December 1999 Archives

Ahem.

Our Vidiot correspondents are spread out across the globe, bringing you the news of the turn of the millennium live, as it happens. Before we begin our trip around the world, we'd like to thank you for turning to us for your millennial news. We realize you could've chosen CNN, ABC, or even PBS, but instead you've turned to us, and we appreciate it.

With that out of the way, let's begin our march through history.

Our first stop is one of pure entertainment. Let's go to our Philip Michaels with the latest.

Live! From the Flint Center in Cupertino! It's the TeeVee Millennial Party of the Century Good Time Fun Hour! With special guest stars Stevie Nicks! Jm J. Bullock! Jeff Conaway! Ray-Jay Johnson! Rodney Allen Ripey! Soleil Moon-Frye! Kim Fields! The Solid Gold Dancers! And a special appearance by Mr. Millennium himself, that extra-special extraterrestrial ALF!

Hello again, good friends, Philip Michaels here. And sure, ABC may have lined up the A-list talent for its 56-hour millennial coverage. But we here at TeeVee have some pull too, as you can see from the galaxy of stars that's descended upon Cupertino tonight.

Already, this evening, Gavin MacLeod has entertained us with the ol' soft shoe. We've heard George Winston tickle the ivories in a live satellite hook-up from the Topeka Performing Arts Center. And I think you'll agree, you haven't heard "Blowin' In the Wind" until you've heard it performed by the incomparable Harvey Fierstein.

So stick around, folks. We have lots of surprises in store. Why, who knows? Maybe the stroke of midnight won't bring Y2-chaos but a rousing version of "You'll Never Walk Alone" sung by the fabulous Dixie Carter and our own TeeVee Fun Hour singers. Stay tuned!

Now to Ben Boychuk, who -- if I'm reading this card right -- is secluded in some sort of... bunker? Is that right, Ben?

Jason, while most experts now dismiss the likelihood of a Y2K cataclysm, there are those of us who are not taking any chances. I am reporting from a cabin in an undisclosed mountain location about 80 miles east of Los Angeles, California. Put it this way: if and when the conflagration occurs, I will have one hell of a nice view.

I've made a list and I've checked it twice. Here is a rundown of some of the provisions I've got on hand. I've got 144 cans of Dinty Moore Beef Stew. I've got 99 and a half bags of Fritos. I've got 8 bags of marshmallows and sticks. And, naturally, I'm swimming in cheap booze. Vodka and gin will be like gold in the post-cataclysmic world of barter and trade.

Oh, yes, and I have guns. Lots of guns.

It's very quiet here. Quiet, and a bit nippy. Got the heat on. Got lots of wood for the stove. Got a big tank of propane. Got a comfy blue blanket.

Not much going on outside just now. It's dark. Stars are out. A dog is barking up the street. If the worst happens, dogs may be used for food. Squirrels, too. Saw a dead squirrel in the middle of the road, up by the highway. Squirrels and other rodents may be used in the post-apocalyptic barter economy. Cash will be useless. Gold, silver, chickens, cows. Squirrels, chipmunks. They, too, will be the currency of the post-Armageddon economy.

Power is still on, that's good. But if it goes out, I am up to my elbows in Duracells. Got the A's, the double-A's, the C's, the D's. Got a few triple-A's. Got watch batteries. No B's, though. Do they even make B's? Got the nine-volts. Got a couple of car batteries in the garage. Got a boat battery and I don't even have a boat.

As the hour approaches, crickets are chirping.

Fuck it. I'm getting some mangos.

Okay, Ben, thanks for that report. If I'm not mistaken, mangos are the most popular fruit in the world. That's good news for a healthy new millennium!

Before we go any further, let's visit our good friend Greg Knauss, who runs the show behind the show here at TeeVee -- our massive computer complex. Greg?

Thanks, Jason. As you can see, I'm in the TeeVee Command Center and Operations Room, making sure that our computers turn out insightful and amusing television commentary for the new milliennium!

What's that?

Ha ha! Yes, instead of what we've been doing for the past three years. Very amusing. Ha.

Back to you, you sarcastic SOB.

Indeed. I understand that Philip Michaels is back in Cupertino with more from our entertainment extravaganza. Phil?

You know, folks, when Jason asked me to host this New Year's Eve extravaganza, I thought, "What better way to ring in the new century then the same way we celebrated 1900 -- with violent debates about the coinage of free silver and rousing songs denigrating the Irish?"

Hee! Kidding! But who can blame me for feeling a little bit giddy in the presence of our next fabulous guest star, the wonderful, incalculably talented Brooke Shields!

Brooke, thanks ever so much for joining our glittering parade of glitterati in Cupertino tonight. Tell me, in what way has life changed for the world over the past 100 years?

Hmmm? You're starring in your own sitcom? Well, that's right, Brooke! And what changes are in store for the next century?

You'll still be starring in your own sitcom? Not so fast there, Brooke!

Of course, I'm merely kidding you. Brooke Shields, may your star continue to shine well into the next millennium. And when it dies in a gaseous conflagration, may its dimming light continue to be seen for generations to come.

Jason?

Now let's go to our New York correspondent, James Collier, live in the world's den of iniquity, New York City! James?

Hi, folks -- this is James Collier here in midtown New York, just blocks away from the pandemonium of Times Square. I am celebrating the Millennium here at Flashdancers Gentleman's Club on Broadway and West 54th Street. Flash, as it's called by regulars of the club, is right across from the Ed Sullivan Theater, home of The Late Show With David Letterman!

As part of my coverage of the New York New Year, I will be having 20 lap dances with 20 different exotic dancers commemorating each century since the birth of our Lord, Jesus Christ! So stick around and get ready for a evening that I am sure will have its fill of lunacy and sorrow.

So far, I've had 10 beers, three shots of tequila, a glass of champagne, as well as smoking a joint. I'm so fucked up. Jason, back to you. Got more work to do here!

Let's move on to another form of entertainment -- one of the many millennial galas going on around this great land of ours. Here's TeeVee correspondent Gregg Wrenn at a very special event. Gregg?

I'm here at the Hollywood Has-Been party, and let me tell you, these disgraced and forgotten stars haven't forgotten how to party! In all my years as an entertainment reporter, I've never seen such a wild and crazy crowd. They've gone Y2Krazy! And of course, it's all for the children, so the drunken debauchery is for a good cause.

Robert Downey, Jr, get over here! Ladies and gentlemen, we've got Robert Downey Jr., this year's Hollywood Has-Been Parade Grand Marshal. Robert, it's good to see you out of prison.

Thanks, Gregg. It's good to be here. Hell, it's good to be anyplace where I'm nobody's bitch.

That is a truly profound insight, Robert. But that's what this time of year is about, isn't it? Deep, philosophical musings on where we've been and where we're going.

I know where I'm going. To a huge pile of crank.

Ho ho, thank you so much, Robert. Have fun in there. But not too much!

Jason Priestley! Jason! Gregg Wrenn from TeeVee here, might we have a few words? So, did you drive yourself tonight?

No, the cops took away my license. I pedaled my Huffy here.

Well, it's good to see that you care about the environment. How about this scene tonight? Are you ready to party?

Absolutely. Part of my plea bargain stipulates that I attend AA meetings, but this is the last New Year's Eve of the millennium! Who needs plea bargains?

So you're going to fall off the wagon just this once?

I'm not only falling off the wagon, I'm going to strip it, sell it for parts and leave it up on concrete blocks out in the driveway!

Ha ha! Jason, you are a scoundrel. Get in there and start partying like it's 1999!

And now look who's here! Tina Yothers! Tina, it's great to see you! It's been ages! What have you been up to since, um, what, 1988?"

I've been studying with the Dalai Lama in Tibet. I'm only a couple of prayers away from transcending my mortal body and freeing my soul for eternal peace in Nirvana, but before I go, I figured I'd get blitzed one last time. Who knows if they've got Jaeger in Nirvana?

Just don't party too hardy, Tina! You'd hate to wake up in Nirvana and have an eternal hangover too! Thank you so much. Enjoy the evening.

Charlie! Charlie Sheen, get over here you scamp! What are you doing outside here?

Waiting for the minivan full of hookers.

How's it going inside? Can the Has-Beens still party with the best of 'em?"

Hell, yeah. It did slow down a little while ago because we ran out of booze and nobody had any money to buy more. So we sent Todd Bridges out. Now the party's jumping again.

Any memorable moments so far?

About an hour ago, Jean Claude Van Damme was picking a fight with Danny Bonaduce. So the bouncer comes over to break it up and damned if it wasn't Gary Coleman. Don't get him mad, 'cause that little midget can throw down!

Didn't I see Britney Spears walk in there a little while ago? What's she doing here?

Oh, she's an honorary guest as the winner of the 1999 Has-Been Society's 14:59 award. She'll be a regular guest next year, presenting the award to the 2000 winner. It's just like the Masters.

And I see the minivan full of hookers has just pulled up, so we'll let you get on with your evening, Charlie. Thanks so much for taking a few minutes to talk to us.

My pleasure, Gregg.

And that's the scene from the annual Hollywood Has-Been party. Back to you in the studio!

Thanks, Gregg. Now back out to Philip Michaels.

Hold on to your hats, folks. Next up in our symphony of shimmering stars, performing his rock anthem, the one, the only, Mr. Gary Glitter!

What? He's not here? But we booked him months ago.

He's where? For doing what?

OK. Um, let's go then to the great Sean "Puffy" Combs!

What? Him too? Crap!

Greg Knauss, do you have any more for us?

Here's a treat: the Phil Michaels Suspension Tube. This is where we keep a clone of Phil, his brain hard-wired into a word processor, to keep turning out the articles the kids like so much. Boy, did this clone put up a fight when we tried to get him into this plexiglas cylinder filled with super-oxygenated fluid, but now he's settled down into the glassy-eyed stare that we've all become familiar with here in Operations. Looks like he's finishing up another piece as we speak. Oh, and another! And another!

Back to you, Jason.

Very interesting. Let's go back to James Collier in New York to see what damage he's wrought. James, you still there?

All of the others, they hate me, you know. Phil... Ben... Pete... Chris... Lisa... they're jealous. They're all jealous. I see it in their eyes.

I just tried calling Phil to tell him I know he wants to kill me... his line was busy. That bastard can't hide from me. He's the ringleader, y'know.

I just took two hits of X. My friend Pat says I should feel it in about an hour...

Philip Michaels, do you have more for us from Cupertino?

Man landing on the moon... the end of World War II... the U.S. hockey team taking the gold at Lake Placid. You can talk all you want about the great events of the past 100 years. But for my money, you haven't lived until you've seen Ed Asner's plate spinning act as we have here tonight.

But let's get serious here for a second, folks. We here at TeeVee are all about remembering the past and those great trailblazers who paved the way to the future. Yes, it's time for our annual TeeVee Man of the Century award. And this year, it goes to a great man, a caring man, a giant of a man. It goes to Larry Wilcox -- Officer Jon Baker from CHiPs.

Without Larry Wilcox's gritty portrayal of the taciturn Officer Baker, could we have had Hill Street Blues? If Larry Wilcox didn't wrestle with ethical dilemmas as he wrestled with punks on CHiPs, would we have seen David Caruso do the same on NYPD Blue? Without those tight pants that Larry Wilcox wore, would we have ever gotten to see Dennis Franz' naked ass?

We think not. And as grateful members of the TeeVee nation, we now say, thank you, Larry Wilcox! Thank you for making us laugh at moving violations and love again!

We only wish Larry Wilcox could have been here tonight, or indeed, that the restraining order he slapped on us last year didn't prevent us from making contact with him so that we might be able to tell him about his win in person.

Jason?

Words to live by, Phil. Now let's move a few hundred miles south, and visit again with Ben Boychuk. Ben, you live the Life of the Mind. What are your thoughts as we turn to the year 2000?

Under the worst-case scenario, we would see rapid civic breakdown followed by a return to a State of Nature. Man-made law would be null and void. Instead, we would be governed by the Law of the Jungle.

Some dead German summed it up this way: "A doctrine is needed powerful enough to work as a breeding agent: strengthening the strong, paralyzing and destructive for the world-weary. The annihilation of the decaying races. Decay of Europe... The annihilation of the slavish evaluation. Dominion over the earth as a means of producing a higher type... The annihilation of the tartuffery called "morality"... The annihilation of suffrage universel: i.e., the system through which the lowest natures prescribe themselves as laws for the higher... The annihilation of mediocrity and its acceptance... The new courage -- no a priori truths. There is no truth except the Truth of the Truncheon."

(The last thing, about truncheons, was mine. Dead German philosophers have nothing on me.)

Here are just a few basic precepts of the Law of the Jungle. Clip and save, you may need them later.

* Might makes right
* Kill or be killed
* Eat or be eaten
* Drink or be drunk
* Pummel or be pummelled
* Shred or be shredded
* Frappe or be frapped

I thought I heard a noise outside a few minutes ago. My first thought was that it was a roving band of looters getting an early start, trying to get a drop on me. Turned out it was a raccoon. Raccoons will also be currency in the post-Apocalyptic barter economy. They also look like robbers.

Here's something funny I read:

"What does the vast and rushing drama of the universe, seas, rocks, condor-winged storms, icy-fiery galaxies,
The flaming and whirling universe like a handful of gems falling down a dark well,
Want clowns for?"

I don't know, but I sure do like clowns.

How true those words are. Let's pay another visit to the TeeVee control center, with Greg Knauss. Greg?

Thanks, Jason. Right behind me now is the main server for teevee.org, and as you can see, we've spared no expense in harnesing the raw power of Intel's 486 chip and this tiny metal case to keep the site as quick and responsive as possible. While there are supposedly some problems with the low-level components on these machines, the TeeVee Technical Staff has decided not to worry about it too much, instead focusing on -- in their words -- "hookers and booze."

Oops. A small fire seems to have started in the power supply of the machine and as soon as I can get the fire extinguish--

OK. As soon as I can dump this pot of coffee on the computer... There. We're back in business. I think I got all of it.

Jason, let's take it back to you until the smoke clears.

Very well. Philip Michaels has something more for us. Phil?

Well, Jason, Ben and James and Knauss can talk all they want to about our forthcoming doom. But if the rivers do turn bloody and the skies rain down fire, I'm just glad I got to spend the end of days in the luminous presence of Audrey and Judy Landers!

Back to you.

So very true. Let's go back to James Collier in New York.

Everything is so beautiful. So pretty. I just paid someone twenty dollars to hug me. It felt so good. I'm just so happy to be alive, y'know? I wish I could call Phil to tell him how much I love him. I love you Phil. I love you sooooo much. And I love Jason too.... And Pete... and Ben... I just love everyone, y'know? It felt so good to finally just say it. I love you all...

I'm told we've got a final report from Ben Boychuk in his bunker. Let's head there now.

It's getting late, and I don't think anything is going to happen. The valley looks no different from here. No blackouts. No fires. No gems falling down wells, dark or otherwise. I see only the glitter of electric lights. I do not hear the echo of screams reverberating up the side of my mountain.

I cannot begin to tell you how disappointing this is for me. For one thing, I've never eaten squirrel before. For another, I've sunk about $20,000 into all of this stuff. Oh, the things I could have done with $20,000! The Dow is bouncing around 12,000. Qualcomm went from 25 bucks a share to $650. And what do I have to show for it? One hundred and forty-four -- no, forty-three -- cans of Dinty Moore Beef Stew. What in God's name am I supposed to do with 143 cans of beef stew?

"In this last of meeting places
We grope together
And avoid speech
Gathered on this beach of the tumid river"

Yeah, well, somebody obviously forgot to tell that to Dick Clark. Life is very long, all right. I haven't had a New Year's Eve this bad since -- well, since last year. I was drunker last year. Time to open another bottle of gin.

I passed up Streisand tickets for this?

No. No, I didn't.

Who needs Streisand when we've got Philip Michaels at the TeeVee bash in Cupertino? Phil, sock it to us!

Our walk of fame for... um, the famous was supposed to continue now with a lovely duet between Judd Hirsch and Pauly Shore. They were going to sing "I've Got A Crush On You" or something like that. But Judd Hirsch is dead drunk.

I tell you, I have never seen such unprofessional behavior. If the Ring of Fire does come, I hope the ravens take particular care to pick away at Judd Hirsch's flesh.

Goddamn Judd Hirsch. And goddamn you, too, Snell.

Ho, ho! Nothing like the unique comedy stylings of Philip Michaels. Time enough for perhaps one last visit to Greg Knauss down in computer central. Greg, anything exciting going on down there?

Thanks, um, Jason. We've got a problem here. Do you know where the back-up copy of TeeVee Emergency and Evaculation Manual is? Collier took the primary copy into the bathroom the last time he was here and we're missing everything from "Avalance" up through "Hurricane."

No?

Damn. OK. Um. I just pulled the sprinkler handle and it broke off in my hand. I think I'd better call the fire department.

Come back in a bit. Crap, that's getting hot!

Well, that said, I see that midnight approaches. Philip Michaels, old pal, do you have any closing words?

Yeah. I should have gone to the strip bar with Collier. Or nailed the Landers sisters when I had the chance in dress rehearsal.

Uh... and finally, let's head back to James Collier in Times Square, the center of it all, where it's almost midnight. James, tell us what New Yorkers are anticipating in the next century.

I just got a lap dance. My thing isn't working. Nothing happened.....

James? James, can you hear me? The millennium is 5 seconds away!

ooga booga....

3... 2... 1... James?

c xc,mxc,m xc

Greg, what the hell is going on?

Jason, as you can see, I'm about to abaondon the Operations Room. There's very little time left. I can't seem to get Phil's tube to flush out and release him, so I'm just going to have to abandon him. The heat's building up pretty quickly.

Hey! The door's locked. The door's locked!

Oh, shit. Oh, shit. Jason! Jason, can you hear me? I'm trapp--

Agh! Aieee!

Sitting here, keyboard at the ready to write about television, I am reminded of the words of Groucho Marx, the popular American vaudevillian comic. "I would never," said Groucho, "join a club that would have me as a member." Just as this delicious paradox spoke for the former Julius Marx and his tenuous relations with America's upper class more than half a century ago, so does it speak for me in the here and now when it comes to my feelings in regards to television.

Because I do not watch television.

I realize I am solidly in the minority here. The average American consumes a half-dozen hours of television on a nightly basis, sitting in front of the pulsating box, mouth agape, as its deadening images dance across the screen. That is their choice. That is their choice to stultify their mind, to let their imaginations atrophy and their waistlines expand as they struggle to comprehend the latest tomfoolery of Ross and Rachel and whatever other fictional character in which they choose to invest their emotions.

As for me, I make a different choice. I simply choose not to watch.

It is a lonely path to take, this choice of mine -- not at all unlike the road less traveled that a certain silver-haired New England poet rhapsodized about so long ago. My fellow sociology students will sit around on Thursdays, idly chatting about the comings and goings of something called Buffy the Vampire Slayer. "Did you see what Buffy did last night?" they will say, or "Isn't that an interesting character arc that's developing on Buffy?"

When I hear this talk, I want to grab my classmates by the lapels and shake them violently. "Fools!" I want to say. "Fools! Why waste hours of your life watching the Idiot Box's pantomime when you can be like me? As you fritter away time, mulling the fate of your so-called Buffy, I am out living life. I am reading the works of bell hooks. I am attending performance art festivals in downtown lofts. I am gazing up at the stars in the sky and recalling the Norse myths that explain their origins. I am not letting television weave its spell over me!"

But I say nothing. And they prattle on, in their ignorance, about Willow and Oz.

No, I do not waste the precious few waking hours we are given each day, sitting in front of blinking circuitry and stuffing my face full of chips and salsa and snickerdoodles. And so, this past week, when Walker, Texas Ranger was off solving some crime, I did not watch. Nor did I watch when Sammo Hung solved crimes on Martial Law or when Jamie Luner solved crimes on The Profiler or when Kyle Chandler prevented crimes from happening thanks to his ability to see one day into the future on Late Edition.

Crimes may have been solved, yes. But I wouldn't know. Because I didn't watch.

Hot shot attorney Bobby Donnell's (Dylan McDermott) passionate plea on behalf of a drug dealer fell on deaf ears inside the Taylor-Spearling home. Because although The Practice was on, the television was not. The same goes for Snoops and Touched By An Angel and CBS' heartwarming holiday special "A Season For Miracles." My heart is plenty warm, thank you. I do not need to see Carla Gugino give her jailed sister's children a real Christmas to get into the holiday spirit. If you do, you have my pity.

I did not watch Ladies Man, where Jimmy (Alfred Molina) struggled to find his wife the perfect Christmas gift. How could anyone watch such contrived tripe! And I certainly didn't watch Veronica's Closet. It was on opposite of Ladies Man.

You and your feeble-minded friends may have watched Ally last Tuesday. But I have no need to watch a program of re-used footage that simply streamlines an hourlong episode that aired in a prior season. And after not watching Ally, I certainly didn't loll about on my couch, watching Once & Again. It was a rerun.

Maybe you tuned into ER to watch Nurse Carol Hathaway (Julianna Margulies) struggle with her newborn twins while Carter's toys-for-guns program went tragically awry. Not me. ER hasn't been watchable since George Clooney left in a gripping two-parter last February. And nothing, not even the six-episode arc with Alan Alda as a senile doctor, has restored the magic.

Or so I've heard. Since I don't watch television.

Frasier, Friends, Nash Bridges -- your lives may be so empty and devoid of intellectual spark that you feel a need to sack out in front of the TV set for hours at a time. You may be easily distracted by the shenanigans of a teenage witch named Sabrina or the put-upon Salinger clan or a crime-solving doctor cunningly played by Dick Van Dyke. I'll have none of it. And that goes double for that shameless hussy Sabrina!

No, you may have wasted your time and industry this past week. But I did not. I did not watch television.

Instead, I read Proust. And masturbated.

Additional contributions to this article by: Philip Michaels.

You can see this easily if you spend any time at all watching the TV Food Network. All of their shows have no directors, no writers, no cameramen, no gaffers or best boys or grips or producers or henchmen or minions. They have no credits at all. All they have, in fact, are sponsors and names, and the names tell it all: Emeril Live, Taste with David Rosengarten, East Meets West with Ming Tsai, Molto Mario, Michael's Place, Hot Off the Grill with Raving Egotist Bobby Flay and His Rack-shaking Sidekick, and so on. You can tell who is preparing the food, you can maybe tell what type of food they're preparing, you can tell if there will be a co-host with bouncy funbags -- but no more.

It has always been thus. Cooking shows began with Julia Child striding across the living rooms of the Midwest, spreading bountiful French dishes no one in America had the equipment to make, much less the desire. The Galloping Gourmet cantered through millions of homes making a mess and quite a few bon mots, but perhaps few actual meals. In the years since then the guttering flame of culinary TV was kept alight by the stalwart and frugal Jeff Smith, whose main flaw as a cook was a tendency to find the weirdest ingredients imaginable and eat them. And, as the TV Food Network is tapping that vein of the American public eager for more cooking shows, Emeril Lagasse has emerged as the premier entertainer to wield a saute pan, kicking it up to notches inedible by man without the aid of novocaine.

Very few people are inspired to cook by these shows. Perhaps they are inspired to eat, but after drooling through half an hour of watching David Rosengarten make his own ketchup at two in the morning, most people will be burrowing through a bag of Oreos, not pan roasting cardamom seeds.

The strength of cooking shows, though, is also their main problem: they are about personalities -- personalities who are trained to be chefs, not TelePrompTer readers, not emotive talk show hosts, and not, it must be said with all respect, very interesting people. While their shows can hypnotize, at the same time these cooks bring their shows low with their flat voices, line muffing, stumbling, and occasional outright bafflement and confusion at being in front of a camera.

They cannot be blamed. Not everyone can interact with the TV with the ease of a professional wrestler.

So far, Emeril has come the closest to being the ideal cooking show chef. Although in more recent episodes it's clear he's getting tired of his audience's constant interruptions of "Bam!" and "Happy Happy Happy!", at least Emeril has a rapport with them, and some of that comes through to the viewer at home. Emeril is truly a personality, even if he loses his place while reading from the prompter, and even if his tropes are getting slightly stale.

Which brings us in a roundabout way to Alton Brown, host and star of one of TVFN's newer shows, Good Eats.

Finally, here we have the man who has it all. He knows how to cook and -- more importantly -- he knows how to tell us how to cook, even if we're not going to bother. Alton can speak clearly, and make jokes, and even deal with the silliness of discussing vegetables with a gesticulating man in an onion suit who talks by waving his arms around. Alton is witty and glib and coherent -- yet not above slapstick. Name another cooking show that would feature in its Thanksgiving episode: a crazy turkey truck driver who knows more than anyone should about the difference between a frozen and a refrigerated turkey ("32 degrees Fahrenheit is freezing, but not in turkeys!"); an Elvis impersonator; a transvestite; a spoof of "The Matrix" and "The Phantom Menace"; an Asian woman named W instructing Alton in the use of a digital thermometer; and a Martha Stewart look-alike who breaks into tears when Alton makes fun of her stuffing.

Good Eats features regular visits by a Mad Food Scientist to explain the chemistry of cooking (expect words like "osmosis," but not anything that makes sense to an actual chemist) and a culinary anthropologist who apparently studies and gets paid to discuss what people used to eat but don't any more (the Pilgrims didn't eat peas on Thanksgiving -- bad crop that year). Crazy chefs pop in and shout advice in French accents: "Do not cut zee lettuce! Tear eet jentlee like zo!" as Alton gleefully takes his knife to the romaine. Bubble wrap drops from the ceiling to stand in for lettuce leaf cells in Alton's discussion. Assistants chop onions while wearing gas masks to ward off the fumes (incidentally, cut onions give off sulphurous gases which, on contact with your eye moisture, become H₂SO₄ -- sulphuric acid. Just in case you were wondering).

Through all of this Alton Brown is having a wonderful time. He was born to be in front of the camera: He's comfortable, energetic, amusing, and he knows how to hit his marks. He is infectious; he makes me want to cook. I made a turkey according to his recipe, and you know, it was the best turkey I've ever made.

Alton gives good advice in a fun way and you learn a little something about food, and not just that there are people who eat chard. You learn about onions, and potatoes, and turkeys and lettuces and giblets. And fruitcake -- don't forget the fruitcake. You might even find yourself applying this new knowledge.

Funny that a cooking show should finally get itself a real TV personality -- and is free thereby to be about cooking.

You sat through Shasta McNasty. You had a look at The Secret Diary of Desmond Pfeiffer for the two weeks it was on. You still bore your friends by recounting that time that you got to see the pilot for Tag Team. (Jesse Ventura and "Rowdy" Roddy Piper are wrestlers turned cops!) But I'm here to tell you that you've gotten soft and lazy.

I'm here to tell you about the wonders of syndicated television. That's television which is still, in the face of all logic, producing brand new television shows that are so bad that not even WB or UPN will consider carrying them.

We're talking about Baywatch rip-offs. We're talking about Baywatch spinoffs. And today, we're talking about Relic Hunter, starring Tia Carrere.

I can't tell you when it airs because it's syndicated, and that means that the run-down shotgun shack that passes for a studio mails the videotape in unmarked brown envelopes to random stations across this great land of ours, and the station puts the show on as far away from human eyes as possible.

Here in Seattle -- think of us when you throw your next riot! Many large corporations make looting convenient and fun! -- it's on at midnight, Sunday night. This isn't an easy show to get to. I had to prepare myself with near-lethal doses of caffeine. Unfortunately, this made me unnaturally alert and attentive, which is not the state of mind you want to be in when you're watching Tia Carrere pretend to be an archaeologist.

Relic Hunter shows surprising creativity in that it steals from a whopping two sources. It's pretty clearly "Tomb Raider" meets "Indiana Jones." And why shouldn't Lara Croft meet Indiana Jones? They're both daredevil archaeologists, aren't they? Who are you to say that Lara Croft could never meet Indiana Jones? You're being unfair to both of them, that's what I say.

Sorry. Got carried away. I blame the caffeine. Or possibly the sight of Tia decked out as Sydney Fox, the Trinity College archaeology professor. Just like Indiana Jones, she wears glasses at the school, to look academic. And just like it did when it was Harrison Ford doing it, it makes you say "Hey! Those aren't real glasses!"

Wouldn't it make more sense if these daredevil archaeologists wore glasses when they went on their dangerous missions? I mean, when do you need perfect sight: teaching a class of bored undergraduates or swinging on vines in ancient temples while trying to strangle a Nazi?

The opening credits set the tone for the show fairly precisely: occasional pretty shots of ruins, "old" maps, and jungles. And Tia taking her shirt off. Sword fights, idols, and showers. Now we're talking.

Although I've seen two episodes -- the lengths I go to for research cannot be believed -- and I don't remember any shirt-taking-off. Not even in the "Sydney looks for Casanova's lost book of love-making while on an assignment for a sexy soccer player" episode. Not that the episode had any more gratuitous skin than the "Sydney looks for Ariadne's golden thread from the Minotaur story" one.

Sydney has two assistants: Nigel, the shy and stammering Australian, and Claudia the blonde. In this show, being blonde is a complete description of a character. Oh, and everyone is at least as attractive as Tia Carrere, although she's a better actor than a lot of them. And that, my friends, is a scary thought.

Each episode has a few basic elements. First, they have to introduce the historical or mythological basis for the artifact with some clumsy dialogue:

Sydney: Do you know the myth of the Minotaur?

Nigel: Of course. Um, half-man, half-bull. Banished to the labyrinth where he lived in an endless maze of tunnels.

Sydney: The maze was so complex, the gods created a golden ball of twine so that humans may find their way out.

They go on like that, telling each other things they already know (and getting the actual myth wrong in the process) until they've established that what they're looking for is a stone key (that we've just seen Claudia get in Greece from a Greek guy named Stavros) that will unlock the Minotaur's maze and provide access to the golden ball of twine, setting up the gratuitous skin shots.

In the Casanova episode, we had to establish that the soccer player liked the ladies. In the minotaur episode, we learned that archaeologists do some of their best research while lounging around on Greek beaches. I knew I took the wrong courses in college.

So then there's some intrigue:

Sydney: So you sent me the picture to get me intrigued.

Stavros: Yes. We must find the maze and the golden twine before the others do.

Sydney: What others? Who are you?

Stavros: I'll be in touch. Speak to absolutely no one. And guard the stone.

Sydney: Wait!

Enter Guy With Gun, cue the fight scene, involving lots of rolling around on the sand and girls in bikinis looking on, until Guy With Gun makes his daring escape on a jet ski. Which doesn't look like it goes that fast, but never mind, because it's time for the episode's shoddy research scene.

In the Casanova episode, our world-class archaeologist did research by going to a local museum that happened to have a Casanova exhibit up, which happened to include a letter which happened to use a type of ancient Italian that Nigel knew about but none of the curators did, and, luckily, Nigel's guess about the invisible ink was right, too!

In the Minotaur episode, Sydney goes to an expert who takes one look at a stone and says "there's only one quarry in the world that produces this kind of marble."

Where are these experts that don't need to run tests? They'd be handy in murder cases.

"Do you recognize this blood?"

"Yes! That blood only comes from people with the exact genetic make-up of... you, the judge!"

Sydney's expert also identifies the stone as being at least 2000 years old after looking at it for five seconds with a magnifying glass. That also lets him tell Sydney that a man she calls only "Stavvi" must be Stavros Vardalos, whose father is one of the richest men in Crete.

"Dimitri Vardalos, the shipping magnate?" Sydney asks, bringing us to the next basic element of Relic Hunter -- irrelevant gibberish. That takes up most of the episode.

The end of each episode brings my favorite part, the clever traps and secret doors segment. Those ancient Greeks and Aztecs and stuff really knew how to build their tombs, didn't they? Place the right stone here, and that wall swings away. Wave your hand through that sun beam, and darts shoot out of that wall.

The dart guns will be reloaded by the trained tarantulas, I guess.

Even in the Casanova episode, there's a statue that opens up when you stroke the right part. And, now that I've written that, I'd just like to say: ick.

Just like Indiana Jones, Sydney never gets to keep anything. Either the Blofeld-of-the-week steals it or it falls to dust. Nice going, Sydney! That twine lasted thousands of years locked away in a nice, 20th-century marble tomb, and now you've destroyed it. Bad archaeologist!

And with that, the show ends, leaving us to wonder what we're doing awake at 1:00 am on Monday morning. Unfortunately, we also seem to have missed VIP.

You stand at the cusp of a new century, a new millennium, afraid. You stare into the unknown and wonder what the future might bring. And with no clear answers, with no clear direction, you face a future petrified by the coming turmoil.

We know this, America. Because we are the media.

For years, we have kept you informed and up-to-date on the stories that matter to your lives. We have harnessed our skills as journalists and tapped into the technology to bring you the news right after it happens, as it happens, and sometimes, before it can happen.

We have fulfilled this charge without fail, America. And this year, when the news came especially fast and furious, we proved up to the task. We told you about the Monica Lewinsky scandal in painstaking detail, right up until the last vote of the impeachment trial. When bombs fell is Yugo... um... Bosnia-Herz... er... someplace, we were there, with grainy, state-TV-OK'd footage, to bring the story home to you. We added perspective to the brutal, tragic, ratings-generating death of John F. Kennedy, Jr. And we gave you 5,273 profiles on Columbine High School alone.

There is no need to thank us, America. It's our job.

But perhaps you are worried, America, that as we end 1999, our rich vein of newsworthy events has dried up. With no Menendez Brothers or Heidi Fleisses or Princess Dianas to cover at length and in depth, maybe you're uneasy about the absence of the next Big Story. Maybe, you've reasoned, the media have fallen asleep at the switch.

Oh, America. Nothing could be further from the truth.

Hear us now, America. Wherever there is news, we will take you there. And when there isn't, we'll find some anyhow.

In the coming presidential election next year, we'll be there to ask the tough questions, to find out where the candidates stand on issues that matter to you. How many state capitals can George W. Bush name? Why is Al Gore wearing that color suit? Does John McCain curse like a longshoreman? And Bill Bradley... what about him and the pills?

When five-year-old beauty queens are found dead, America, we will be there, wringing every last drop of news out of the story. And when distant relatives emerge to tell the untold story, we will be there, too, checkbook in hand. We will be there with live, continuous team coverage, with Gerry Spence and Fred Goldman back in our studios.

Because at some time, somewhere, some sort of tragedy of seemingly minor significance will strike. And we will not rest, America, until we've convinced you that this new crisis trumps all else in importance. Whether it's a little girl stuck in a well or a bitter custody dispute between celebrities, we will spare no resource, from our most humble mobile news van to our mightiest SkyChopper. We will bring you the story -- live -- and with many fascinating pictures.

So rest well, America. Know that even as you sleep, the watchdogs of the media are keeping tabs on the comings and goings of celebrities. Sleep tight, as we work around the clock, preparing in-depth reports on the latest in breast augmentation surgery.

Trouble not your mind with complex stories about campaign finance reform, health care and economic issues. Because when we present the news to you, it will be in neat, 60-second packages, peppered with easily digestible sound bites.

And, America, no matter how many gruesome stories of random and unthinkable street crime we broadcast, we vow to end each report with human interest stories of puppies frolicking in public fountains or freckle-faced children playing with kittens.

We provide this to you free of charge, America. All we ask in return is that you watch.

Watch our live coverage police chases and grocery store openings.

Watch the happy talk between our anchors and our jovial weatherman.

Watch our five part series on the fastest way to slimmer thighs and trimmer hips.

Watch and be happy, America. Watch and forget about your humdrum lives. Watch and grow fat.

Just watch, you goddamned sheep.

Conducted in an empty studio somewhere in the wilds of New Hampshire, the six candidates for the GOP nomination would probably have better served the political process if they had passed around a revolver with only one empty chamber. Accompanied on this grand American journey by ABC cast-off Brit Hume and a local political reporter so heavily made up that she threw off the hue control on my TV, these half-dozen identically dressed men set about deciding the future of the free world. Which, apparently, revolves around thanking Fox News for the opportunity to keep the rest of its programming off the air for a couple of hours.

Given this valuable opportunity to define themselves to the American public, each candidate firmly placed himself into one of two ideological camps. No, not the whole "compassionate conservative" versus "baby-eating conservative" divide, but something more fundamental and primal: Boring versus Insane. There's a whole batch of both in the GOP.

Orrin Hatch, for instance, is Boring -- his campaign theme appears to be "A Sleepier America." Aside from his name -- which sounds like proctological jargon -- the man is an excitement black hole. During the debate, he was sometimes difficult to see against the plain, flat background. Judging from the time the camera spent on him, he has two facial expressions, one of which he saves for special occasions. To give you an idea of just how Boring Hatch is, the most notable thing that he said on Thursday wasn't during the event, but afterward, about it. He called the proceedings "stilted and boring," which is apparently his way of drumming up electorate excitement. The ratings on Fox News must look like an impact crater.

Not that Insane is much better. Gary Bauer, for instance, is clearly Insane, and because of it he doesn't make a terribly compelling argument for the American voter to put his finger on the nuclear button. You sort of get the impression that he'd toy with it, just to see how far it would depress without triggering. I get the feeling that Gary misses the Cold War. During the debate, for instance, he invoked the name of Ronald Reagan so many times, I half expected Dutch to suddenly appear on the stage, as if summoned by a Lovecraftian incantation: Yog-G'ipper. Bauer has these huge, saggy eyes -- always a plus in television -- that make him look as if he's escaped from one of those collections of adorable ceramic figurines favored by old ladies and constantly hawked on QVC. Behind those eyes, though, is a brain Insane enough that it sees no irony whatsoever in concluding the phrase "the party of Lincoln" with "and Reagan."

Of course, the Insane field is pretty crowded and Bauer doesn't hold a candle to Alan Keyes. Right up front on Thursday, Keyes made clear that he hates you -- yes, you, specifically -- which is not normally the path taken to public office. Unique among the candidates -- not only for being confused about which party black people are assigned to, but also for being the only one capable of assembling two consecutive thematically-linked, grammatically correct sentences -- Keyes' platform appears to be, well, the repeal of the last hundred and fifty years or so. That pesky Sixteenth Amendment? Gone. Separation of Church and State? Out the door. Sex education? God disapproves of sex, you heretic. Keyes speaks wonderfully -- a plus that works better on the radio than television -- but he'd only get my vote if the nation were electing a Crazed Medieval Dictator.

John McCain, against all odds, came out of the debate resoundingly Boring. McCain has the kind of history that politicians usually spend an enormous amount of money faking, and as far as I'm concerned he's earned the right to be "Deer Hunter"-style Insane. But, stung by criticism of his temper, he apparently spent Thursday doped up on enough Prozac to mellow out a swarm of wasps. He even had a Reganesque quip ready -- that questions about his temper make him mad -- but it fell into the space where the audience was supposed to be with a wet, squishy thud. Everything about John McCain should make America enthusiastically elect him President, but the debate made it clear that he's trying too hard, damping himself down -- deep, deep into Boring. We already have Bill Bradley for that.

Of course, if I'm looking for Insane, I couldn't do any better than Steve Forbes. Forbes spent almost all of Thursday night looking as if he was on the verge of pulling a gun out of his coat and taking care of his place in the polls once and for all. Someone needs to remove the cappuccino machine from his dressing room as soon as possible, because every time I've seen the man on television I can hear a faint ticking in the background. Even with the sound off, just from watching his eyes dart, I'm guessing Forbes has the crazed loner demographic all sewn up. "This is America," he seems to be saying to himself. "You're supposed to be able to buy elections, dammit." Old Steve is Insane, bordering on Bug-Fuck Wacko.

Which brings us to George W. Bush. Anointed by the press as the Republican front-runner five or six years ago, Bush was facing his rivals for the first time in public on Thursday, and he managed to make what could have been an epic clash of ideologies for the soul of the party into a tedious game of Don't Say Anything. Bush spent the evening about as inspiring and daring as a bowl of warm mayonnaise. "With all due respect," moderator Hume said after Bush's first response, "you haven't answered the question." There are few things more Boring that a politician killing time and trying desperately not to offend, but Bush seemed so deeply intent on not snorting cocaine off his lectern that Al Gore can now be anointed the Funk King of All Space-Time.

Is this really the best we can do? After the Clinton administration -- which managed to combine mind-numbing political wonkery with borderline sociopathic risk-taking -- I don't know if America is willing to settle for only one or the other anymore. We're not electing a President, remember, so much as a daily television presence we're going to have to live with for at least four years. Someone Boring may save the nation that whole international-embarrassment thing we've gotten so used to, but vastly increase the death rate as people simply forget to breathe while watching him speak. Someone Insane could be fun in a Constitutional crisis sort of way, but invading Canada to put an end to the scourge of socialized medicine might harm the nation's international standing.

That's the problem with democracy: you actually have to make a choice. Boring versus Insane, Insane versus Boring. Can't there be a None of the Above?

I wait for the phone call from Regis Philbin.

The idea hatched a few days ago over pizzas and beer seemed clever enough. One of us Vidiots -- namely me -- would try to dissect Who Wants To Be A Millionaire, ABC's insanely popular prime-time game show. My mission: to figure out just what it is about this program that's placed an entire nation in its grip, driven rival networks to churn out thinly disguised copy-cat shows and landed passive-aggressive host Regis Philbin on the covers of Newsweek, Entertainment Weekly, and -- for all I know -- Jugs. And what better way to do that, I figured, then by trying to land a spot on Uncle Reege's Good-Time Money Fun Parade?

Well, in a pleasant bit of serendipity, I wound up making it through the first round of qualifying for Who Wants To Be A Millionaire. By answering three questions, my name gets entered into a random drawing, along with the names of all the other lucky schmoes. That pool is whittled down to 25 names -- no doubt chosen by Regis himself. If you're among the few, the happy few, then you can expect a phone call between 9 a.m. and noon Pacific Time. And if not, then brace yourself for your phone to set maddeningly, mockingly silent.

And so I sit by the phone. Waiting for Regis.

It never occurs to me for a moment that Regis won't call. After all, I'm the most deserving of $1 million of any person I know, except for maybe that homeless guy I pass on my way to work each morning. And he'd just blow the million on booze and smokes. Me, I'd spend it wisely -- on a better class of booze and smokes.

9:06 a.m.: I wasn't always so keen on Who Wants To Be A Millionaire and its promises of easy loot. When ABC first trotted out the show last summer, I rolled my eyes just like anyone else. Great, I thought. Prime time game shows. That's exactly what America needs more of. That and a Donald Trump presidential bid.

You can't blame me for feeling that way. Consider the horrible consequences that our fascination with game shows have wrought in the past. Quiz show scandals. Pretentious Robert Redford movies. The continued employment of Chuck Woolery. It hardly seems worth it, especially for prize money that just winds up screwing with your taxes anyhow.

Well, as it turns out, Who Wants To Be A Millionaire is fun -- a load of fun. You want drama? Who Wants To Be A Millionaire gives you people betting a future of financial security on whether they can recall if Brooke Shields appeared in the Broadway revival of "Grease." You want production values? Who Wants To Be A Millionaire offers a light show that would do the local Laserium proud and background music from the Yanni school of synth-pop. Forget the teetering ER and NBC's slate of laughless comedies. This is the real "Must See TV."

Perhaps it's wrong to derive so much glee from watching total strangers squirm uncomfortably as they try to remember just exactly how many children there were in the Von Trapp family. Maybe it's cruel to barely be able to contain your giggles when Regis furrows his brow in mock concern and asks the trembling contestant, "Is that your final answer?" And I'm pretty sure it's just not cricket to chortle when someone flames out before even reaching the halfway point on their trek to $1 million.

But then, who cares? The amusement that comes from Who Wants To Be A Millionaire is that same guilty, giddy thrill you used to get back in school when the over-achieving kids -- those earnest, shameless boot-lickers who finished the assignments weeks in advance and did all the extra-credit problems and rubbed your nose in it when you didn't do the same -- got called on in class and came up firing blanks.

If that kind of schadenfreude is wrong, then I don't want to be right. And yes, Regis, that is my final answer.

9:13 a.m.: With nary a peep from Regis yet, perhaps some full disclosure is in order. When I say I qualified for Who Wants To Be A Millionaire, I'm being totally honest. I'm just not saying how many times it took me to qualify.

Part of the challenge of becoming a contestant on Who Wants To Be A Millionaire is to first get past the omnipresent busy signal when you dial the show's toll-free number. Every house-bound idiot savant with a finger spasm, it seems, wastes untold man-hours each day trying to qualify for Fun Time With Regis.

And why not? Unlike Jeopardy, where would-be contestants must go through a rigorous screening process and actually know stuff, all Who Wants To Be A Millionaire asks of you is that you be able to dial a telephone. Just a winning hand dealt by Dame Fortune and anyone can be a millionaire -- even pudgy, mean-spirited hack writers trying out for the show as a gag.

After what seemed like hours of alternately pressing the speed-dial and redial buttons on my phone, I finally got my first taste of success.

"Well, hello!" that all-too-familiar voice shouted on the other end of the line. "This is Regis Philbin. Get ready to play Who Wants To Be A Millionaire!"

The instructions barked out by Regis and his attendants are this: You're asked three multiple choice questions and you have to punch in the answers in the correct order using your phone's keypad. Get them right and it's on to the aforementioned drawing. Miss one and, well, at least your shame is private.

The first question requires me to put four words in alphabetical order. Simple -- opinions may vary as to the depth of my writing skill, but few can question my ability to alphabetize. Question two asks me to put the following cartoon series -- Rugrats, Muppet Babies, Beavis & Butthead and The Smurfs -- in the order they premiered. I punch in my answer and wait for question three.

Only to find out I got question two wrong. A TV-related question. Suddenly those four years spent at a top-rate public university feel like years wasted.

Crippling self-loathing aside, my failure to answer Reege his questions three put me in quite the bind. You only get two chances a day to qualify for Who Wants To Be A Millionaire, and I had just blown chance number one. Fail at the next attempt, and I would have to spend the next 24 hours coming to grips with the fact that, sure, the contestant the other night wasn't sure whether the Forbidden City was in Beijing or not, but at last she knew enough to punch in the right premiere date for the thrice-damned Muppet Babies.

Several more hours manning the speed-dial brought me to Attempt No. 2. An ear-splitting yet friendly greeting from Regis. Much explanation of the rules and legal argle-bargle. And then the questions. Oh God, the questions.

Arrange these four words to form a song title. Check. Enter these four recipients of Time's Man of the Year honor in the correct chronological order. Double check. Enter these four constitutional rights in the order they appear in the Bill of Rights.

Uh....

Before you ConLaw experts out there fire off those angry e-mails to TeeVee, let me assure you I'm perfectly aware of what rights are spelled out in the first 10 amendments to the Constitution. But in the right order? In 10 seconds or less? Well, that's a bit of a challenge for me.

Let's see. Freedom of speech, press and assembly. Right to bear arms. Um... quartering soldiers in times of peace? Coveting thy neighbor's wife? Don't go swimming a half-hour after eating?

See? Totally helpless.

So, faced with the humiliation of flaming out in the first round of Who Wants To Be A Millionaire twice in one day, I did what any well-educated, rationale person would do. I just started randomly punching in numbers on my telephone keypad until someone told me to stop.

Did my unconventional strategy work? Well, I'm sitting here, aren't I? And while some might dismiss that as pure dumb luck, I chalk it up to a calculated gamble, a commitment to purpose. From such things are millionaires born. After all, I start telling myself, not just any idiot can qualify for this game show. It takes a special kind of fellow, handpicked by the benevolent fates.

9:19 a.m.: Jason Snell pokes his head out of his office to let me know that he also qualified for Who Wants To Be A Millionaire, and that he, too, is awaiting a call from Regis.

Maybe qualifying isn't quite the feat I thought it was after all.

9:31 a.m.: It's been 30 minutes now, but I'm not the least bit worried. Regis is probably busy calling the obviously less qualified contestants and letting them down gently.

Sound too cocky? Maybe you haven't watched the show. If you did, you'd realize Who Wants To Be A Millionaire taps into the same appeal that Major League Baseball enjoys. You sit there and watch a guy fumble over a question about Henry David Thoreau just like you sit there watching a light-hitting shortstop try to hit a curveball and think, "Hell, I could do that."

Which is pretty brave of you to say, when you're kicking it back on the couch sucking down Cheetos instead of standing there at the plate with a Kevin Brown slider breaking in toward your jawbone. Stick the average know-it-all under the klieg lights and the baleful gaze of Regis Philbin, and the wit well runs pretty dry pretty quickly.

That jolt of humility aside, I defy you to make it through a showing of Who Wants To Be A Millionaire without having your contempt for your fellow man ratcheted up a notch or two. Ten minutes into the show, and I've already rubbed my vocal cords raw, heaping abuse on total strangers whose only crime was not knowing that there are only four strings on a violin or that there are seven innings in a regulation softball game.

Idiot! Everyone knows that the vice president of the United States lives on the grounds of the Naval Observatory. Ignorant fool, don't waste your lifeline now!

9:48 a.m.: Nearly an hour into the waiting game, I have discovered an ominous aspect to the Who Wants To Be A Millionaire qualification process. You have to wait by your phone for the entire three hours, should the call come. Dash off to get a bite to eat or tie up the line with a phone call from your aged mother who can't seem to find her pills, and you can just as well kiss that million dollars goodbye. Regis is much too important to bother with your primitive voice mail.

I bring this up for one simple, heart-rending reason. Chief among my many character flaws is that I have a bladder that would give even the most besotted incontinent a run for his money.

And I'm beginning to think that cup of coffee I just polished off was a really bad idea.

9:55 a.m.: The boss walks by my desk and sees me nervously waiting by the phone, a blank computer screen in front of me.

"Really productive day for you so far," he says, walking away.

My keen mind -- while unable to calculate when exactly Muppet Babies debuted -- detects a note of sarcasm in his voice. I secretly vow to use my million dollars to destroy him.

10:02 a.m.: Now I'm convinced: Drinking that cup of coffee was a bad idea. And in the next half-hour, throwing away the paper cup could turn out to be an even worse one.

10:05 a.m.: When I make it to the final round of Who Wants To Be A Millionaire -- and believe me when I tell you that any other outcome is inconceivable -- I don't plan to be like those other contestants who cower in the awesome presence of Regis. Everybody who's made it to the Hot Seat so far has let Regis play with their heads like some sort of oversized Nerf ball.

They give an answer, an answer that they know in their heart and mind must be correct. But when Regis hits them with that stare -- that "You're about to make a $1 million mistake in front of millions of unforgiving viewers" stare -- they crumble faster than a package of stale graham crackers.

Not me. When I get up there, the tables will be turned. The hunter will become the hunted. It will be Regis' mind that gets tossed around like a Frisbee.

He'll ask me an easy question, one of those $100 questions that are more or less a gimme anyhow. "For $100, Philip, what is your first name? Is it A) Philip, B) Lou, C) Hector or D) Bancroft?"

"Gosh, Regis. That's a real puzzler. But I think I'm going to have to go with C."

"C? But it's obvious that... are you, um, sure you don't want to use a lifeline? Maybe ask the audience?"

"Oh no. No, I'm pretty positive it's C."

"C. OK. C. Is that your final answer?"

"Hmmmm?"

"Your final answer. Is it C?"

"C? Gosh no. The gin must be rotting my brain. Obviously the answer is A."

10:09 a.m.: Clever ruminations about how I plan on making Regis squirm aside, he had better call soon, or else a good chunk of my prize money is going to be spent on dry cleaning bills.

10:18 a.m.: Lisa Schmeiser stops by my desk. "How goes the Millionaire thi..." she starts to ask. But before she can get the words out, I've already bolted past her, with a magazine in one hand.

"Can't talk," I shout back at her. "Wait at my desk. If the phone rings, pick it up and pretend you're me. Back in five."

10:24 a.m.: OK. So I'm back in six. The point is, I was able to heed nature's call without fear of missing one from Regis. But no word from Regis while I was indisposed, so Lisa was spared the ignominy of having to fraudulently pose as me. Which is just as well really. It's rather easy to tell the two of us apart. She probably knows when Muppet Babies premiered, for starters.

Ah, sweet Lisa. My angel of mercy. There to help out a fellow Vidiot in his time of need. I mean, where was Boychuk when all this was going down? Sure, he works out of Los Angeles, but he should have been here when I needed him. That selfish bastard just took himself out of the running for a share of my millions. Not one fucking sou, you hear me, Boychuk? Not one brass farthing.

10:35 a.m.: OK. Past the halfway mark now. If Regis is going to make me a millionaire, he'd best get on the beam.

Goddamn Regis. Always yammering about this and that and in such a loud voice, too. It's no wonder poor Kathie Lee Gifford has been driven to forcibly conscript orphans into sewing her line of clothing, having to listen to that gasbag all day.

10:46 a.m.: Holy hell. In an effort to divert myself while waiting for Regis to get his act together, I did a little Web surfing. And I've discovered that not only has a Salon writer already done a piece on his attempts to qualify for Who Wants To Be A Millionaire, the pointy-headed bastard actually made it on the show.

Goddammit!

I mean, what gives here? Those Salon killjoys are always going on about the evils of filthy lucre and the shame of accumulating a vast, personal fortune. And one of them gets a chance at a million damn dollars? Me, I'm all for wealth, particularly when it applies to me. Where's my bite at the apple?

Bet that Salon guy would have just given the million to some co-op somewhere or blown it all on soy products.

I tell you, it's an unfair world.

10:52 a.m.: I'm plagued with self doubt. When I left the phone number for Regis and his minions to call me, I wonder if I didn't inadvertently transpose the numbers. I've been known for pulling brain farts like that. After all, I blew that Muppet Babies question, and really, how hard is that?

And even if I did someone manage to punch in the right digits for my phone number, maybe I didn't speak clearly and audibly when it came time to record my name. Maybe my number came up in the drawing, and instead of hearing a confident voice declaring, "Philip Michaels," the Who Wants To Be A Millionaire production assistant instead heard, "Mmmmph ma mmph moo moe."

"What a disturbed young man," the production assistant probably said. "Certainly not the kind of a fellow we can allow to be around Regis Philbin."

Oh Regis! Forgive me now my transgressions!

11:04 a.m.: I realize now I made a fatal error while waiting for Regis to call. I planned on using my money for evil instead of good. And God, in His righteousness, has decided to put the kibosh on that.

But I still have 50 minutes! I still have time to make things right!

The $1 million? A good chunk of it now goes to charity, Lord. Those plans that I had of stashing the loot in an offshore bank account? Consider them scrapped. That homeless guy I dismissed at the beginning of this article? Now I'm splitting my booze and smokes with him. Pretty generous, I'd say. The kind of actions taken by a man who not only wants, but needs to be a millionaire.

Dear God, let me have all that pretty money.

11:32 a.m.: Too depressed to write anymore. Too depressed to care. Regis isn't going to call. He never was going to call. I bet Who Wants To Be A Millionaire is rigged anyhow, and all those contestants you see each week are just ABC employees who have to give the money back to Eisner the minute the show's over.

Goddamn Eisner. He'll get his.

11:47 a.m.: Little dreams of gold
Shattered to tiny bits
God damn you, Regis, to Hell

12:00 p.m.: Tuesdays at noon in San Francisco carry with them a remnant from the Cold War. The City tests its civil defense system by sounding a loud siren that wails through downtown for 10 seconds, letting residents and commuters know that this is either a test of the emergency broadcast system or that an attack from the Russkies is nigh.

Today, that siren carries a double meaning. It lets people know that the city of San Francisco is looking out for them in case of nuclear attack. And it lets me know that when it comes to the judgment of Regis Philbin and Who Wants To Be A Millionaire, I am a big, fat loser.

Before today, I was just big and fat.

Make no mistake -- I've packed an awful lot of rejection and failure into 27 years of life. Each high school dance I went to was little more than an exercise in picking apart my self-esteem brick by tenuous brick. I have enough "Dear applicant" letters from newspapers big and small to cover the walls of my apartment several times over. And the Pulitzer folks? I just keep telling myself they've lost my phone number.

Sure, all that hurts -- it hurts real bad. But the bitter pill life keeps serving up tastes like chicken gumbo compared to this latest indignity.

I was spurned by Regis Philbin. That cruel, double-dealing bitch god. And nothing -- not even booze and smokes -- is going to make that rebuff go away.

12:01 p.m.: The phone line for qualifying for Who Wants To Be A Millionaire opens again. I start working the speed dial. How pathetic does that make me?

A million dollars worth of pathetic, baby!

Without a doubt, you've assumed that I am thinking about Jerry Seinfeld, and you're all ready to tell me, because you think you're so damned smart, that he hosted the season premiere of Saturday Night Live a little while back.

But I'm not talking about that Jerry. I want to know where the other Thursday night Jerry is... that big, burly jester who could always be counted on to provide a little comic relief in the big bad realm of the Windy City's busiest ER.

So far this season, he has not made a single appearance in the ER.

Sure, there's the everyman Dr. Greene, the driven, efficient Dr. Weaver, the innocent Dr. Carter, and the kind and gentle Nurse Hathaway -- all given interesting story lines and character arcs to keep us entertained. I'll admit that I can still get caught up in the trials and tribulations experienced by these characters even though the show they operate within seems to be recycling the same old crises over and over again.

But Jerry, the big, give-me-a-bear-hug-now guy who sits at the front desk, is on a totally different level. I know he's not a doctor. He's not even a nurse. He's essentially the receptionist. But he's not working at a dentist's office. The ER is a place where lives are on the line, damnit. And Jerry is the glue that keeps the constant chaos in the ER from burbling up like blood from a lacerated and irreparable aorta.

Think about it like this: when the shit hits the fan in the ER, Dr. Greene, Dr. Benton and the rest of the ER doctors insert those tubes, bark orders to the nurses and do some serious life saving; that's important work, yes, but the doctors would not all be gathered around that patient if Jerry hadn't bounded through the halls to let them all know they were needed, immediately.

And when Jerry picks up the phone to track down a doctor who is not on the premises, he does it with the quick efficiency of a sharp scalpel on skin.

"Jerry, find Dr. Benton, now!"

We see Jerry sit up from his stool and pick up the phone. The camera may rush through the swivel doors and take us to where the patient in need is lying, but we know that Jerry that is contributing to the heroics of the ER department by dialing the numbers on the phone efficiently, even vehemently, and doing all that he can to track down Dr. Benton.

I really want to know how the ER is currently functioning without Jerry. I mean, do the writers of the show think we're all idiots? Who is getting Dr. Weaver her charts? Who is letting Dr. Greene know that his daughter is on the phone?

But aside from the serious lapse in realism, which is surely hurting the credibility of the show in medical circles, ER needs to get the humor and burliness of Jerry back on the show any way that it can. His complete and total lack of screen time this season is draining the life right out of the ER. We're talking about a flat line situation here.

Think about the receptionist roles on the very successful NYPD Blue as a case in point. The receptionists at the detective's squad on NYPD Blue may not be out there solving crimes and busting criminals, but they are an integral part of the show. One of the receptionists, John, went from simply being the gay hairdresser-on-the-side front desk boy who makes Detective Sipowicz uncomfortable, to taking a bullet and heroically letting the detectives know a gunman was about to try and kill someone in a courtroom.

And Dolores, another receptionist on NYPD Blue, went a little crazy, got involved in drugs and prostitution, and got the whole squad of detectives trying to help her out. Even her death was turned into a plot that lasted several episodes. Dolores may not have been getting any screen time, but her character was still a focal point of the show.

And who could forget Donna -- the voluptuous blond cutey who liked to watch hockey.

We don't even know which sport is Jerry's favorite.

It might be the case that the writers of the show are simply too snobby to give Jerry his due because, in their arrogant eyes, he's just the receptionist. No problem -- simply move Jerry beyond his role behind the front desk. Maybe he could secretly have been going to Medical school all these years, at night, similar to the way the original receptionist from The Practice (Rebecca) had been going to law school. Rebecca may be relegated to the smaller, less important side-cases with just a small portion of the screen time, but damnit, she's a full-fledged lawyer now. Note that The Practice is a bona fide hit show.

Other ideas for getting Jerry more involved in the show are:

* Jerry begins training to fulfill his dream of becoming the hot dog-eating champion of the world. Because Jerry trains so rigorously, the ER docs have to save him on several occasions, each time telling him he should slow down, that even if he doesn't become the champion, he'll still be loved by his friends in the ER.

* Jerry comes to terms with and admits his love for Dr. Greene. He starts bringing hot dogs to Dr. Greene just the way Dr. Greene likes them.

* Rebuffed one too many times by Dr. Greene, Jerry gets sinister and begins a campaign of terror in the ER. To make matters worse, Jerry discovers that Dr. Greene has been giving his specially-made hot dogs to Malik.

* Jerry, after unleashing a campaign of terror in the ER by serving poisoned hot dogs, realizes that he has done wrong and single-handedly saves the day by using medical skills he didn't even know he had.

These are just some ideas, of course.

ER, despite this season's clever story arc involving Hawkeye -- I mean Alan Alda -- is running out of interesting plots. There's been the bomb in the ER, the chemical contamination in the ER, and most recently, the crazed gunman shooting up the ER. Let's get Jerry to the ER, stat, to do some serious show saving, before we, the viewers, are treated to the next step: an alien invasion of the ER.