Men of a Certain Age

But after the fun is over? We’re going to need to drag those high-flying megawatt mothereffers into the mud and rub their noses in their own filthy, shameful ways. Sometimes it’s because we’re jealous and horny and broke. But most of the time? We’re just bored.

The meek shall inherit the mirth

The good news is that as long as you can’t afford to watch Cerise lick whipped cream off Henrietta’s $20,000 D cups, your marriage is probably safe. The bad news is, if you can’t afford that, you probably also can’t afford your mortgage, and if you can’t afford your mortgage, your marriage might not be safe for long.

Since we’re damned either way, I’d rather hang out with the humble crowd. Personally, I feel most comfortable among people with disheveled hair and outdated shoes who don’t have enough time or money to do much of anything beyond loading and unloading the dishwasher over and over and over again.

That’s why I love “Men of a Certain Age” (10 p.m. Mondays on TNT). This low-key dramedy (which I first covered in late October) about three middle-aged friends is a celebration of humility and down-to-earth dorkiness. Its three lead characters are the antithesis of the macho hero types we’re used to seeing on TV. They aren’t dashing and suave. They aren’t all that successful. They aren’t even very confident. They pace and sweat. They eat too many doughnuts, then worry that they look fat in these pants.

These three guys may be my favorite male characters on TV right now. Because, while humble pie may be gaining in popularity, the small screen is still dominated by Jack Bauers, tough guys who are loath to open up and express their feelings until a man in a dark suit walks in and injects something scary into their arms. They’d rather strangle the life out of someone with their bare hands than admit to occasional moments of self-doubt.

But “Men of a Certain Age” proves that self-doubt can be sexy. Take Joe (Ray Romano), a neurotic mumbler, prone to circular thoughts and self-deprecating asides. Joe owns a party store and struggles with a gambling addiction. He’s getting over his ex-wife and trying to have a good one-on-one relationship with his kids. Joe occupies this odd nowhere land between success and failure, between middle age and retirement, and he does so in a distinctly male way: Sometimes he can seem like a handsome, charming, funny guy, other times he just seems like an average Joe, not all that smart, not all that outstanding, not all that together. And every now and then? He seems like a complete loser. In other words, he’s a lot like just about every man you know.

But let’s be clear: I use the words “complete loser” with great affection. Just look at Owen (Andre Braugher), a car salesman who works for his (arrogant, bossy) dad. Owen eats too much, and he’s diabetic. He’s a deeply principled guy, but most of the time he feels like his principles just get in the way of being able to live a normal life. This Monday’s episode, in which Owen decides to give every customer a fair price on a new car, is just classic. I won’t spoil it, but the cost of sticking to your principles becomes clear to Owen pretty quickly.

Likewise, I love the upcoming episode in which Owen angrily discovers that Joe’s ex-wife isn’t giving Joe an accurate picture of her life after their separation. The more those around him shrug the whole thing off, the more angry Owen gets. He feels like he’s the only sane person in the world, but everyone is treating him like he’s the crazy one. Everything about this character feels genuine — he’s the guy who, despite having a reasonably good sense of humor, tends to expect too much of everyone and take everything too seriously. Even so, Owen might be the most heart-wrenching and lovable male character I’ve ever encountered, thanks in no small part to Braugher’s pitch-perfect performance.

But maybe what really makes “Men of a Certain Age” so irresistible is the implicit admission that, for some reason, after the age of 45, most men are about 50 million times more humble than they were when they were 25. At 25, men see themselves as rulers of the universe. At 45, those who aren’t actually ruling the universe see themselves as fallible, sometimes for the first time in their lives. (Women feel invincible from age 24 to age 25 1/2.) When men finally join us at the humble pie buffet, it’s cause for celebration.

Although its three lead characters are butting up against old age and feeling overwhelmed by their own limitations in ways that could be depressing, in fact this drama is smart and moving and, above all, a real pleasure to watch week after week. And unlike other male-centered dramas and comedies that have come and gone over the years, “Men of a Certain Age” doesn’t have even the slightest trace of hostility or condescension toward women in its subtext. Most of all, this show reminds us that comfortable, well-worn friendships are more satisfying and sweet than all of the gold and golden-haired harlots on the planet. (Or at least, that’s what we’ll keep telling each other.)

Communal living

But while we’re on the subject of friendships and humility, let’s not forget NBC’s “Community” (8 p.m. Thursdays), which has been baking up a fresh humble pie for weeks now, to great comic effect. From retired moist towelette magnate Pierce (Chevy Chase) to fallen lawyer Jeff (Joel McHale) to lonely divorcee Shirley (Yvette Nicole Brown) to former star student Annie (Alison Brie), the denizens of Greendale Community College share a strong bond, the bond that comes from being humbled beyond all recognition.

In fact, “Community” derives most of its charms from its humble setting and the humbling circumstances of its characters. On this show, even the bullies are humble. “Give me a winter doodle!” a bully named Mike growls at Abed (Danni Pudy) on the show’s latest episode. “If you’re trying to be menacing, maybe don’t call the cookie by its name,” advises Jeff.

Of course, part of being humiliated daily by the provincial, hokey nature of these characters’ surroundings includes being oppressed by a steady flow of p.c. awkwardness. “Rumor has it that nondenominational Mr. Winter is on his way to the student lounge!” the dean announces over the loudspeakers in the same episode. When Mr. Winter wheels into the lounge with the eerie Greendale Community College “human being” mascot in tow, he bellows at the crowd, “Ha ha ha! Merrrry happy!”

But then, “Community” always does a great job of exposing the creepiness (not to mention the impossibility) of the utterly inoffensive, inclusive lifestyle. When Shirley invites the whole group to her Christmas party, she’s shocked to discover that none of the other members of the study group are Christian. Shirley quickly tries to save face by encouraging each of them to bring “a trinket or doodad from your philosophies” to the party, so Annie brings a little menorah (which Shirley promptly shoves into the Christmas tree to hide) and Pierce, who claims to be a Buddhist, brings a Buddha-shaped bong. The hopelessness of honoring our cultural differences has never been more clear.

But my favorite Möbius strip of p.c.-ness was offered in this priceless exchange between Jeff and Troy from an episode a few weeks back, in which Jeff tries to inspire Troy to play football again.

Jeff: I’m saying you’re a football player. It’s in your blood.

Troy: That’s racist!

Jeff: Your soul?

Troy: That’s racist.

Jeff: Your eyes?

Troy: That’s gay?

Jeff: That’s homophobic.

Troy: That’s black.

Jeff: That’s racist!

Troy: Damn.

Ultimately, though, just like “Men of a Certain Age,” what we find in “Community” are a scrappy group of friends, relying on their mutual support to pull them through this very trying (and humbling) time in their lives.

But then, humility, like friendship, does make it easier to look on the bright side. As Jeff once told Pierce, “If life is just a series of ridiculous attempts to be alive, you’re a hero to everything that’s ever lived.”

“OK, have a great weekend!” I replied.

Old people are a little checked out, it’s true. But we’re amiably comatose. This friendly state of autopilot is the only way we’ve found to manage our dashed dreams, our growing contempt for the culture, our creeping disappointments, our fibromyalgia. We grind our teeth at night and have vivid dreams about screwing cheerleaders. We resent the unflattering shape of matchstick jeans and daydream about gigantic claw-foot bathtubs we can’t afford. Our elbows hurt and our hair always looks bad and we secretly think all electropop sounds like Kraftwerk.

Recognizing the defeat in each other’s eyes, we smile warmly and say things like, “Of course! We’d love to,” and “Fantastic! I can’t wait!” because we recognize that everyone is flawed and just barely able to accept their own mediocrity or tolerate the frustrations of advancing age. The least we can do is be nice about it.

Youngish (under 35) skeptics will tell you that the men of “Men of a Certain Age” (premieres Dec. 6 on TNT) don’t talk like men at all, they talk like post-menopausal book club members. This show isn’t made for those youngish people, though. It’s made for the oldish (over 35) among us, who recognize the self-doubting, second-guessing, pot-bellied guys on their TV screen as a painfully palpable embodiments of the humiliations and tiny little ego victories of middle age.

The charms of “Men of a Certain Age,” like the charms of growing old, are lost on the common whippersnapper. While youngish people tend to reevaluate and reappraise their oldest friendships constantly, questioning whether this or that old friend is up to speed with just how advanced and mature and evolved the new “me” is, old people recognize that they haven’t actually advanced or matured or evolved much over the years. Thus do they humbly turn to each other, all rumpled feathers and matted fur, and sigh deeply. Less important than how far you’ve come, to old friends, is how far you haven’t come — and also, where you were before you got old. The fundamental importance of old friendships, plus that peculiar flavor of shared, comfy nastiness that bounces around between old friends — these make up the soft center of “Men of a Certain Age.” We grow old, we fail, we reproach the gods and grimace in pain, and then we meet to eat pie and complain at the same diner each week.

“Everybody’s like, ‘Oh, don’t give up on your dream, Terry!’” Terry (Scott Bakula) tells lifelong friends Joe (Ray Romano) and Owen (Andre Braugher) of his acting career. “What would’ve been so bad if I had, huh? We’re at this place in our lives, we’ve come all this way, and I’ve got nothing to show for it. You’ve got something — families, careers …”

“Families suck,” Joe replies. This harshness, which of course we don’t expect and don’t believe entirely (even from a divorced guy with an anxious teen son and a moody teen daughter), is what balances out the vulnerability of “Men of a Certain Age.” As hand-holdy as the talk can get, these guys are still just guys.

And if you think their confessional, supportive tone with each other comes out of left field, tell that to the wood fence contractor who volunteered to me last week that he’d been “journaling a lot” about his dad’s death, or the plumber who, apropos of nothing, discussed the struggles of raising teenagers. Middle-aged strangers tell each other emotional stuff out of the blue, and middle-aged friends tell each other everything. (The only exception may be certain varieties of hipster intellectual, who could literally chat about Sufjan Stevens’ latest album on their deathbeds instead of confessing the hopes, fears and regrets of their final hours.)

But the utter lack of hipness of “Men of a Certain Age,” the total lack of concern for what’s deemed cool and what isn’t, the complete disregard for matching the breakneck pace, the action, the swooning romances, the spitty outbursts, the shiny thrills of other TV shows, is exactly what makes this drama so lovable. Where other dramas would pack in more zaniness and intrigue in every available second of airtime, “Men of a Certain Age” rolls out the familiar, the ordinary, and locates poetic folds and sweet pockets of emotion therein: Joe’s employees are two pure-intentioned teenagers who are genuinely confused by his old-guy ways, and one slow-moving old Spanish-speaking guy, Carlos, who sleeps on the job but Joe still can’t stand to fire him (he lays him off then hires him back at the end of the first season). Owen works at a car dealership owned by his dad, a thoroughly mundane job that Owen dislikes most of the time, but also occasionally excels at. When he breaks away to work for another dealership at the start of the second season, his father is angry, but his respect and investment in his son finally start to emerge out of the fog of his constant hectoring. Even Terry, with his acting career, has encounters with the film industry that will strike anyone who’s actually worked production as hauntingly authentic, less focused as they are on stars and perks and glamour than on a steady flow of deeply humiliating interactions with the most unsavory sorts of egomaniacs imaginable. The big promises and untrustworthy allegiances Terry forms with one director (who refers to him, tellingly, as “T-bag”), only to have the rug pulled out from under him on a whim, echo some essential Hollywood experience that’s rarely portrayed with quite as much clarity and empathy.

But the big impact of this drama comes in its quietest moments: Joe and his son, Albert (Braedon Lemasters), are driving home from the movie theater after Albert has had an anxiety attack and insists that they leave. Suddenly, Albert wants to know if Joe is embarrassed by him. “Embarrassed? No, man. Never,” Joe says, his eyes starting to well up a little. “You’re my hero. I mean that. You’re doing great, man. I’m proud of you.” It’s simple dialogue, nothing fancy, nothing too clever or provocative, but that’s what gets you in the throat sometimes.

Like the oldish and crumpled and vaguely resentful among us, “Men of a Certain Age” casts aside sophistication and witty banter for the comfort of what’s real — even when what’s real is disappointments, missed connections and inadequate attempts to reassure. In accepting our frailty, we locate our souls.

You’re doing great, “Men of a Certain Age.” We’re proud of you.

Oh, and have a great weekend!