Singled Out: Who Cares Who Killed Jenny Schecter?

Last week certainly witnessed one of the most memorable turning points in American history that none of us is about to forget any time soon. Hallmarked by a monumental inauguration -- a highly anticipated historical premiere of sorts -- it was ultimately a week celebrating the beginning of the end. And evidently, in light of such an epical benchmark moment, the burning question on everybody's lips is "where were you on L Word Season Finale Premiere day?"

I  confess! I totally exercised my industry connection privileges and shamelessly pulled my "publicist" card to by-pass, indeed, the gruesome lines and avoid the suffocating crowds. And as expected, I had the prestigious and much appreciated VIP honor to be exactly where I wanted to be:  AT HOME!

All prepped up for an exquisitely glamorous evening with none other than "moi," I graced the imaginary red carpet of my living room wearing Victoria Secret pajama pants with my favorite Marc Jacobs gray T-shirt escorted by my perfectly groomed white as snow canine stud, George Michael, and took my exclusive reserved seat on my comfy leather couch. With some gourmet air-popcorn I prepared with utmost cooking delicatessen passion and a very refreshingly bubbly glass of diet coke -- no ice, of course, I am European! -- I turned myself into a stellar vegetable in front of my TV screen and proceeded to attend to the obvious task of that Sunday, January 15, in the year 2009, namely watching "The Princess Diaries" with my femme fatale du jour Anne Hathaway.

Sure I was cordially invited to the plethora of L Word lesbian parties that infested West Hollywood on that very special world premiere evening. But honestly, at my age, unless I get personally invited by the whole cast -- you know I can't say no to Jennifer Beals --  putting on my social butterfly accoutrement becomes way too industrious and an investment of my time that is simply not conducive to any beneficial returns. Let's just say that it would have been several wasted hours of my life I would never get back -- and I mean that in the literal as well metaphorical sense of the word "wasted."

Yes, I am glad I listened to my better judgment for once, because the next day the major Facebook breaking news from most of my same-age friends hailed the same headline: Survivors of L Word Inauguration Ball Shockingly Confirm, Yes We Can(NOT) Hang With Twenty-Something Year Olds Anymore. I am rolling my eyes audibly because I hate to say it but I told them so!

Seriously, how can our 21 year-old selves going on 40 dare to compete with a bunch of annoyingly young, Red Bull energized, provocatively dolled up lesbian wannabe fashionistas, whose internal alcohol tank  far exceeds the gallons' capacity of an airplane, Nevermind our pathetically sad, age-deteriorating, carcasses?   

I got news for you, these kids can't be dethroned. And the next day hangover is not only unbearably brutal, but so not worth it. There, I said it! I can't party like an animal anymore. My body, although in perfect physical fitness condition, has long ago put a final veto on it successfully sabotaging and boycotting my many stubborn attempts at a reversal of fortune.

Mind you, I did put myself through the excruciating agony of watching the first episode of this highly-talked about, overly hyped, Season Finale, yet I did so two days after the fact. What can I say, I'm a bit on the slow side but it's not like I was absolutely dying to see what the whole brouhaha was all about and now, after viewing the infamous episode, I know exactly why.

Jenny Schecter is dead? Murdered? Really? Phew, I thought we'd never get rid of her and her constant whining, crying and pretentious "I wanna be a Pulitzer Prize writer" attitude. Finally! It was about time if you ask me. That character has exacerbated every little nerve in my body and exhausted quite deplorably my level of patience. Honestly, just as fast as the show got me at Jennifer Beals' name rolling in the opening credits of the very first episode, it lost me almost immediately at the introduction of "Jenny is making Lez Girls" storyline fiasco.

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And just when I thought that I had been spared from another Jenny screen-time minute, the script had to surprise me with an unexpected twist. The writers couldn't just leave at that -- buh bye Jenny, end of story and move on with the rest of the cast, who in my opinion have much more interesting exaggerated drama going on. Now, not only has Jenny allegedly been killed but I have to endure a whole season in flashback segments trying to solve the mystery puzzle of whodunit.  My question is and we care because?

Here's a clue, she was a fabulous bitch who successfully poisoned everybody else's life and consequently provided every single one of the other characters the perfect motive to dispose of her. All things considered, I wouldn't even underestimate the caliber of her highly elaborate, conniving and vicious mind to stage her own suicide and disguise it as a murder case. As Meg Ryan says in French Kiss "Donnez moi un break!"

Ok, let's be real - earth calling Mona!  Let me nip it in the bud and offer my personal objective theory as to what I think really happened. Seeing how absurd and far-fetched some of the storylines have become, I am now willing to bet my life on one specific character to snatch the ultimate coveted "killer" award.   As we all know, rule number one in any good crime plot is that the guilty party always ends being the one person we least suspected. With that rule of thumb in mind, I am indomitably convinced that the innocent until proven guilty person of this whole ""Oh no! They killed Jenny!" nonsense is Dana.

I propose that by ways of some supernatural miracle of science, Dana, deceivingly purported to have lost her fight against breast cancer, actually survived the ordeal and secretly went on to live her cozy drama-free life somewhere around the vicinity of "The Planet," on a perpetual stake out, concocting her grand master plan to make her exceptionally fierce SHAZAM of a come back for our nail-bitingly awaited Finale.

She patiently waited for the opportune moment to avenge herself from that one character who should have gotten the eject button in the first place instead of her.

Mark my word; we haven't seen the best of Dana yet. We certainly haven't seenthe worst of the show yet. Ironically, I don't even care about that. The L Word is still deliciously addictive because of the criminally jaw-dropping sex appeal of Jennifer Beals.

I'm just anxiously waiting for Bette Porter to let her "Alexandra 'Alex' Owens" alter ego come out - sporting, of course, her trademark frumpy, one-shoulder, baggy gray sweater and the memorable sexy red stiletto heels -- and deliver at last the final denouement of the suspenseful plot not in flashbacks but rather a la Flashdance.

Only then would I have the anticipated apocalyptic ending with the closure I have desperately been longing for ...She's a maniac, maniac, I sure know, and she dances like she's never danced before...

Missed the last Singled Out? Read it here.