Of course, quite a few of us were rooting for Kevin Gillespie, 26, the soft-spoken, sweet, but still salty chef who won the judges over time and again with his far more simple Southern cooking. Compared to the brotherly gastro-metaphysics flashing and banging around nearby, Kevin's dishes were humble acts of love, not arrogant culinary pyrotechnics.

But this is television, and no one made better television (or, arguably, better dishes) than Michael. He even came armed with a joke when the judges asked each cheftestant to explain why he wanted to be Top Chef.

"I felt like I expressed my cuisine," said Bryan, rather limply. "And I hope that that's good enough for the win." Bryan's comments, like his food, lack seasoning.

"I just don't want Bryan to be Top Chef." Michael quipped, and everyone laughed heartily.

Then the kicker: "Food is me. It's how I express myself. My emotion is in it," Michael told the judges quite sincerely. "This is all I've ever done in my whole life, it's all I know how to do, it's all I'll ever do. I love what I do. That's it."

Kevin said he loved what he did, too … but it was all over. The judges agreed that Kevin had an off night. They did seem to love Bryan's dishes, and the editing didn't give us enough of a sense of what they thought gave Michael the edge over Bryan. This is one of the flaws of "Top Chef": Sometimes the editing of the judges' discussions is so extreme that it's impossible to tell what they thought of anything, beyond summarizing the major mistakes we already knew about from the earlier footage.

"I can't think of a prouder moment probably in both of our lives than right now," Bryan told the judges right before his brother gave him one last culinary wedgie for the road. "I think we accomplished what we set out to accomplish."

Well, your baby brother did anyway. Padma told Michael he was the winner, then Michael unexpectedly wept like a baby. Then it was his turn to be magnanimous. "I'm more proud of the fact that Bryan and I made it all the way to the end than I am about winning the entire competition. It was probably one of the hardest moments of our lives. I wish both of us could win."

Oh, please. Where do you think we've been all season, dude? We've been right here, eating beans out of a can while you shoved your brother's face in his own goat cheese ravioli with hen of the woods, delicata squash and bronze fennel!

We certainly didn't wish both brothers could win. We were sort of hoping Kevin could win. But we suspected that the more arrogant, risk-taking brother would take home the title of "Top Chef" and the $125,000 prize. That's just the way the world works, isn't it? The sexier, more aggressive little whippersnapper always gets the big bag of cash and the love/hate of an entire nation.

But then, his pressed chicken with calamari noodles did look pretty delicious, too.

Subtle parents, subtle teachers, subtle businesspeople, subtle leaders are passed over daily in search of something brighter and shinier and more full of obvious, ham-handed promise. We have grown into an insecure nation filled with jittery souls who seek the big, showy reassurances of corporate and commercial entities full of win-win scenarios. We don't want to weight costs against benefits with smart, balanced adults. We think the word "compromise" means we'll have to give up some of our toys. We are impatient children who want Disney princesses as mommies, Iron Man as daddies, and Barney the Dinosaur in the White House.

Son goes down

FX's "Sons of Anarchy" could never really be described as nuanced or sly, but it was still difficult not to hold out hope that, in the show's second season finale, we might see all of these warring criminal factions clash in some interesting new way. Instead, we have Agent Stahl (Ally Walker) as the root of all evil yet again (Hello, first season finale), Gemma (Katey Sagal) as the half-baked avenger, and one big, flashy season-ending twist.

But then, what do you expect from the show that saw our hero Jax (Charlie Hunnam) making sweet love to his doctor girlfriend Tara (Maggie Siff) minutes after killing her stalker in cold blood, the man's still-warm body lying a few feet from where they did the deed?

This season's finale looked interesting enough at first. Agent Stahl impulsively shoots Eddie (Callard Harris) in the back as he's trying to escape her. Oops. Then she sits in the house wondering how to clean up the mess. In walks Polly Zobelle (Sarah Jones), Eddie's girlfriend and the woman who lured Gemma into the van so she could be gang-raped by her father's thugs. Polly finds Eddie dead. Gemma,who followed Polly there, walks in and shoots her. Stahl comes out from hiding, tosses Gemma the gun that killed Eddie so she can pin Gemma with both murders. She tells Gemma she'd give her a little time to make a run for it.

Cameron (Jamie McShane) hears that his son Eddie has been murdered by Gemma. He shows up at the house and finds Tara and Half Sack (Johnny Lewis), who were looking for Gemma. He takes a knife and threatens to kill Abel, Jax's baby son, to avenge his son's death at Gemma's hands. Half Sack makes a move to save the baby, and Cameron stabs him in the chest as Tara looks on sobbing.

Cameron dashes out of the house with Abel. Shoves the baby in the car. Tara phones Jax. Jax and the rest of the gang have Ethan Zobelle (Adam Arkin), the root of all evil, cornered at last, and he's no longer surrounded by schoolchildren. But instead of walking right in and blowing him away, then hopping on their motorcycles, they all ride off. Couldn't one or two guys stay and finish him off? These guys aren't exactly stealthy about their criminal acts, after all. But no, they all shake their heads then ride off in pursuit of Cameron and Abel. Jax dashes toward the docks where Cameron's boat was tied, but it's too late! Cameron is speeding away with Jax's baby boy! Jax collapses in a heap as Clay tries to hold him up. Get it? Fathers and sons, people! Sons! Get it?!!

See how subtlety separates good shows from bad ones? "Sons of Anarchy" is frustrating, because it's almost a really good show. Great acting, smart dialogue, great cinematography. But then someone decides they'll threaten to stab a baby. On "the Sopranos," all you need is a crushed baby car seat in the backseat of an SUV to demonstrate what a reckless asshole Christopher is. On "The Shield" it would push it a little further, with Vic Mackey's wife and child being locked in a storage container to keep them out of harm's way (although of course it doesn't look that way to Mackey).

But "Sons of Anarchy" makes no attempt at subtlety. While you might suspect that Kurt Sutter and his writers are crafty enough to pull it off, they instead opt for dazzling showdowns, gratuitous bloody fights, and half-crazed mourning daddies pulling knives on little babies. Of course, then there's the fact that the members of the Sons travel through town with AK-47s strapped to their backs like extras in a "Terminator" movie, then line up on the main drag downtown and glare at the Mayans across the street while the cops look on. What is this, a post-apocalyptic Roger Corman flick?

The baby-stealing is bad, though. This means that, what, we're going to worry about the welfare of a 6-month-old for the first half of the show's third season? We're going to see Tara and Jax torn apart by guilt and depression? This is the sort of senseless sensationalism that just makes shows crappy. It's the medical helicopter that crashes right on top of Romano on the season finale of "ER." This is the very definition of the shark jump, an act that points that a show's writers no longer have a sense of how to keep things interesting without turning the show into a live Vegas act where characters stab each other with butcher knives and bite the heads off chickens and eat them. This show has so much potential, but it was born to jump sharks -- they are all on motorcycles, after all. Even Fonzie himself, with his comb-slicked hair and his leather jacket, is more subtle than the Sons.

Children of the cornball

"Glee" (9 p.m. Wednesdays on Fox) is another show that has stumbled since its premiere. The wit and nastiness are still there, but we're increasingly drawn into extended musical numbers with all of the charms of … well, actual show choir performances. This makes watching "Glee" a lot like tolerating the company of a gaggle of self-adoring showoff high school kids, kids who sing "Poker Face" at the top of their lungs and speak in one or two-word phrases like "Hellooo?" and "Really?" and "Done that." And ... you know. Done that.

Let's be honest. As great as Rachel (Lea Michele) is in many ways, she's becoming a problem. She performs a solo at least once every other episode, and, well, it's not entirely enjoyable to watch her croon tunes like "On My Own" from "Les Miserables" and "Don't Rain on My Parade" from "Funny Girl" and "Taking Chances" by Celine Dion while the cameras circle her face, over and over, for dramatic effect. What's worse, though, is seeing Will Schuster (Matthew Morrison) sing constantly. Morrison is perfect for the role of glee club director, but his performances always seem to devolve into boy band yuckiness: the hunchy shoulders, the little snapping fingers, the funky white boy shuffling feet. And last week, in place of interesting choreography, we watched the entire glee club don blue pajamas and bounce up and down on mattresses while singing a disturbingly chirpy version of Van Halen's "Jump." I'm sure that's enjoyable to some attic full of shrooming misfits somewhere who tuned in by accident, but to me, these numbers are getting more and more literal and less artful each week.

And the sound mix on "Glee" is pure immaculately conceived pop fakeness: Artificially tuned notes, a sterilized, vacuumy sonic landscape, perfectly blended vocal parts. Why not give us a little bit of grunge and grime and noise, so we can appreciate these voices? One thing that true show choir fans love is the earnest sound of teenage voices, blending together in that fragile, sweet way, warbling and echoing out into a big auditorium. But there's no organic echo on "Glee," no warbling, nothing that feels heartfelt or the least bit wobbly. With all of the post-production sterilization here, these kids sound more like Kraftwerk.

And try this on for Not Remotely Subtle: Rachel develops an unexpected crush on Mr. Schuster, then, in order to explain that he's not into her, Mr. Schuster sings a neutered version of the Police's "Don't Stand So Close to Me" mashed together with "Young Girl." The results truly stretch the limits of achingly bad televised musical numbers, pulling a close victory over that almost-as-ludicrous and deeply dorky rendition of Madonna's "Papa Don't Preach" by Quinn Fabray (Dianna Agron).

The dialogue, although mostly clever, occasionally veers into the same obvious territory. Take this really bad exchange between Finn (Cory Monteith) and Kurt (Chris Colfer) about Finn's plan to tell Quinn's parents that she's pregnant with his baby.

Finn: My father was brave enough to fight in some desert thousands of miles away, and I can't even go over to Dudley Road and tell the Fabrays the truth.

Kurt: Your father didn't charge into the breach empty-handed, he had a weapon.

Finn: You think I should bring a gun?

Kurt: No, I think you should use your greatest weapon: Your voice.

No, please, bring a gun instead. We need it.

Of course, 13-year-olds still seem to love this show, as I would if I were 13 years old and had as much use for subtlety as I had for kale or long-winded historical novels. In fact, you know what one of my favorite songs was when I was 13 years old? "Don't Stand So Close to Me" by the Police.

So I suppose "Glee" successfully caters to its teenage demographic. Personally, though, I say: Make some odd musical choices, experiment with a more organic, noisy sound, throw in some cool choreography beyond jazz hands and ass shaking, and give Sue Sylvester (Jane Lynch) something a little more substantive as a motive than "taking down the Glee Club." Artistically, this show is capable of becoming truly great. It might mean lengthening its production schedule so that more complicated numbers can be integrated into each show, but imagine how much brilliance could be packed into an hour, if the show's producers cast aside the bubble gum pop and predictable oldies for a few more eclectic choices? No need to pull a knife on the baby over and over again. You have our attention, you have the ratings. Now it's time to get a little weird. 

Yes, I know. This is Fox we're talking about, not the local arts council run by a colorful lady named Gretta with a penchant for George Bernard Shaw and Gilbert and Sullivan's back catalog (not that they were considered all that subtle in their own day). Still, in a world ruled by hearsay, cellphone footage and blaring headlines in 50 point, hot pink font, it's hard not to long for a little restraint.

But like a good joke, the truth depends on tone. If you're at all uncomfortable with flatly stating the facts, you're bound to confuse and scare people. When spoken by the jittery, the needy, the confused and the bitter, the truth is encountered as a ploy, a blunt weapon or a cry for help. Yet with a confident, self-possessed delivery, the truth sounds more like a bit of helpful information, paired with an unexpected invitation to cast aside pretense and speak from the soul.

With a relaxed tone and a little eye contact, the truth can be daring, even intoxicating. Hmm, your words are strangely factual and accurate. Are you trying to flirt with me? Is that the truth in your pocket, or are you just happy to see me?

Truthiness becomes him

Just look at dashing Simon Baker of "The Mentalist" (10 p.m. Thursdays). Imagine having that hair, those eyes, that smile, and that calm, confident tone as you explain everyone around you to themselves. Armed with such gifts, I'd be tempted to lead a small nation to war.

I bet it's tough to resist the urge to use your supernatural good looks and otherworldly charm for evil instead of good. Baker seems to pull it off -- unless you consider appearing on a CBS procedural drama a crime (which many do).

But while the other CBS procedurals mill about, trying to impress each other by donning a see-through slip and talking to dead people ("The Ghost Whisperer"), solving bizarre crimes involving furries and syrup of ipecac ("CSI"), or just strutting around in Navy dress uniforms, clearing their throats and clenching their strong jaws ("NCIS"), "The Mentalist" relies almost entirely on Baker's magnetism -- which might explain why gullible old ladies and young people alike are so smitten with the show. Last week it won the highest ratings in a crowded Thursday night lineup, and TNT just bought its syndication rights.

Now, let's just be honest. Procedural dramas are the dog-eared bestselling mystery paperbacks of the TV lineup, and personally, I've never been a huge fan of those sorts of books. Staying tuned to see the next string of clues enticingly unveiled feels about as cheap as getting drawn into a striptease just because the girl onstage takes a very, very long time to pull off her long white gloves.

Nonetheless, "The Mentalist" is at least reasonably snappy, compared to some of its dimwitted, unrealistic procedural brethren. The cast is stronger than most, from Robin Tunney as detective Lisbon, to (until last week) Gregory Itzin as Lisbon and Baker's boss, agent Virgil Minelli. (Itzin is the Nixon look-alike who also plays Very, Very Bad President Charles Logan on "24.") The story lines sometimes stretch credulity: In one episode, Lisbon is suspected of killing a pedophile. In another, the nanny did it! But instead of wandering around with terrible one-liners stolen from Steven Seagal movies, the dialogue is moderately thoughtful.

And "The Mentalist" has flair. One might even say that this show has gratuitous flair. Take this exchange between soon-to-retire agent Minelli and a cheesy reporter in the wake of a mysterious attack that left three detectives dead and one in critical condition.

Agent Minelli: We will not rest until we bring the perpetrator to justice.

News reporter: Special agent Minelli, our condolences. Would you describe your feelings at this terrible time?

Agent Minelli: Wow. Meredith, that's … You know, for eight years I've put up with the idiotic questions of the media, and I've never said squat. But today, I must tell you, Meredith, you've really set a new standard in horse's assery. You people have no concept of what we do. We go into dark, horrible places, alone and afraid, and we do it with no money, broken-down vehicles, computers that have more viruses than a $10 whore. How? Good people. And I lost three good people today, and a fourth who's in critical condition, and you ask me how I'm feeling? I'm feeling sad, you moron. Any other questions?

This is the point where we sink our teeth into "The Mentalist's" cheese-filled crust: When the show's writers have an opportunity to take an ordinary scene and amp up the stakes with melodramatic outbursts, emotional manipulation and egotistical grandstanding, they just can't resist. But then, any show that gives its disturbingly smooth lead character, Patrick Jane (Baker), the ability to peer straight into men's souls in an instant isn't exactly aiming for subtlety. And that's not to mention the show's continual focus on Jane's tragic back story, which involves the brutal murder of his wife and daughter at the hands of a serial killer named Red John. Red John left a big not-so-smiley face on the wall in blood for Jane to find -- just like the Manson murders, only creepier, dude!

The cheese started oozing out of control last week when, right after a few second-season regulars are brutally murdered and a fourth, CBI agent Sam Bosco (Terry Kinney), lands in the hospital, right after Minelli breaks character and refers to morons and horse's assery and $10 whores at a press conference (yes, yes, we get it -- he's been pushed to the brink!), Jane tries to unplug Bosco's morphine drip so Bosco can tell Jane his latest lead on Red John before he dies. (Yes, Red John is behind this!)

Then we discover that Rebecca, Bosco's frumpy assistant, was the one who gunned down Bosco's men and injured Bosco, and she was … acting out of love for Red John! In that same old repeat of "Silence of the Lambs" we've been seeing for the past trillion years, a chained Rebecca taunts Jane. "Until your wife and your daughter were killed, you were blind, weren't you? You were living an illusion. Red John opened your eyes, and now you see the world for what it truly is."

Jane looks shocked and confused. Hmm. I like Jane better when he's playful and slightly condescending. "I got rid of Bosco and his team so that you could have the case back," Rebecca adds. "Red John misses you. And it's what you wanted, too, isn't it?"

Jane feels guilty. Agent Minelli packs up and takes off. Boy, is he menacing! Is Agent Minelli Red John? And now here's Lisbon telling Bosco, who's sitting up and talking like he's merely spending the afternoon at a day spa, that the doctors think he's going to die. Since he's on his deathbed, Bosco figures he'll complete the cliché and tell Lisbon that he loves her. Lisbon tearily tells Bosco she loves him, too. (There's no way she really loves him, right? But he's about to die and ratings are skyrocketing, so what the hell?)

Suddenly Bosco is short of breath! Is he allergic to the full-body seaweed wrap? Now he can only talk in a whisper … he's fading fast! He asks to see Jane! He whispers something in Jane's ear. Something about Lisbon? Red John? That's it, he's gone! Bosco dies in Patrick Jane's arms, probably whispering about Red John!

Don't you ever wonder about people on TV who don't mention their parents or wife or kids in their dying moments, but instead gasp out something crucial about a mysterious unsolved crime or about our handsome and fearless lead character and his concerns and fears? How sad, that a person could view their own life as a poignant subplot in someone else's epic story.

In short, on Thursday, "The Mentalist" veered from gratuitous flair to gratuitous gratuitousness. Fans of the show proclaimed it one of the best episodes ever, and maybe that's understandable, since the storytelling on this show isn't typically all that complex or intriguing. But if that cavalcade of sensationalistic clichés is the best "The Mentalist" has to offer? Well, why not just flip over to "CSI: Miami" and watch Horatio Caine (David Caruso) don mirrored sunglasses and growl into the sepia-toned middle distance?

Oh, yeah. David Caruso doesn't have the charm to lead a small village into mild hand-to-hand combat.

Even so, if Red John is some central narrative device on "The Mentalist," doesn't that suggest that Jane will be hot on his trail forever? That's like a five-year striptease where the pretty lady takes three months to peel off her parka. Simon Baker is good, but he's not that good.

Secrets and lies

Tim Roth is almost that good. Cal Lightman (Roth), the highly paid truffle pig of lies at the center of "Lie to Me" (9 p.m. Mondays), is also a more dynamically written, complicated, subtle character than Patrick Jane. Yes, he had some tough times as a criminal and did some shit in Bosnia and who knows what else, really? But being stalked by a serial killer who paints on the walls in blood? Even these writers, who have to keep the bloodthirsty hounds at Fox satisfied, have more restraint than that.

That said, "Lie to Me" is all about finding some entry point into the juiciest, most suspenseful search for truthiness possible. Instead of solving crimes week after week, Lightman bounces around from sniffing out a man's biological parents to getting to the bottom of a case of high school bullying to playing high-stakes poker with a roomful of glowering thugs. If this show indulges in gratuitous flair, it's in the realm of playful subplots: Lightman stops by a singles mixer, hits on a recent divorcee in order to report back to her ex on whether she cheated during their marriage, and hurls a few smooth lines about room service and warm honey at an uninterested hottie along the way. Realistically, the hottie looks unimpressed before Tim Roth looks her right in the eye and delivers his lines with casual confidence. Hmm, your words are bold, yet oddly accurate. Take my pants off, her face seems to say.

But naturally, instead of hopping into the sack with her, Lightman pines for his partner Gillian Foster (Kelli Williams). After all, if Lightman were in the lie-detecting business for the cheap thrills, he'd be a pro poker player or a CIA operative. But Lightman wants to help people.

Not that that makes him boring. On the contrary, Lightman's lines always feel spontaneous and unexpected, thanks in no small part to Roth's jaunty approach to the role. The earnestness of his team provides a nice foil for his mirthful quips.

"We're a team, and you risked your life without letting us help you," Foster tells Lightman during a staff intervention aimed at getting Lightman to stop pulling one-man high-wire acts without a net. Lightman isn't willing to make a single concession, or even discuss it.

Reynolds: Where does that leave us?

Lightman: That leaves you all fired.

Torres: You've gotta be kidding! I didn't even want to do this intervention.

Lightman: Just you then, just you are fired, for having no spine!

Torres: I don't believe this.

Lightman: Good, because I'm lying. Oh, did your emotions get in the way? You should really work on that.

Shawn Ryan, creator of "The Shield," joined the staff of "Lie to Me" in its second season, apparently to pump a little action into the story lines, and since then things have gotten a little more flashy and fast-paced than before: Lightman is pulled into a criminal circle by his double-dealing best buddy! Lightman is held hostage by a maniac with a gun! Lightman chokes a lady with his bare hands, Jack Bauer-style!

Last week may have been the splashiest but also the least interesting episode of the season: Lightman flies to Afghanistan to interrogate a suspected American member of the Taliban in order to determine where two Marines are being held hostage. There's an extended macho standoff with the mysterious man who turns out to be a discarded low-level spy for the U.S. government. The man martyrs himself on a whim, Lightman flies to Iowa City to inform the man's parents of his role (since the U.S. government won't do it!), then he flies back to D.C. in time to catch the aftermath of the office Christmas party, which was set to occur three days after he left. Maybe that timeline is possible if you're flying on some Air Force jet, maybe it's not, but the whole plot was over the top, like a Tom Clancy novel miniaturized to fit one hour of broadcast time.

But then, blaming procedurals for their Bruckheimerian embellishments is like blaming bestsellers for their shiny covers and their shouting, 50-point typefaces. Besides, procedurals have to combine so many different elements to keep audiences hooked these days: Pumping out fresh, dynamic plotlines that still satisfy, building up the suspense, exploring season-long narrative arcs and revealing new layers about the lead characters. Is it any wonder producers occasionally turn to falling bombs, violent interrogation, driving beats, unexpected murders, deathbed confessionals and dry ice machines?

Playing "House" isn't exactly easy, either. It's no small feat to make the quirks and odd tics of blustery, half-crazy, egocentric know-it-alls fresh and appealing. We've seen this shtick before, and we're quick to grow weary of its particular folds: Nutjob expert looks unsuspecting bystander in the eye, sees something interesting, speaks openly about it, causing blushing, stuttering confusion. To see how many times this scene plays out on television, you'd think that TV dramas were written by a gaggle of smart but misunderstood individuals who long to find someone in the world who's wise enough to see right through them and brash enough to tell them what they see.

Don't worry, fair TV writer. I can see right through to your soul: You want a nap, some unconditional love and a glazed doughnut the size of your head. Yes, behind our small talk and our bullshit and our lies, we're all exactly the same! 

The behind-the-scenes bits from the reunion plot have proven entertaining all season, particularly when they didn't involve some tiff with Larry David that we've seen a million times before. Larry's spat with Julia Louis-Dreyfus over water stains on her antiques fell into repetitive territory, of course. (And how many times can Suzie call Larry an asshole and throw him out of her house?)

Having said that, the running lines "Do you respect wood?" and Jerry's bit about the absurdity of the segue "Having said that …" both captured that distinctly Seinfeldian flair we all know and miss so desperately. The scene where Larry and Jerry marvel over Jason Alexander's pretentious vanity book "Acting Without Acting" demonstrated the more nuanced and (somewhat paradoxically) more punch line-driven tone that comes from Jerry's comic stylings and Jason's, well, acting without acting, getting thrown into the mix.

 

In fact, the reunion-focused episodes of "Curb" this season have demonstrated just how funny this show could be if its writers relied more on relatable observations of modern behavior (constant texting by young kids, the vanity of actors) and less on gripes about tipping, personal favors and perceived insults (angry waiters, angry maitre d's, angry coffee guys) that lead to the shouting matches. Even the predictable setup of Jason borrowing Larry's pen last week paid off in spades when Jerry heard about Jason's indiscretions with the pen, shook his head and told Larry, "You don't lend Jason anything, anything that can be ... inserted."

On last week's episode, when several characters reacted to Larry's scatological reference to a kid's rash with stunned silence, culminating in a doctor leaving the room with Larry and quietly instructing his nurse to call the cops, we got a glimpse of how a little restraint allows the show's humor to shine through. Larry was being a jerk, as usual, but the reactions were subtle and the situation was at least somewhat familiar. (I particularly loved the scene where we glimpse Larry texting to his young fan, "NO I DON'T WATCH WIZARDS OF WAVERLY PLACE, I'M AN ADULT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!")

But even after last week's surprisingly strong episode, the finale didn't disappoint, from Larry's jealousy over the smug camaraderie between Cheryl and Jason to his larger-than-life imitation of George. The best scene, though, had to be this classic diner exchange between Jerry and George, after George's estranged wife Amanda is gone for good.

George: Well, I'll never meet anyone else again.

Jerry: Probably not.

George: Meeting is hard.

Jerry: Meeting is hard. Why can't you meet?

George: Can't meet! Why is that?

Jerry: This is what single people are thinking about the minute they wake up in the morning. And yet we're surrounded by people, they're right next to us, on the bus, on the street! But we can't meet them.

George: Why won't they meet us?

Jerry: Because strangers have a bad reputation.

George: A few bad strangers have ruined it for the rest of us!

Jerry: It's unfortunate.

We'll never meet two jackasses we love this much again, will we? Surely there's some government-mandated way to force them to keep producing episodes, for the good of the nation!

But bringing the best sitcom of all time back from the dead is hard. Why is that? Why won't they come back for us? Because reunions and revivals and comedic resuscitations have a bad reputation. A few crappy reunion specials have ruined it for the rest of us!

Having said that, this revisited, pseudo-"Seinfeld" reunion was about as fun and as satisfying as any "Seinfeld" reunion could be, and for that, Larry and Jerry and the rest have our deepest thanks. 

Maybe if we were loaded and had lots of handservants to keep us organized and vacuum our floors and watch our kids, then we could lounge about, chain-smoking and questioning authority and such. Surely filthy rich capitalists have the resources for extracurricular sticking-it-to-the-man types of activities. Yes, once we're landed gentry, then we can challenge the dominant paradigm at our leisure, just like Karl Marx and his tony surrealist friends!

In the meantime, though, we'll be scrubbing out these goddamn laundry stains, and we'll leave telling truth to power to the powerful.

Son of a gun

But you know what's even more chafing and tedious than causeless rebellion? The preening and posturing of self-proclaimed, causeless rebels. Unfocused irritation with the straight life is all well and good -- who doesn't quietly seethe at the water cooler of life, or cringe and claw at the scratchy fabric of the societal necktie? We all walk around, secretly hating each other for conforming to the rules and social cues of some odious "other" demographic, after all. We spy a gigantic SUV and lament the curse of magnetic cause ribbons and terrible Tex-Mex restaurants and water parks filled with obese children weaned on blue slushies. We glimpse a Birkenstock and grit our teeth to think of tedious free-range yuppies stocking up on overpriced backpacks with built-in espresso machines at REI, humming "Fire on the Mountain" while thumbing through sub-zero goose-down sleeping bags to take car camping in Joshua Tree.

We all quietly, secretly think of ourselves as rebels, while dismissing those around us as blind members of the herd. Our choices are independent and quirky, while theirs are clearly byproducts of some pathetic desire to fit in.

But to create a lifestyle around it? To loudly, actively proclaim yourself a rebel? To demonstrate your anti-everything status with such clichéd, conformist signifiers as a leather jacket, a Harley-Davidson motorcycle, a pointy goatee, and a penchant for chicks in cutoff jeans? That's just silly.

Maybe my allergic reaction to self-styled, flag-waving rebellion is what keeps me from wholeheartedly embracing FX's "Sons of Anarchy" (10 p.m. Tuesdays). Maybe, having grown up in the South, I associate biker gang stylings with the sorts of kids who drove growly Trans Ams with rebel flags hanging from the rearview mirrors and kept baseball bats in the back seat in case of trouble. It's hard to be romantic about a subculture that, for me, calls to mind the red mud of man-made lakes, filled to the brim with big, hollering, hairy men in Day-Glo lime green swim trunks, tossing back cans of Bud while roaring around on their jet skis.

But in its second season, "Sons of Anarchy" has amassed solid ratings, a vocal fan base, and a growing heap of critical acclaim. This success comes in part from the fact that show creator Kurt Sutter has slowly but surely managed to bring some of his experience from "The Shield" into play, presenting a few more warring factions this season -- the Mayans (Mexican bikers), the League of American Nationalists (white supremacists), the local cops (sometimes corrupt, sometimes not), the Feds (always sneaky and remorseless), the IRA (ruthless but idealistic in their own ways) -- and creating slightly more dramatic stories from the whole mix.

But more often than not, the showdowns on "Sons of Anarchy" amount to a simple shoving match: One faction does something bad, their enemies do something worse, the first group is forced to raise the stakes, etc. The running question -- "How are we going to address this latest insult or attack?" -- is revisited over and over again. Wizened bikers stroke their gray goatees. Hellboy paces and growls (that's Clay Morrow, the big boss of SOA, played by Ron Perlman). Hellboy's blond stepson, Jax (Charlie Hunnam), winces and questions his authority-questioning paternal figure, then retreats to the roof to read his dead father's manifesto about turning the SOA away from their gun peddling and violence, toward their original focus, something vague about living wild and free and not paying your parking tickets in a timely fashion.

But as Jax sulks and sweats the small stuff, looking like Little Lord Fauntleroy among the grizzly, scarred faces at the SOA clubhouse, what's going on in his pretty head? It's tough to say. What does Hellboy have on his mind? No telling, really. Even Tara (Maggie Siff), Jax's pretty doctor girlfriend, has lately fallen in line with the gun-toting rebel lifestyle without many protests or complaints, even when her string-pulling on behalf of her rebel associates looks like it might get her fired. Sure, we're supposed to understand that when Jax murdered her stalker ex (Jay Karnes), he made her his lady. Yes, we should recognize that, when Tara helped Gemma (Katey Sagal) in the wake of her brutal rape at the hands of kingpin Ethan Zobelle (Adam Arkin) and the white supremacists, the two became bonded in their shared secret (and shared victimization). Even so, thoughtful, multidimensional character explorations aren't really in the cards here.

Which would be fine -- "The Shield" and "The Sopranos" had plenty of characters who were simply self-interested thugs, after all. But let's face it, the gun business really isn't as interesting as the New Jersey mob or as riveting as corrupt factions in the Farmington police department. The rival gangs on "Sons of Anarchy" are too similar, seething thug characters are everywhere, and the strategies of each group aren't thoughtful or unexpected enough to hold our interest. On "The Shield," even when Vic Mackey backed himself into a mess of conflicting entanglements, at the end of almost every episode he was holding a trump card. I don't know how the writers pulled that off, but it made the show consistently satisfying. On "Sons of Anarchy" no one seems to have an ace in the hole, ever. Jax clashes with Clay, the Feds want Zobelle but Clay and Jax won't play, SOA member Chibs gives in to Agent Stahl when his IRA boss taunts him about sleeping with his daughter, but it doesn't add up or surprise us enough.

That said, the last two episodes have shown a little more promise in terms of unpredictability. After weeks of push and pull between Feds and cops and Mayans and white supremacists and Zobelle, we finally get into a powder keg situation: Seeing that her son Jax is about to go nomad (or leave the SOA behind and strike out on his own), Gemma (Katie Sagal) reveals to her husband, Clay, and to Jax that she was raped by the white supremacists. Hellboy and Lord Fauntleroy wince, shake their heads, engage in a manly show of solidarity. It's a good scene, really -- these actors are fantastic -- but the subtextual insult of Despoiling Our Bitches is a little creepy. Gemma doesn't help matters much by spelling it all out for us later.

Gemma: Clay's never gonna want to be inside something that's been ripped up like me.

Tara: Jesus Christ, Gemma. Clay loves you.

Gemma: Love don't mean shit. Men need to own their pussy. His has been violated. He'll find another. That's what they do.

By the end of the episode, of course, Clay demonstrates that he's still enthusiastic about Gemma's recyclables, but I haven't moved on so easily: The line "Men need to own their pussy" rings through my head like a really bad Allman Brothers song.

But then, I'm guessing that your own personal love or hate for "Sons of Anarchy" will be about as objective as your love or hate for the Allman Brothers. That's just the kind of show this is: thugs, machismo and men who need to own their pussy, in the hands of good writers and talented actors. You watch, you cheer, you cry, you cringe.

On the other hand, "Sons of Anarchy" is one of the only reasonably entertaining dramas on TV right now that isn't about cops, lawyers or hospitals, a fact that makes the current groundswell of enthusiasm for this story a little more understandable. I only hope that Jax and the club have some clever tricks up their sleeves in the last two episodes. How will they take down Zobelle, and will they manage to get a little revenge on nasty Agent Stahl while they're at it? Will Chibs knock his nemesis Jimmy O for a loop? Somehow I suspect that after the darkness plaguing SOA in its second season, there's going to be some bittersweet revenge in the mix in the season finale. I just hope it's more satisfying than a shoving match.