales pitch for the Malibu rehab facility where Lindsay stayed. Ok, a little tacky, but whatever. Then we start slipping. A do it yourself legal kit. What looks like a hometown used car add? That can’t be right. A legal settlement announcement for transvaginal mesh ruptures. What the hell, Oprah?!

Can Oprah’s still fledgling OWN network really be struggling this much? Is she (are they) this money hungry that they’ll take on any advertiser? Whatever the reason, I don’t think they understand how much these adds flavor how we watch the show. If I didn’t already feel a little sleazy watching this voyeuristic celeb-drama, hearing the word transvaginal half a dozen times took me over that edge. Thanks, Oprah.

Not that I’m going to stop watching, not yet.