Don't read this if you're a fan of The Sopranos and haven't seen last night's episode. Spoilers to follow.

I'm loving the sixth season of The Sopranos so far. The show has always focused on Tony's wavering morality. One minute he's a charismatic goon you can't help but like, the next he's a raging sociopath. So with him in a coma, The Sopranos has gone all metaphysical and placed its pathological patriarch in a metaphor-ridden Limbo worthy of Twin Peaks." To quote the Guinness guys, last night's episode was "BRILLIANT!"

So what does hell look like for a middle-aged mafioso? It's eternity spent trapped at a family reunion in a house straight of a Thomas Kincade painting. Inside are all the relatives you can't stand and a few of the friends and family members you put to death. And Steve Buscemi is working the door and acting all bartender-in-The Shining-y. I wish Tony had drifted past the doorway, if only to be confronted by the apparitions of his mother and "Big Pussy," before being brought back from the brink of death by a preschool-era Meadow's angelic voice.

I don't watch much television because of the episodic nature of the medium. Even the most beloved of hour-long dramas bore me to tears. How many times can your seriously watch Jack Bauer overcome yet another contrived plot twist? I've stuck with The Sopranos, despite the redundancies in seasons 4 and 5. I'm glad I did. Last night's episode wasn't television and it wasn't HBO either, as the ads portentously declare. It was pure art, dammit.