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Tomorrow, I will get up from the longest, funniest, dirtiest, least politically correct, and most meaningful shiva of my life, when the final episode of Rescue Me airs on FX. The series, which premiered in 2004, followed the valiant professional and maniacal personal lives of a group of New York City firefighters in the aftermath of the Sept. 11 terrorist attacks.
I came to Rescue Me fairly recently, when I casually downloaded an episode one night last July and ended up watching all 13 shows of season one in a single sitting. Looking back, I think I expected the show to be shallow and self-important, but what I encountered was something else: a drama, a comedy, an extended frat-house romp, an essay on the white ethnic melting pot in which Irish, Italians, and Jews have stewed together for the past century, and one of the filthiest soap operas ever made. It was also, I soon realized, a surprisingly useful mourning ritual—and possibly the culture’s best artistic engagement with the traumatic events of Sept. 11.
