In the early and lonely days of the pandemic, a good friend of mine, The Washington Post’s television critic, prescribed me an antidepressant in the form of Below Deck, a Bravo franchise following the hard-working, horny crewmates who staff luxury charter yachts and the rich, tacky guests who spend their vacations aboard.

Vicariously, the show had everything – scenery, sex, dance parties, close quarters – at a time when we had nothing. Below Deck’s activities would never have been Fauci-approved. (No wonder it became a ratings stalwart.)

Washington Post