LOVE LETTERS NEVER SENT: THE WIRE

(Spoiler alert. If you haven't watched The Wire, don't read any further. In fact, you should probably get some Nikes, chug a phenobarbitol-vodka smoothie, get a plastic bag and wait for a spaceship. Or you could just watch it. I'll leave it up to you.)

Dear The Wire,

I almost called this "Dear Best Show Ever" but that seemed a little hyperbolic, despite its truth. It's been almost a year since you've been gone. You were the best thing to ever happen to TV. While The Sopranos had a nice run it became plagued by one too many dream sequences. While the critics drooled all over you like the one decent looking girl at a sausage party, the major awards ignored you. To paraphrase A Tribe Called Quest's Phife Dawg, you never let a statue tell you how nice you were.

I knew you were leaving, which was nice of you...you know, not to leave me high and dry. Plus, nothing good lasts forever (except for The Simpsons and that's debatable). You left on your own terms before you got silly (again, see The Sopranos) With your rich characters and mesmerizing storylines, they'll never be another like you. I loved the way you portrayed Baltimore as if it were a body and the separate entities (criminals, cops, government, institutions) were all different organs that kept each other and ultimately the city still going.

I miss Jimmy McNulty with his good heart and bad decision-making (not too mention his ever-present Jameson bottle)

I miss Lester Freamon and his quiet brilliance.

I miss Herc and his meatheaded good intentions.

I miss Commissioner Rawls with his covert life and his virulent tirades towards McNulty.

I miss the cold-blooded genius of Marlo Stanfield.

I miss the androgynous thuggery of Snoop and the strong silence of Chris Partlow.

I miss Omar Little and his half-Robin Hood/half-ronin tactics.

I miss the diplomacy Proposition Joe.

I miss the evolution of Prez from a trigger-happy cop to a teacher trying to make a difference.

Sheeeit, I even miss Senator Clay Davis.

I even miss you, despite that you nearly killed every character I had developed any kind of affection for. I guess you call that "the rub."

Really, I could go on and on. But I shouldn't. You're not coming back. Maybe that's a good thing. Heaven forbid we wind up in some kind of weird dream sequence with Rawls and Omar in bed together.