blame The Morning News for my obsession with The Wire. There we were in Woodstock, New York, on a retreat -- sitting out the afternoon rain in our pajamas, nursing hangovers with coffee and beer -- when someone pulled out the first six episodes of the fourth season. What else were we going to do? Read?

I didn't like it at first. It moved at a slower pace than I wanted, and gave few narrative concessions. It was like entering a fascinating conversation halfway through, waiting for the people talking to pause and politely catch you up, and realizing they just couldn't give a damn if you understood or not. I may have checked out around episode four. But a few things stayed with me: The classroom sequences, which were more real than anything I'd ever seen on TV; the harrowing killers, two Baltimore kids from around the way boarding up dead bodies in vacant buildings; the theme song, which I didn't know at the time had been written by Tom Waits. A few months later, I watched season one. And then season two. And then, and then. Here I am. A genuine obsessive.

The Salon staff is blogging about the fifth and final season every Sunday night. You'll find me there each week. And I have a recent story in Nerve explaining why The Wire is the sexiest show on television. A stretch? Perhaps. But it's a helluvan alternative to American Gladiators.