For the poor soul under pressure—you and me and all of us—to disappear is alluring; when life swings a cloak or moment of invisibility over you, when you can slide beneath the boil and swell of things, a little bit of hiding can be one of life’s great pleasures.

What scared me about the show, which was puerile, was that the writer, Mike White, also didn’t seem to give a fuck about redemption, or justice; neither did a good portion of its audience, which mistook the show for a takedown of the rich, when it was, instead, an irresponsible hall pass of the sort we really can’t afford to be handing out right now.