January 2000 Archives

No, not the torment over the St. Louis Rams winning Super Bowl XXXIV when Tennessee's Kevin Dyson was tackled at the 1 yard line as time expired. That torment will remain for some time.

But the torment of this year's cavalcade of showcase advertisements -- all aired during the Super Bowl -- has ended for another year.

This year, we tried something different when it came to our comprehensive TeeVee super bowl coverage. Four Vidiots and a panel of civilians converged at one Vidiot's house for an ad-watching focus group, sometimes known as a Super Bowl party.

After each commercial, our panel gave a rating from zero to 5 based on the overall quality of the commercial. In the end, we found a handful of clear winners -- and quite a few big losers. In the middle were more than 50 duds, commercials not good enough or (more likely) bad enough to make them worth mentioning.

One final rule before we begin the cavalcade of commercials: we rated only those commercials which premiered this weekend; if we had seen it before, it was out.

Now, on with the show.

Grand Champion (tie): Pets.com, "Don't Go." Not to say that we're big fans of singing sock puppets, but this commercial (in which the Pets.com spokespuppet -- a sock dog with a watch for a collar -- sings the Chicago oldie "If You Leave Me Now" to sad pets abandoned by their owners) won our panel over. It was funny, featured charmingly awful singing of a charmingly awful song, and even offered a crying turtle. As a result, it was pretty much the only dot-com ad we enjoyed in spite of ourselves.

Grand Champion (tie): Oldsmobile, "Cars." The first 45 seconds of this commercial had us all groaning intensely -- a bunch of vacant-eyed models sing along to the Gary Numan oldie "Cars." (Yes, apparently we're suckers for songs we vaguely remember from our youth.) But all of a sudden, we began to realize just how badly these models were beginning to sing. And before we knew it, they were scattering in all directions to avoid the arrival of an Oldsmobile. Will most people ever drive an Oldsmobile? Probably not. But we all have a little room in our hearts for hating the Gap.

3rd Place: EDS, "Cat Herders." All the newspapers pointed this out as one of the best ads of the Super Bowl, and while we like to be contrarians -- Mountain Dew's much-ballyhooed "Cheetah" ad represents all the excess and stupidity that drains the fun out of watching Super Bowl ads -- we have to admit that this item, featuring hardscrabble cowpokes herding domestic cats across a river and over rolling hillsides while battling scratches and allergies, was funny. It helped that most of those in our panel have cats of their own.

Honorable Mention: A nod to Charles Schwab's ad featuring retired sports figures, including the recently-retired Mike Ditka; eTrade's ad featuring a high-school basketball whiz who, not so deep down, aspires to be a dancer; Visa's mercifully irony-deficient ode to synchronized swimming; and eTrade's brilliant spot featuring a conducting chimpanzee. We're suckers for the primates.

And now, the worst!

Freddie Mercury Trophy (5th worst): Mountain Dew, "Bohemian Rhapsody." A godawful homage to Queen's video for "Bohemian Rhapsody," we couldn't feel nostalgic about this song being revived. Mountain Dew's ads were grating, oppressively hip with an X-Games aesthetic that is so 1998. Their posturing used to be funny, but now they're just pathetic, a bit like a low-budget success that's let their big new budget go to their head. Nothing was funny about the "Bohemian Rhapsody" spot; it was expensive, ugly, confusing, and unfunny. If Freddie Mercury were alive today, he'd have dropped dead on the spot upon seeing this travesty.

Black Lung Cup (4th worst): Philip Morris anti-smoking spot. Children in a Nike-like setting discuss reasons why they'll do something. It turns out, they're talking about not smoking. Thanks, Philip Morris! All is forgiven.

The Big Whinny (3rd worst): Budweiser, "Baby Horse." Budweiser's commercials, usually winners or at least in the running, were pathetic this year. Our favorite featured a brilliantly motivated dog actor who jumps into a van while chasing a Bud truck. But the beer company's most ballyhooed spot featured the birth of a Clydesdale. It was sappy, but not in a tear-jerking way. It was crassly commercial and without any genuine feeling, right down to the horse owner's final congratulations to the stallion who apparently fathered the new foal.

Truth in Advertising Award (2nd worst): Lifeminders.com, "Worst." This awful ad, featuring the poor playing of "chopsticks" over a series of typewriter-font slides, claimed to be the worst commercial of the Super Bowl. Not only did that not turn out to be true -- we've got one more to go before we get to the bottom! -- but this one wasn't even inspired at being bad. Just saying you suck doesn't make it so. You have to mean it.

The Golden Crapulence Award: Nuveen Investments, "The Future." It took a lot for our panel to agree unanimously about the worst ad at this year's Super Bowl. But this year, Nuveen Investments managed it. At a futuristic banquet, the hosts announce the eradication of many diseases -- including, we're told, spinal cord injuries. At this point, all we can cry at the screen is that the guest of honor not be Christopher Reeve, a paralyzed man used for crass commercial purposes. But indeed, out steps (via awkward computer animation) Christopher Reeve himself. What does this have to do with Nuveen Investments? Who cares? For its painfully obvious and yet remarkably inappropriate choice -- not to mention the huge outlay of cash for the Super Bowl spot -- Nuveen is our undisputed champion.

As for Mountain Dew, Budweiser, and the dot-com crowd -- well, there's always next year.

Additional contributions to this article by: Jason Snell.

It's no secret that to go online is to wade hip-deep into a pool of opinions. Spend an evening or two slapping together a Web site, and in no time, you'll be sifting through virtual feedback, either singing your praises or damning you with the vitriol of a revival tent preacher. But every suggestion, no matter how crass or trivial, can help you build a better online destination. For that reason, it's incumbent upon every open-minded, responsible Web site that longs to improve upon itself to give due consideration to all reader feedback.

Sadly, the offices of TeeVee are staffed entirely by negligent, self- satisfied ne'er-do-wells, intolerant of opinions that don't precisely mirror our own. So we're not forced to do any of that responsibility bullcrap referenced above.

Most reader feedback, we promptly ignore. Others -- those well-thought-out, carefully constructed letters that concisely state a position point by point -- we'll read those, think about them for a bit, and then ignore them.

And letters that end in @aol.com or @webtv.net? Straight to the recycle bin.

But every now and again, our usually foolproof filter fails us. The kid in the mail room slips up. And we're forced to waste valuable minutes of our working day -- minutes that could be spent playing Quake -- sifting through e-mail from readers who have the temerity to actually acknowledge that we produce a Web site.

The feedback is tedious in its repetition: Could you review this show? What do you think of that show? Could you write more articles with long, rambling introductions that are apropos of nothing in the coming text? And the pornographic pictures that you hide throughout your archives -- could you make that a bit racier please?

Done and done.

Then, there are letters like this one from jaecol170, who titles his query "What the hell is this!"

Is this some kind of a joke?

Best goddamned e-mail we've ever gotten.

But there's one question we get over and over again, one we wish we had a dime for every time we hear it, so we could buy out Yahoo and be done with this damnable TV business.

"Hey, TeeVee," the letters always begin. "I love the site -- the wacky reviews, the insightful comedy, the witty and urbane remarks from the dapper gent who types up the Mailbags. But could you maybe include more celebrity interviews and profiles on my favorite TV stars?"

A fair question. Feting the TV world's best and brightest would certainly raise the profile of TeeVee. Readers would flock here, wags would toast the site, newspapers and periodicals would write long and flattering profiles about us -- all very important toward our stated goal of driving up the asking price for when Paul Allen inevitably buys us out. So we would gladly hop to it, but for one reason.

Celebrities scare the bejeezus out of us.

There are many, many reasons why being in the same room with the stars of stage and screen makes us twitch violently and sweat gravy. It's well known that many celebrities possess the power to cloud men's minds, turning them into virtual slaves, ready to do their bidding. We think this helps explain how Sharon Lawrence continues to find work. Secondly, celebrities are also known to be under the influence of booze and pills most of the time. And that makes them unpredictable. One minute, you're at a press junket, having an enjoyable chat with Robert Downey Jr. The next, he's grabbed hold of your leg and is humping away like a black lab in springtime. Also, a celebrity -- we think it was Billy Barty -- bit Boychuk as a child.

So you can understand our fear.

But if we had to pinpoint the reason why we shy away from the celebrity interview game, it would have to be this: We fear their just and righteous retribution.

Think about it. We've made a comfortable living for ourselves throwing critical stones at people with the express understanding that we'd have to never look them in the eye. Now imagine we're at some lavish Hollywood gala, stuffing our faces with canapés when all of a sudden, Jon Seda walks up to us and says, "Aren't you the bastards that keep making fun of my mumbling?"

How do you think that would make us feel? Embarrassed? Certainly. Chagrined? You bet. But most important, fearful that Jon Seda would punch us in the nose. And that Kirstie Alley, standing nearby, would do nothing to stop him, what on account of us making fun of her show so many times.

Maybe you think that ours is an irrational fear. And not long ago, we would have agreed with you. That is, until we got the letter... the letter from Dennis Boutsikaris.

Maybe you remember Mr. Boutsikaris and his fine work on Misery Loves Company. No? OK, how about The Jackie Thomas Show? He played the head writer, Jerry. Still drawing a blank? Um... Stat? Nurse? "Crocodile Dundee II?"

That's OK. We had to look all that up on the Internet Movie Database, too.

So Dennis Boutsikaris is an actor. Not a big-name actor, but a hard-working actor nevertheless. You don't keep coming back on ER in the recurring role of Dr. David Kotlowitz if you're some sort of hack, that's for sure.

Now just imagine how Dennis Boutsikaris must have felt when he was surfing the Web one day, looking for his name and he comes across this passage from our own Peter Ko.

The Secret Lives of Men (Wednesdays, 9:30 p.m.) explores the unspoken bond between guys who've screwed up everything they've ever touched. While this subject has been scrutinized before -- most notably in the seminal FOX sitcom Misery Loves Company, starring the incomparable Dennis Boutsikaris -- this promises to be the most penetrating, humorous look yet. Because if nothing else, history has taught us that ideas improve with time.

Just awful, that's how Dennis Boutsikaris felt. "I pour my blood and sweat into my craft," he no doubt said. "I put my all into TV movies like 'Survival on the Mountain' and 'Tonya & Nancy: The Inside Story.' I even manage two guest shots on The Equalizer, first playing C.R. Heaton in the episode entitled 'In the Money' and later as Yorgi Kostov in the Time Present, Time Past episode. And what do I get for my troubles? Mockery. Mockery from some punk."

So you can understand why Dennis Boutsikaris felt compelled to send Pete an e-mail.

Pete

Just read your columns. I may be incomparable, but you're just a goddam genius. A genius who WRITES about Television.

Dennis Boutsikaris

We're pretty sure that letter is from the real McCoy. There's a lot of creepy stuff going on in cyberspace, but so far, federal authorities have yet to call our attention to a ring of imposters passing themselves off as the one-time star of movies such as "*batteries not included," "Boys on the Side," and "The Boy Who Cried Bitch."

Thus, convinced that we had a genuine e-mail from a genuinely perturbed Dennis Boutsikaris, we did what any responsible Web site publishers would do. We ignored him and hoped that he wouldn't use his awesome celebrity powers to find out our home addresses.

Unfortunately, this proved to be the wrong strategy. Because while it may be wise to let sleeping dogs lie, it's never a good idea to let spurned Boutsikarises simmer. A week later, Pete got a follow-up from the man who chilled our hearts as Richard Berkley in two episodes of Law & Order.

Mr. Ko

How come I haven't heard from you. You can fucking lacerate me in your little internet column but you don't want to write me back?? Am I just not up to your fucking genius?? I'm just sitting here, piece of television shit that I am, waiting for you honor me with a reply.

Dennis Boutsikaris

Wow. Playing scenes opposite Anthony Edwards turns a man mean.

But Dennis Boutsikaris isn't the only angry man in Hollywood. It wasn't long after we finished changing the office locks and petitioning for a restraining order that we got another hate-filled celebrity screed, this one from jeastin@shastamcnasty.com:

Greg Knauss really slammed Shasta McNasty writer/creator Jeff Eastin in his Oct. 11th review. Was Greg aware that this is the same Jeff Eastin who was just hired by James Cameron to write True Lies 2?

Consider this cryptic paragraph from Greg's review:

"To get an idea of just how bad Shasta McNasty is, visit the show's Web site. Series creator Jeff Eastin actually brags -- once you've slogged through his wacky 'fake' biography -- about the fact that he wrote 'a screenplay called 'Shadow Dancer,' a thriller based loosely on the Billy Joel song, 'The Stranger'..."

What exactly is the insult here? Is it that Mr. Eastin's script was called "Shadow Dancer" or that is was based on a Billy Joel song? Or, as I suspect, Mr. Knauss' brilliant ideas were rejected by the networks and he has a vendetta against anyone successful.

I would love to hear your explanation.

P.S. Shasta was also nominated for a People's Choice award for best new comedy. Perhaps TeeVee should consider hiring TV critics who actually reflect the views of real people.

We couldn't help noticing that the e-mail address -- jeastin@shastamcnasty.com -- is pretty similar to the name Jeff Eastin, the man who created Shasta McNasty. Granted, we're not too swift on the uptake -- after all, we don't get the subtle nuances and crafty leitmotifs one finds in a typical Shasta McNasty episode -- but we suspect that jeastin@shastamcnasty.com and Jeff Eastin are, in fact, the same guy.

If so, we're really curious as to why Jeff keeps referring to himself in the third person. Is that some sort of parody of the whole rap hip-hop scene, which he skewers so deliciously each week on Shasta?

But that's not what puzzles us the most about Jeff's letter. Nor is it the prideful reference to recognition from the People's Choice Awards -- the award show that makes the Golden Globes look legitimate and sought-after. And we're not at all put off by Jeff's inability to grasp the jab about using a Billy Joel song as the basis of a screenplay. It's just odd to hear someone cite Billy Joel as their creative muse when it comes to writing thrillers. It's like turning a KISS single into the plot for a complex geopolitical spy drama.

(Memo to Creative Control Dept.: Pitch UPN on spy drama based on "Love Gun," pronto.)

No, what has us in a dither about Jeff Eastin's e-mail is the tone of the letter itself. After all, Jeff's supposed to be the successful, secure one, right? He's the guy with the TV show, the job offers from James Cameron, the wheelbarrows full of People's Choice Award nominations, correct? He's the guy who goes to sleep at night on a big pile of money, courtesy of UPN. We're correct in this, right?

So why's he writing us? Why's he wasting his time on our penny-ante Web site, when it's clear our opinions don't carry much weight, and we're in the minority here anyway, and, goddammit, "The Stranger" is a great song to base a screenplay on? Why does Big Wheel At UPN Jeff Eastin give a tinker's cuss about little ol' TeeVee?

Just wondering.

But then, after a long walk and a refreshing glass of Tang, we decided we were being too hasty. We were rushing to judgment when we decided that Dennis Boutsikaris was dangerously unhinged and posed a threat to our well-being. We were jumping to conclusions when we dismissed Jeff Eastin as a thin-skinned blowhard, too dense to just take his blood money from UPN and run. No, Dennis Boutsikaris and Jeff Eastin are good men, decent men, men whose knowledge of the inner workings and tale tales of Hollywood could add an extra dimension to TeeVee.

Because our readers have questions -- questions that, sometimes, we don't know the answer to. A reader named Jeanne writes us to ask:

Who sings the theme song on Family Law and what is the name of it.

And we have to tell her, "Jeanne, we simply do not know, nor care."

But we bet Dennis Boutsikaris knows.

Then there's Akg2577, who asks us this poser about Punky Brewster:

I was wondering if you could give me some more detailed info on what she wore, I was planning on being her for Halloween.

It breaks our hearts to say that we have no earthly idea. But we're pretty sure that Jeff Eastin can make a few phone calls to his Hollywood friends, and just like that, Akg2577 looks so much like Punky Brewster, even George Gaynes can't tell the difference.

So that got us thinking: Wouldn't it be great if we could tap into the awesome brain power of a Dennis Boutsikaris, if we could somehow harness the daunting cognitive skills of a Jeff Eastin to answer our reader mail? Mind you, we haven't. We're a little afraid of talking to either of them, especially Dennis.

But that doesn't mean we can't pretend.

Sheryl Kemp read our musty old article about The Oprah Winfrey Show and opines:

I'm really ashmed to admit I took time to read such drivel ! What have you done to make the world a better place.

DENNIS BOUTSIKARIS: I can't speak for those TeeVee scamps, whose stock and trade appears to be vicious mockery, but I can tell you that I wholly support Oprah's message of self-improvement and efforts on behalf of literacy.

JEFF EASTIN: How did I make the world a better place? Three words: Shasta. Mc. Nasty.

Lizsparkes came across the opening sentence of Greg Knauss' "Go Away, All Ye Faithful" and was chagrined by Greg's use of a word that's frequently heard in high school locker rooms, rap albums and Martin Scorcese movies.

I was raised to not use that 4-letter word.

DENNIS BOUTSIKARIS: I, too, deplore the all-too-frequent use of obscenities like "fuck" and "shit." Unless, of course, those words are used in e-mails taking impertinent Internet columnists to task for their lack of a timely reply. Fucking bastards.

JEFF EASTIN: As the writing on Shasta McNasty proves, there are many words I was raised not to use.

BSBlover97 was very offended by Gregg Wrenn's pan of Odd Man Out.

I'm wrighting to you guys because I just read the article "odd man out" by Gregg Wrenn. WHAT IS UP WITH THAT!?? There is no poing of him bagging on that show! Why did he wright that? was it the money? or what? because Erik Von Detten is a GREAT actor and he is not deserved to be called "looks like he was the very last one to go when the Backstreet Boys made their final roster cutdown"! If you would be so kind as to explain why u guys let this guy bag on the show i would appreciate it.

You're probably thinking.... why do i care so much.... well i was surfing the net when i found that site....and i thought it was very mean of him to wright that.

As i said before he is a great actor and the show rules! But again that's my opinion but ALSO no need to be saying bad stuff

DENNIS BOUTSIKARIS: You're right, BSBlover97. There is no need to be saying bad stuff. What we need is a lot less bad stuff, and a lot more good stuff.

JEFF EASTIN: Would you like to be a writer for Shasta McNasty?

Our final letter comes from Charlie M., who read "The Tell-Tale Toothbrush" and came up with quite a corker:

My name is Charlie and I am currently attending Queen Elizabeth's Boys Sixth Form in Barnet, London, studying Design A'Level. I am doing a project all about the manufacturing and materials used to make toothbrushes. I would be very grateful if you could help me, by sending me any information you may have on the above areas.

DENNIS BOUTSIKARIS: Charlie, I'm an actor. I can tell you what Danny Aiello was really like on the set of "The Last Don." I can talk about the acting approaches I used to get into the character of Dr. Jerry Santana in the "Murder on the Thirteenth Floor" episode of Murder, She Wrote. But one thing I don't know much about is toothbrushes. Perhaps Ask Jeeves or another search engine might provide the information you're looking for. Good luck!

JEFF EASTIN: Toothbrushes... the British... that gives me a great idea for a sweeps episode!

You see? Celebrities have plenty to contribute. Dismiss them out of hand and you dismiss their thoughts, their ideas, their rich life experiences. Make cruel, off-hand remarks about them on your Web site, and you'll never get to learn from their insights or share their vast knowledge.

And, if you're really nice, they'll tell you about the miniseries they once wrote based on a Foghat album.

Additional contributions to this article by: Philip Michaels.

To quote the late, great philosopher Plato, "If this was heaven, I'd kill myself now." Or, to leave poor Dana out of this and quote the elder Plato, "At first, when any of them is liberated and compelled suddenly to stand up and turn his neck round and walk and look toward the light, he will suffer sharp pains."

And yea, what pains I have suffered. What agony I have experienced since my DSS provider started carrying the networks.

Even before I switched to DSS, the networks were the place where old TV friends went to die. On The Daily Show, Craig Kilborn and his smirking frat-boy charm were fixtures around my house. Whatever time my erratic viewing brought me to Comedy Central -- 10:00, 1:30, 4:00, 7:18 -- there Craig was, cracking wise, pausing for humorous effect, or pestering some third-tier guest about his latest unwatchable project. I actually saw The Daily Show almost daily.

Then Craig left for the greener pastures of network TV and he hasn't been seen since. At least, not by me, or by anyone else, as far as I can tell. I believe his show is called Too Late, and it's on at about 3:15 in the morning filling in the quarter hour between the last network viewer slipping into his corn chip coma and the start of Ron Popeil's latest infomercial.

Now The Daily Show is hosted by the poster boy for the Failing Upward Movement, Jon Stewart -- a man who has managed to sink so many talk shows his middle name should be "U-boat." I no longer watch The Daily Show, and neither do any of the other mental patients.

Before The Daily Show, there was Politically Incorrect with Bill Maher. I used to see a lot of this show, too, until Bill took his ball and went to ABC, never to be heard from again. His show might even be the lead-in for Craig's, for all anyone knows. I won't look for it even if Harlan Ellison is going to be on.

Similarly, John Henson ejected himself from E's Talk Soup. He was last seen in darkest Peru heading east reportedly shouting, "I WILL be rich!"

And only God Himself knows what became of Downtown Julie Brown.

My irregular TV habits preclude me from becoming attached to any show with only one time slot. Therefore the networks are of little use to me. However, even with my bizarre channel-switching algorithm, and only having had the networks a few short weeks (I understand the weeks will be longer come the spring), I still have managed to spectate as several crimes against humanity were committed by the Big Three, Middling One, and Tiny Two Which Aren't Really Carried by DSS Anyway.

I saw Alan Alda on ER still playing Hawkeye, only this time for bathos. Also, I found that no one had shot Kellie Martin yet.

I caught a few minutes of the season premiere (said season being winter) of NYPD Blue. Steven Bochco owes me money for that.

I've seen several episodes of Law & Order: SVU and had to suffer thereby through a number of almost-continuous hours of Mariska Hargitay's strangely cocked eyebrow. Was she hit by a car when young, thus forcing plastic surgeons to reconfigure her face to hide where it read "Ford" backward?

I failed to rush from the room fast enough to miss the commercials where the Three Actors in Search of a Pizza Place pretend to sportscast the channel's lineup. And to think I had thought the trio were squandered talents.

Around the same time I caught Whose Line Is It Anyway? still coasting on Wayne Brady's ability to make up songs out of his head. Funny, funny, funny, find a new joke.

I saw Angel.

I sat through about seventeen hours of The West Wing. Martin Sheen never shuts up, does he?

I watched one whole episode of The Mandy Patinkin Hour Returns and not once did he sing or play the piano. I want a refund!

I flipped past Ladies Man. I might have seen a whole half-second of the show. I want a refund!

On the positive side, I did see one funny promo for it's like, you know.... And I got to see Dick Clark for New Year's. On the other hand, I also got to see Dan Blather for New Year's, so let's call that one even.

And that reminds me -- in listing the network dross, I almost forgot what I did the instant I discovered I had networks again. I watched The Price Is Right. It was exactly the same show it's always been. And that's damned good.

I have emerged from my networkless cave and seen the bright suns of CBS, NBC, ABC, Fox, and those other two. And I'm going back in and never coming out. And you can't make me.

a. the child actor toddles into the scene

b. the child actor assesses the scene with the aplomb of a seasoned police hostage negotiator

c. the child actor delivers the scene's punch line, usually woodenly

d. the child actor saunters off with a world-weary slouch

Now I realize that the whole hoo-ha-funny angle to this dreary series of events is that the child -- who is supposed to be naive, untutored, and untouched by this world -- is the voice of wisdom for the brain-damaged adults around him. I also realize it's impossible to have a family sitcom without actual family members, hence necessitating the presence of children and explaining why the most successful comedies about families are animated -- Bobby Hill and Bart Simpson are more realistically developed children, and they don't come with pushy stage mothers or the incipient threat of growing up and starring in Working or Charmed.

But there's a freshly debuted family sitcom which turns my unpleasant little thesis on its head: Malcolm in the Middle is fast, funny and true-to-life, and the strength of the series lays in child actor Frankie Muniz.

The adults are above-average. Bryan Cranston as Malcolm's father, Hal, beautifully underplays his role as a father who knows he had some hand in creating a chaotic, four-boy household, but has no idea what he's supposed to do about it now. Jane Kaczmarek is a scream as Lois, the harried mother who runs her house with ruthless pragmatism in the face of imminent domestic entropy.

But the real joy in the series comes from the four juvenile tornadoes wreaking havoc in nearly every scene. Malcolm's older brother Francis (Christopher Masterson) is an unrepentant hell-raiser of the suburban variety, next-oldest brother Reese (Justin Berfield) thinks with his fists, and youngest brother Dewey (Erik Sullivan) is a curious little pest. Malcolm himself is a motormouth with an outsized I.Q. Rather than spend his time focusing his high-beam intellect on "productive" pursuits, he runs off at the mind in improbable directions.

All four of them act like actual kids, rather than types. Francis, who remains available for emergency consultations via dormitory phone, loves his little brothers even as he leads them into repeating his own ill-advised experiences. Like real kids, Reese, Malcolm and Dewey watch their parents like hawks for signs of favoritism and brawl with each other over every perceived unfairness.

The house is a mess and the parents aren't supervising their children so much as playing zone defense against them. But we never see this directly, which is proof of the talent driving the show. The writers have an eye for the telling detail -- Mom never has enough of any one foodstuff for all three kids, so one of them gets shafted on choices ("Two of you can have meat loaf and the third can have, uh -- oh, I don't know, peas."); the kids spend Saturday in a sugar coma on the couch watching television, the neighbors are convinced this family is bringing down their property values.

Through it all, Malcolm and his family sail or stumble through the world's most mundane events, pitching from lunacy to a genuinely moving moment back to chaos. The show feels loony and surreal precisely because it's the first family show on television that gets the details of family life right and shows us how funny we've really been all along.

And it takes the sunny, open face of Frankie Muniz and his other juvenile co-stars to do it. TV sitcom writers take note: if you're going to include children on your show, let them act like kids. It's much funnier that way.

Who drank all the Scotch?

That's not my hand.

What are you doing in that bathtub?

Horrible.

But the other day, I heard something that makes those razor-sharp phrases seem as threatening as Nerf balls. There I was, at my desk, slowly emerging from my early-morning stupor when a co-worker strode up to me and said the most horrifying thing I've heard this side of a John Rocker interview.

"Hey," she said. "You were on MTV last night."

Thoughts flood the brain stem when you hear something like that, clogging up the ol' gray matter thicker than the expressway at 5:03. Oh Christ, you think, I don't even remember filming something for MTV. Don't tell me that someone found that tape of me singing "Paper Moon" at last year's Christmas party, and it's now airing continuously on "Total Request Live" to the delighted squeals of Carson Daly's prepubescent army.

Then you remember: I didn't sing "Paper Moon" at the Christmas party; I sang "At Long Last Love." And nobody videotaped it; in fact, folks were quite adamant that I get down from the table and start behaving. And even if there was a videotape of me singing drunken renditions of standards, MTV would never air it. MTV doesn't show any music videos anymore, not when there's reruns of Road Rules to burn off.

And so logic dictates that your co-worker was just putting you on. You were not on MTV last night. Your neurons can shift down from overdrive and resume firing at their normal, turgid speed. And you can toss off a wry rejoinder at your mischievous co-worker, showing off your erudite wit.

"You're full of hot gas," I said. "Screw you."

Only thing is, it turns out I was on MTV. And, given the channel's penchant for rerunning shows until the tape disintegrates, it looks like I'll be on there in perpetuity.

Maybe you've seen the show MTV Sports: Time Out airing on the erstwhile music channel. In it, producers corner a star athlete and spend the next half-hour peppering him with questions about his hopes, his dreams and -- seriously -- his favorite color. In its opening week, Time Out has probed the minds of basketball icon Michael Jordan, skateboarding star Tony Hawk and, naturally, Dan Cortese.

Cortese, you may recall, once hosted MTV Sports, a show where he bungee-jumped off bridges, ran with the bulls at Pamplona, and otherwise risked life and limb to entertain an audience of 15-year-olds who just tuned in to see if MTV was playing a Whitesnake video. That kind of death-defying moxie has no doubt served Cortese well throughout his career, considering his current stint on Veronica's Closet forces him to share a craft services table with Kirstie Alley.

And, of course, flinging yourself off bridges also helps toughen you up for those times when certain ill-mannered but well-meaning Web sites have a cruel laugh at your expense. Not that I'm aware of such times.

Or, as the off-camera interviewer put it:

A TV critic, a guy named Philip Michaels, placed Dan Cortese in sort of a history of MTV VJs.

Cortese: Right.

And this is what the guy said.

Cortese: Uh-oh.

He said Dan is "The dean of ex-VJs, the pinnacle to which other poor, oppressed on-air talent should aspire."

Cortese: Was he at my house drinking before he wrote that?

Oh, the many emotions you feel upon hearing your name mentioned on a basic cable channel. And, for a change, not because of some indictment or a couple of missed child support payments.

First, of course, there's relief -- relief that MTV left out the rest of my quote where I showered Dan Cortese with scorn and ridicule for his unfortunate career choices, his whoring for Burger King and his hairstyle when he played Grant Show's long-lost brother Jess on Melrose Place. These critiques were offered in the spirit of constructive criticism and meant all in good fun. But try explaining that to a justly perturbed celebrity as he's shoving you head-first into a pizza oven. The comedy and incisive commentary don't flow so easily after Dan Cortese has popped your head like a zit, let me tell you.

Second, there's bemusement. I'm a TV critic? That comes as quite a shock to my employers, who pay me to write clever things about computers, not MTV personalities. This TeeVee nonsense -- this is just a hobby until my day-trading pays off. I don't see a dime from this Web site, although several thoughtful readers have offered me handsome sums to stop writing about TV.

The point is, I claim no particular authority when it comes to television, certainly not enough to merit a quote on a basic cable infotainment special. You may as well go looking for insight from the neighbor kid or the guy sitting next to you on the subway or -- if you're really desperate -- Salon.

Then, there's confusion. I consider myself reasonably educated, but Dan Cortese's cutting riposte has me puzzled. "At my house drinking when he wrote that" -- am I supposed to be cowed by that? Shamed into silence? Grateful that Cortese didn't threaten to hunt me down like a dog and punch me in the nose? Really, I'm not trying to be dense here. I simply don't understand.

And, in the interest of full disclosure, I was not at Dan Cortese's house drinking when I wrote the referenced article. Instead, I was over at Adam Curry's, finishing off a slice of his famous key lime pie.

(Kidding, MTV! That's the sort of inspired kookiness you folks can expect from us faux TV critics. Please don't dredge up that quote for the upcoming "Where Are They Now?" special on Adam Curry.)

Relief, bemusement, confusion -- all of these are powerful feelings summoned up by a mere mention on MTV. But they pale in comparison to the most prevalent emotion I felt as I heard my name coming through my Magnavox: an insatiable bloodlust for glory.

There are many reasons to work for a Web site such as this one. It's a great creative outlet. It's fun to write things that amuse other people. And I rarely pass on the opportunity to dole out free T-shirts. But for me, the biggest draw of TeeVee has to be the opportunity to see my name in print over and over again. Even now, I'm fighting the urge to just type "Philip Michaels" repeatedly, in increasingly larger fonts.

Philip Michaels
Philip Michaels
PHILIP MICHAELS
PHILIP MICHAELS!

Sorry.

Seeing your name on your own Web site is all well and good. But I got to hear it on television. I got my name onto MTV, and I didn't even have to live in a house with six other assholes to do it.

I used to wonder why Eleanor Clift would go on The McLaughlin Group to prattle on about health-care reform and gun control when it's clear she has trouble just putting a subject and predicate together. Now I know. Eleanor lusts for glory. Those pundits that make the rounds on Larry King Live and Crossfire and whatever airtime-filling fluff the Fox News Channel has thrown together? They long to see their name in lights, too.

And movie critics -- do you think David Sheehan of CBS-TV really believes that "Bicentennial Man" is "the most beautiful movie of the millennium" and that it "will make you laugh and cry at the same time?" While "Bicentennial Man" will certainly reduce you to weeping, I suspect that David Sheehan said what he said just to get quoted in the ad. And the fact that he's quoted in another ad for "The Green Mile" calling it "unquestionably, the best picture of the year" merely confirms my suspicion. The only thing unquestionable about "The Green Mile" is that pressure sores will unquestionably break out on your ass after you're forced to sit in one place for its three-hour-plus running time.

Which is when it hit me: MTV's passing mention of an off-handed remark of mine made more than a year ago has helped me realize what my life's calling is. I want to be a pundit. I want to be like David Sheehan or American Urban Radio Networks' Ron Brewington or Good Morning America's Joel Siegel -- those ubiquitous critics whose see-no-evil blurbs adorn movie advertisements across the nation.

The only problem is, I have a hard time dishing out unfettered praise like "A Classic!" or "A Triumph!" or "A Sure-Fire People's Choice Award Contender." So instead, I've decided to pioneer a new field for ubiquitous criticism. I will make a name for myself by offering left-handed compliments that could easily be construed as withering rebukes. That way, I can keep my editorial integrity while satisfying my overwhelming need for self-aggrandizement.

"Judging Amy is not nearly so stultifying and dull as you might imagine."

"Sure, the kids on The Real World come across as total sociopaths, devoid of any worth as human beings and deserving of one righteous beating after another. But, with them locked down in their own apartment... at least they're kept away from decent society."

"I can recommend no show over Shasta McNasty."

"Say what you will about Adam Curry, but the man makes a kick-ass key lime pie."

Feel free to use these quotes in your next ad campaign, newspaper article or social get-together. And don't worry about authenticity: I'm an official TV critic. MTV told me so.

But every now and then, a TV series comes along that, while generated by a movie, is even better than the film that spawned it. Sages of the video screen would probably explain that the motion picture format, while great a presenting you with a two-hour blast of excitement, can't really compete with the depth of character and plot that a continuing TV series can offer.

Others would simply say that "Buffy the Vampire Slayer" sucked so bad, there's no way that the Buffy TV series -- and it's a wonderful show -- could've ever been any worse than the original.

This is my way of explaining that I'm neither feverish nor simply suffering from bad television judgment when I tell you that not only is there a TV series based on the execrable Kurt Russell-James Spader opus "Stargate," but that it's actually a blast to watch.

Let me put all my cards out on the table. I rented "Stargate" a few years ago, because it made a lot of money and apparently had built up quite a cult following. For the next two hours, I stared in horror at my TV screen, watching an inexplicable plot about Egyptian gods who are really aliens with powerful spaceships but still insist on using slave laborers -- because no slave labor is more evil than unnecessary slave labor.

Kurt Russell was bad, James Spader was worse, and Jaye Davison -- the guy who played the girl who was a guy in "The Crying Game" -- got to wear a funny Egyptian headdress.

By the way, the creative team behind "Stargate" went on to make "Godzilla." So there you go.

Fast-forward a few years, and Showtime announces that it's given a 50-episode commitment to a new series called Stargate: SG-1, based on this awful film. A 50-episode commitment is a bit rich -- that's two years worth of episodes -- but apparently it was enough to get MacGyver himself, Richard Dean Anderson, to come on board as the character played by Russell in the movie.

Because Stargate: SG-1 originated on Showtime, it took a year or two for the series to make an appearance on free television. But now it's available in syndication on local TV stations all around the country. Since I'm one of those folks who refuses to pay extra for movie channels, it's only been recently that I've stumbled across this series. I gave it a try, and now I'm hooked.

Here's the concept: Us clever Earthlings have discovered an alien artifact we call the Stargate, a gateway to other planets. Or, in fact, we've rediscovered it -- the Stargate was used thousands of years ago to scatter humanity across thousands of worlds, a convenient explanation for why most of the shows guest "aliens" look like human beings. The prime users of the Stargate system, however, are the Goa'uld, a nasty bunch of parasitic creatures who take over humans as host bodies and rule most of known space.

The show follows a team of military specialists, called SG-1, as they use the Stargate to explore various worlds as well as gather information on how to protect Earth (and the rest of the galaxy) from the threat of the Goa'uld. The SG-1 team is led by Jack O'Neill (Anderson), who's got a harder edge than the weapon-free MacGyver had, but is far softer than the hard-as-nails military man played by Russell in the original film. Also on the team are Daniel Jackson (Michael G. Shanks, playing Spader's brainy-scientist guy part), Dr. Samantha Carter (Amanda Tapping), and alien strongman Teal'c (Christopher Judge). If you look close, you'll also recognize Don Davis as the team's boss, Gen. Hammond -- Davis previously played Scully's father on The X-Files and Major Briggs on Twin Peaks.

Credit the show's producers for showing some restraint. While there's a collection of recurring characters, the core of the show is only the four SG-1 team members. These days, most sci-fi shows -- in fact, most hour-long TV series in general -- feature a ridiculously large cast, full of poorly-defined characters who can be used interchangeably. In Stargate, each of the four characters is very clearly defined, has his or her own strengths and weaknesses, and functions with the other team members as part of a well-coordinated group. Take note, TV series producers -- less is more.

But ultimately, the part of Stargate: SG-1 that has me hooked is its premise. That's because Stargate has managed to outdo Star Trek at its own game.

The original premise of Star Trek was very simple -- the show was about visiting strange new worlds and exploring them. But this is where the reality of televison production intrudes: If you spend a lot of money building sets of the spaceship your characters use to travel from planet to planet, you want to get your money's worth out of them. And so all the Star Trek series (and their knockoffs) end up spending the bulk of their time onboard their ships themselves, boldly sitting where we've been sitting since we finished our cup of coffee in the ship's mess that morning.

That's where Stargate is different: it doesn't have the crutch of a spaceship to lean on. Sure, the show does have one major set -- the military bunker in which the Stargate is kept -- but it's basically an anteroom. The big stuff happens on the other side of the Stargate, on the surface of strange, far-off planets, populated with weird cultures and unknown technologies, as well as a liberal dose of danger. As a result, it's harder for Stargate to get caught up in the navel-gazing rut that ship-bound sci-fi series fall into with ease.

Sure, the show has its Earthbound episodes and its overarching story arcs. But almost every week, the show's four cast members participate in a scene that gives me exactly what I'm looking for in a science-fiction TV show: the purity, the excitement, of exploring the unknown: The SG-1 team stands at the shimmering, opaque entrance to the Stargate, not knowing what danger-filled alien world awaits them on the other side... and then they all step through.

It sure beats spending an hour sitting on the bridge of the Enterprise, let me tell you.

Jan. 11: In the largest corporate merger ever, America Online announced it would buy entertainment conglomerate Time Warner for $160 billion.

The merger combines the nation's largest online service with an entertainment powerhouse that includes magazines, record companies, cable TV channels, a movie studio, and the Atlanta Hawks. More importantly, it signals the growing convergence of established media giants and their newer Internet counterparts.

"Buying Time Warner gives us what any Internet portal longs for -- content," America Online CEO Steve Case said. "With properties like CNN, Warner Brothers, and most importantly, Atlanta Hawks center Diekembe Mutombo, we can give our subscribers the entertainment options they crave. And that gives us a leg up on our competitors."

Jan. 14: Leading Internet portal Yahoo upped the stakes in the simmering media wars today when it purchased entertainment giant Disney in a $200 billion stock swap.

"When you think of the best in family entertainment, you think of Disney," said Michael Eisner, who will head the merged conglomerate. "When you think top portals, you think Yahoo. Combine the two and you know what I say? 'Yahoo, Disney!'"

The first impact of the merger is already being felt. Disney-owned ABC announced it would change its slogan from "America's Broadcasting Company" to "ABC -- the network for Yahoos."

"We're keeping the yellow look, though," Eisner said.

Yahoo Disney also hopes to cross-promote its entertainment and online properties. Eisner outlined plans where Yahoo Web searches will now incorporate ABC stars.

"Let's say you're looking for Web sites about pants," Eisner said. "And all of a sudden, a computer generated Jenna Elfman pops up to tell you what her favorite URLs are. You would go there, wouldn't you?

"I know I would," Eisner added.

Jan. 17: Fresh off its merger with Viacom, CBS announced another blockbuster deal with its $272 billion purchase of AT&T. The merged company will control a TV network, production studios, long-distance phone service, cable operations and high-speed Internet lines.

"Let Disney and Time Warner bet the farm on risky upstarts like Yahoo and AOL," said Mel Karmazin, president of the newly formed AT&CBS. "Here at CBS, the network of JAG and Nash Bridges, we're much more comfortable with an old reliable like AT&T."

As part of the merger, Viacom agreed to sell its stake in the fledging UPN network to MCI Worldcom.

"[MCI Worldcom CEO] Bernie Ebbers owes me a favor anyhow," Karmazin chuckled.

CBS immediately announced plans to develop a new fall series entitled The Adventures of Ma Bell, in which a kindly grandmother (Angela Lansbury) will lecture viewers about the importance of making lengthy long distance phone calls during peak billing hours.

Jan. 18: The ongoing wave of media mergers picked up steam today as General Electric sold its NBC television unit to General Motors for $300 billion.

"Being part of the largest company in the world helps us keep up with the Joneses," a beaming Robert Wright said as he climbed behind the wheel of a shiny new Oldsmobile Cutlass Ciera.

"This is not your father's Oldsmobile," chuckled Wright, the CEO of GM's new TV and automotive parts division. "And this is not your father's NBC."

Programming chief Scott Sassa unveiled a cross-promotional campaign for the newly merged GMNBC, where new automobiles will play prominent roles in upcoming NBC productions.

"Maybe Frasier will be seen driving a Pontiac Firebird," Sassa explained. "Or Will and Grace can argue humorously about whose turn it is to wash the Chevy Camaro."

Sassa also outlined how the top-rated ER may be used as a promotional tool.

"In an upcoming episode, a patient will die after a major car wreck," Sassa said. "And Dr. Greene will shake his head sadly and say, 'This terrible tragedy would never have happened if that driver was behind the wheel of a Cadillac DeVille.' Because really, this is all about the synergy."

"We're also looking forward to taking advantage of GM's Internet and cable properties," Wright added.

GM has no Internet or cable properties at this time.

"Crap," Wright said.

Jan. 19: In a stunning move, GMNBC announced it would buy both USA Networks and EarthLink for $500 billion.

"Some people may argue that we've overpaid," a smiling Wright said, as he revved the engine of a gleaming Chevy Blazer. "But I ask you, what better way to stick it to AOL Time Warner and Yahoo Disney. They'll find the new GMNBC is built Ford tough."

"Ford Tough" is the long-time slogan of the Ford Motor Co., which earlier today purchased Amazon.com and Universal Pictures owner Seagrams for $502 billion.

"Ah, shit," Wright said.

Jan. 20: In the largest merger since yesterday, AOL Time Warner & Yahoo Disney announced they would join forces, forming the largest TV network, movie studio, amusement park & cable operator in the world.

Under the terms of the deal, AOL Time Warner CEO Steve Case and Yahoo Disney chief Michael Eisner will share power, duties, salaries and wives.

"Imagine, Bugs Bunny and Mickey Mouse under one roof," said Case, as Eisner rooted through his pockets. "Why, we might have a poll question on our online service, asking our online community to pick their favorite."

AOL immediately crashed and was out of service for the next six hours.

In a related story, the Time Warner-owned Atlanta Braves and Disney-owned Anaheim Angels announced plans to merge into a single team that would play its home games in Amarillo, Texas as the Amarillo BraveAngels.

"We look forward to being a valuable commodity in the AOL Time Warner Yahoo Disney empire," newly appointed BraveAngels manager Diekembe Mutombo said.

Jan. 21: After weeks of biding his time, Rupert Murdoch leapt into the thick of merger madness, purchasing drug maker Pharmacia Upjohn and merging it with his Fox television network.

"The addition of a top pharmaceutical firm like Pharmacia Upjohn adds untold synergies to the Fox family of entertainment properties," the Australian-born Murdoch said through an interpreter. "For one thing, TV stars are awfully fond of pills."

Pharmacia Upjohn recently acquired genetic engineering pioneer Monsanto -- a fact that was crucial to Fox's interest.

"Think about it," Murdoch said. "Instead of developing new shows from scratch, we can use genetics to clone smash-hit programs."

With that, Murdoch introduced five genetically engineered clones of X-Files star David Duchovny, which have been signed to appear in a hospital drama, a news magazine, two sitcoms and as the starting second baseman for the Los Angels Dodgers.

"That's the Monsanto Dodgers," Murdoch said.

Jan. 23: AT&CBS continued its buying spree, snapping up Minnesota Mining & Manufacturing, Freeport McMoRan Copper & Gold Inc., and Alcoa for a record $833 billion.

"Don't talk to me about the flash-in-the-pan Internet," CEO Mel Karmazin said. "At CBS, we like old-fashioned things. Things like the old-fashioned wisdom that comes in an episode of Touched By An Angel. And things like the old-fashioned strength and reliability of aluminum."

"Aluminum is our future, by gum," Karmazin added.

Jan. 24: In a deal that overshadowed Monsanto Fox's $900 billion purchase of Cisco Systems, 3Com and Hewlett-Packard, GMNBC bought Dell Computer and eBay for $950 billion and "a night with Jennifer Anniston that Michael Dell won't soon forget."

"Computers, cars, online auctions and Must-See TV," said CEO Robert Wright. "Does it get any better than that?"

To take full advantage of the purchase, NBC announced plans to drive up its merchandising revenue with special offers on eBay.

"Did you like that jacket Matthew Perry was wearing on Friends last night? Make a bid," Wright said. "Want to get your hands on that spleen Dr. Carter was tinkering with? Head for NBCBay. Think Christina Applegate is just the cat's meow? She can had for a song."

The ownership of human beings is expressly forbidden by the U.S. Constitution.

"Oh, fuck you," Wright said.

Jan. 26: Apple Computer took the world by surprise with an announcement that it would make an unsolicited takeover bid of AOL Time Warner Yahoo Disney.

"Here at Apple, we like to think different," CEO Steve Jobs said. "And no computer company has ever joined forces with a media conglomerate."

When it was pointed that Dell Computer became folded into media giant GMNBC just two days ago, Jobs skulked off the stage and spent the next two hours browbeating a subordinate.

Jan. 27: In a move that was long expected, Microsoft announced that it would be joining forces with Hell in a $1 trillion stock deal.

"Bill Gates has long been a loyal disciple of mine," Hell Chairman and CEO Satan said in a prepared statement. "With Microsoft's diabolically efficient Windows operating system, our company is now positioned to achieve maximum market share and return on investment."

"All hail my dark lord Lucifer," a smiling Gates declared. "Submit before his icy gaze, and feel the power of the black netherworld rising up within you."

Gates' appointment as Hell's chief operating officer forces out Satan's long-time second-in-command, Moloch, who's expected to take a similar job with the Times Mirror Co.

"Cowardly mortals, brace yourself for the torment of a thousand years of brimstone and fire," Gates said. "Bow down before our awesome torrent of hellfire. And expect a Windows upgrade sometime by mid-summer."

The Microsoft merger overshadowed Hell's earlier purchase of GMNBC for $1.5 trillion.

"Many NBC promotions executives were doomed to an eternity in the Lake of Sulphur anyhow," Satan explained. "So this seemed like a natural."

Jan. 29: The latest round of media mergers drew to a close today when AOL Time Warner Yahoo Disney announced a multi-part merger with AT&CBS Mining Co., Hell GMNBC, and all remaining components of the Dow Jones Industrial Average.

The new mega-company will be headed by the fused body parts of Michael Eisner, Bill Gates, Steve Case, Jeff Bezos, Rupert Murdoch, Larry Ellison and Ted Turner.

"It just seemed like a natural to join forces," Eisnergatescasebezosmurdochellisonturner said. "By bringing together our capabilities in the entertainment, high tech, pharmaceutical, precious metals, automotive and other industries, we're better able to serve our customers who, ironically, all work for us now."

Even Felicity her own bad self is a former Viking. (Note to Keri Russell: Should you decide to research your role further and decide to check out your character's Palo Alto hangouts, I'd be more than happy to help out. Especially if you need to research the area's intimate, candlelit restaurants.)

Now add Amy Stewart, destined to dwarf all other Midpeninsula television personalities, to that list. Sure, ESPN is nice, but basic cable? Bah. And the WB? It's cable through your rabbit ears.

Stewart can pooh-pooh her fellow Palo Altans because she landed a plum role on the biggest television show on the continent. That childhood spent singing "Annie" tunes in audition after audition has finally paid off with a recurring part on ER.

You saw her last week as Lindsey Cordova, the sister of a woman murdered by Dean Rawlins, a patient in County General's lockup ward. Lindsey was the one who went in to face Rawlins in order to find out where he disposed of her body, only to have the scumbucket fantasize about killing her instead. Stewart returns as Lindsey in Thursday night's episode with another big scene between her and Dr. Elizabeth Corday, played by Alex Kingston.

Despite the fact that Stewart attended cross-town nemesis Gunn High School, I decided my journalistic duty transcended petty alma matter rivalries. We did, after all, attend Walter Hays Elementary School together, where her acting career was already in full swing at the age of five.

By the time sixth grade rolled around, she was entrusted with directing the annual school play. Tryouts were held, with yours truly competing for the role of the villain with another, much more popular fellow. Roles were given based on class vote. Needless to say, I didn't get the part, yet Amy insisted I was the better actor and had lost out only because the selection process was a pure popularity contest.

It's still the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me.

Stewart continued down the path to being rich and famous throughout high school. and has racked up quite a resumé of commercials, including Quaker Oats, Century 21 and Washington Apples. And in the past couple years, she's begin to try her hand at stand-up comedy. If you're in Los Angeles, you can catch her at the Comedy Store or Luna Park once or twice a month.

Since network execs seem to be giving sitcoms to anyone with a heartbeat and a "What's the deal with airline peanuts?" joke, is there a Stewart or The Amy Stewart Show in the near future?

"I don't think so. I'm more of a serious actor -- comedy is just something fun to do," she says. "Besides, too often stand-ups meet with development people who try and build a show around them. I think you should have the show in place with good writers and good scripts and then bring the star in as the last piece."

Hear that, Sue Costello? Are you listening, Mike O'Malley?

This ER gig isn't Stewart's first brush with TV greatness. After graduating high school, she was called into a screen test against a couple other actresses for an upcoming series. She went to the audition, despite leaning toward taking a break from acting to attend college. Stewart didn't get the part and enrolled at UC San Diego.

In the meantime, Shannen Doherty ended up as Brenda Walsh on <i>Beverly Hills 90210. Doherty also married a Hamilton, posed nude in Playboy and acquired a reputation as something of a bitch. Stewart got a college degree. Sounds like a fair trade.

Last week's ER was directed by leading man Anthony Edwards, the regular Joe who just keeps plugging along as the heart and soul of TV's number one show while pretty boys Noah Wyle and George Clooney get all the press. According to Stewart, Edwards is a lot like his character, "warm and sensitive, a real kick-ass human being."

Yeah, sure, but I bet he spent all day bragging about being Goose in "Top Gun," right? Not even a passing mention about "Revenge of the Nerds?" What about "Fast Times at Ridgemont High?"

"Nope, he never mentioned it," she says.

Despite the fact it was her first appearance on big-time TV, Stewart was the focus of the most intense scene of the entire episode. Compounding the drama was the fact the shoot that day was running three hours behind schedule. But the waiting was no problem and she credits her acting coach, Julie Arilla, with keeping her nerves settled.

"She really taught me how to be prepared. The whole time I was waiting, I just wrote, asked myself questions about my character and listened to music that affected me emotionally. Lawrence Monoson (the actor who portrays Dean Rawlins) and I stayed in our trailers and didn't see each other until the shooting started."

Hold on a minute -- she got her own trailer? One with a shower, TV, VCR and refrigerator?

"It's nicer than my place," Stewart says. "I asked how much they would charge in rent."

This is what $13 million an episode buys these days. Trailers and really nice catering. Anyone who's ever worked in low-budget TV or film knows that the food set aside for cast and crew usually looks like it was purchased by someone holding a $100 Price Club gift certificate.

But the people who work on ER don't have to settle for the Tub o' Red Vines. "They said anything I wanted, they'd get for me. Veggie burgers, scrambled eggs, even smoked salmon," Stewart reported.

Excuse me, Mr. Crichton... have I mentioned my extensive acting experience?

Eventually, the shooting of Stewart's scenes intruded upon the non-stop gorging sessions. The first one, a quick snippet of dialogue between Lindsey, Corday and Lindsey's mom only took an hour. The second one, the showdown between Lindsey and Rawlins, took a few hours plus some rehearsal time.

Helping out the actors are a number of medical consultants, real doctors and nurses who make sure Edwards, Wyle, Kellie Martin and the rest of the stars aren't using the liposuction hose to give someone a tracheotomy. Apparently, being the most famous MD's on the planet hasn't given the cast any ideas. "I figure Anthony Edwards could probably do a good Heimlich, but I wouldn't want him cracking my chest open," Stewart says.

With a whole career to look forward to, she wasn't about to let me in on any of the real juicy stories. "Working with some of my heroes like this was incredible. The whole cast was very nice -- they've got no egos. They take their work seriously, but they don't take themselves seriously."

While she won't clue us in to what happens to the Rawlins-begging-for-death storyline Thursday night ("I've got a scene with Dr. Corday, but that's all I can tell you"), Stewart's acting future is looking pretty bright.

She's got a lead role in "Maid of Honor," an independent film that has been raking in the awards at 40 film festivals around the country and is an entry at the upcoming Sundance Festival.

"I play a closeted bisexual wife who just got married but wants it both ways," she says.

Not bad for someone who, while putting the finishing touches on our sixth grade play, gave a bunch of the girls giant frog heads and told them to dance.

Life sucks. Let's go lawn mower racing!

This is precisely the epiphany that struck about 11:30 last Sunday when I happened to flip past TNN (The Nashville Network) and witness the purely American spectacle that was Race 6 of the Sta-Bil National Lawn Mower Racing Series. You think I'm kidding of course. Not even TNN could be so desperately short of programming that they would place television cameras around a small dirt and grass track to record dozens of Southern guys, all of whom with some combination of Billy, Joe and/or Bob in their names, ride their lawn mowers in circles.

But apparently TNN really is that desperate. Considering I actually watched the entire show, perhaps desperation is a term also useful for describing those of us with nothing better to do late Sunday nights.

The thing about lawn mower racing, though, is that it's a real hootenanny to watch. The show's opening title sequence is far and away the best on the air. With Ennio Morricone rip-off music in the background and accompanied by the repetitive crack of either bullets flying or mowers backfiring, the segment introduces us to two bad-ass cowboys. One of the cowboys carries an electric edge trimmer, the other one sports a backpack-style leaf blower. These are the "Defenders of the Lawn" according to the accompanying text. The rivals square off in a corral, quick-drawing their respective gardening implements while the graphic "Mowdown Showdown" fills the screen in big, black letters. Monday Night Football, eat your heart out.

If, like myself, you are a lawn mower racing newbie, it's reassuring to know that TNN has professional lawn mower broadcasters like Steve Moss and David Stanfield on the case. Yes, that Dave Stanfield, the one that's dominated the Lawn Mower Racing Commentary category at the Emmys the past few years.

According to Dave, the track for Race 6 was going to be a tricky oval. "The key is turn four where it gets very slick going from grass to clay." Clay? What the hell is clay doing on the track? Where's the eight-inch Bermuda grass and monster dandelions? Who mows clay?

As it turns out, that's the real tragedy of lawn mower racing -- the grass is already mowed. The drivers don't even have to overrun their racing lines by a couple inches every lap to make sure they cover every last square foot of ground.

Lawn mower racing is divided into five classes, two amateur levels for people with unmodified lawn mowers and three professional classes: AP, BP and the most powerful FX machines. Powerful modified lawn mowers? Where's Tim Taylor when you need him? The point of lawn mower racing seems to be that Hank Hill, were he not a cartoon, could easily join the ranks of lawn mower champions. The drivers of these machines are never going to be confused with big-name athletes since most of them look like they took the afternoon off from the body shop.

The first race of the night was the BP class championship, with mowers featuring eight to 18.5 horsepower and top speeds up to 35 mph. Those are some kick-ass mowers. Maybe if my lawn mower did 35 mph, small children wouldn't have to be warned about getting lost in my front yard. Apparently the BP class machines are modified, but don't expect spoilers or ground effects since modifying a lawn mower appears to involve the random placing of sponsor stickers.

Giving your mower a name is also an important step in the modification process. On this Sunday alone, we viewers were introduced to "The Iron Maiden," "Mowtivator," "Sodzilla," "The Turfinator" and, I swear I'm not making this up, the "McDonald's McMower."

Races begin with a "Le Mans" start, which means the drivers stand about 15 feet from the mowers while waiting for the green flag to drop, then sprint to their machines and take off. Needless to say, the drivers find the sprint the most physically challenging part of a race -- some of these fellows were calling for water halfway to the mowers.

With the sweaty work behind them, the competitors were free to do what they were born to do -- drive like bats out of, well, maybe a slightly seedy neighborhood. As it turns out, lawn mower racing is equal parts razor-sharp tactical instincts and Schwarzkopf-like strategic planning. Or, as Dave put it, "There are two types of lawn mowers out here today: fast ones and slow ones. You don't want to be on a slow one."

As they sped off toward the first turn, Steve was heard to remark "There's a whole herd of 'em coming down the straightaway." Now, I used to work for an IndyCar racing team and have watched quite a few other motorsport competitions in my lifetime. Never once in either my professional or personal experience do I remember groups of cars being referred to as a "herd." It's just not a description that conveys the feeling of screaming down the back straight at 240 mph. Yet for some reason, "herd" fit right in with lawn mower racing.

You know those highlights of Indy cars crashing into walls and spinning through the air as a cloud of debris envelopes the vehicle? That's not exactly what happens in lawn mower racing. A mower crash is more like when you're six and your wagon slowly tips over after making too sharp a turn.

The crash did bring a horrible fact of lawn mower racing to light, however. They take the blades off the mower! What a rip-off! Haven't these guys seen "Ben-Hur?" Mower blades would be even better for destroying your opponents wheels than spiked axles. For crying out loud, you're only doing 20 mph -- a sharpened hunk of steel turning at a 500 RPM is the least you can do to bump up the excitement level.

Crashes in mower racing bring out a yellow flag, just like they do in NASCAR. That's pretty much where the similarities end. The problem with the mowers is that it's hard to tell the difference between yellow and green flag racing.

Stormer may have won the race, but it wasn't enough to keep rival Bob Cleveland from taking home his fourth national championship. The startling fact about Cleveland's triumph is that it is indeed the fourth one. This means lawn mower racing has been around since at least 1995. Major League Soccer is close to folding, the ABL is gone and NFL Europe in on shaky ground. Yet the USLMRA continues to thrive. There is probably some profound social statement to be found there, but I'm not sure I want to find it.

For those of you keeping track at home, Evan "The Garden Gangster" Billingsley won the AP class while Chuck Miller took home the trophy in FX class. Watching these races taught me an important fact. Namely that, although Huffy makes really crappy bicycles, their mowers kick some serious butt. One of the FX class Huffys can reach speeds of 70 mph. Yeah, but does it have a cup holder?

OK, so lawn mower racing isn't the Daytona 500 or 24 Hours at Le Mans. In fact, I bet I could enter my push mower and win the AP class, but that's the appeal. A couple of guys sitting around the garage one day, talking lawn care, get into a drunken boasting session about John Deere versus Honda. They decide to settle it like men, pushing their mowers to the limits -- a duel fought at almost 4 miles an hour.

All of a sudden, the USLMRA is born, TNN showers television dollars all over it and these guys can suddenly afford to choose Keystone over Pabst. It's the American Dream.

There's one more thing lawn mower racing has taught me: Any sport with a guy nicknamed "The Garden Gangster" can't be all bad.

Yes, most of our Zen questions come back to sports. We're charmingly simple-minded that way.

We love the sports. Take a bunch of behemoths geeked up on adrenaline and societal rage, slap some uniforms on them and tell them to have at it -- we'll watch that all day and all night, even if it's a rerun of the 1982 Holiday Bowl. There's nothing like the crack of a bat against a fastball or the crack of teeth against the boards after a breakaway down the ice.

And apparently, there's nothing like the crack that some of our readers are no doubt smoking when they wrote us to inform us that the too-twee-for-Tolkien card game Magic: The Gathering was not a silly pretend game, but, rather, a sport due our respect and admiration.

Which raises another Zen question: If a horde of nerds writes us, does making fun of them count as a sport?

Maybe you saw the article where failed high school quarterback Gregg Wrenn marveled that, somehow, the world championships of Magic: The Gathering had made their way on to ESPN2. The event, in Mr. Wrenn's estimable opinion, was no doubt the most ridiculous thing ESPN2 had ever aired -- no small feat considering that reruns of "World's Strongest Man" competitions from the early 1980s are a programming staple on ESPN's bastard, buck-toothed sibling.

Funny. Right?

Not if you're one of the few -- the happy, pale-skinned few -- who've forsworn women, conventional approaches to hygiene and contact with the outside world all for a taste of the glory that is Magic: The Gathering. Then Wrenn's playful little jabs come across not so much as a delightful commentary about life in these here United States, but more like a declaration of war against you and all you hold dear.

And there's only one way to respond to such a declaration of war -- with volume after volume of unfocused, poorly spelled e-mail!

Cory Baker offered the first salvo and a glimpse into the awesome analytical powers of the Magic player's mind when he wrote:

What a shitty article.

After that withering riposte, Cory yammered on about other people who may or may not be considered athletes -- Chess players! WWF wrestlers! Bowlers! -- and wondered how come we don't afford Magic: The Gathering players the same respect.

Because they don't send us really lame e-mail, Cory. And the wrestlers might kick us.

But it's when Cory tried to explain the elusive appeal to his silly little card game that he really lost us.

The object isn't to win against your opponent using a funny named card either. ...It is to have fun Same as teams celabrating after football game.

And that's why we have to wonder whether Magic is a sport, as Cory and his brethren claim. You see, most sports teams -- the Cincinnati Bengals being the notable exception -- actually play to win, whether through genuine athletic prowess or confusing the opposing halfback by flinging the Pit Fiend card at him shortly before knocking him senseless. As for the part about having fun, does Cory mean that Magic players and fans celebrate victories by dousing each other with Gatorade or, in the case, of Denver-based Magic fanatics, rioting?

Clearly, we haven't done enough research into the arcane world of Magic. Which more than one reader was happy to point out.

It's City of Traitors, asshole.

That fact-check comes courtesy of husband-and-wife team Rob & Janice, whom we can only assume are the Dick and Babe Zaharias of the Magic world. Also taking us to task for our failure to grasp the subtle nuances of Magic was James Falco. After happily informing us that Magic was "as much of a sport as chess" -- hey, no argument there, pal -- Jimmy then told us how he planned on spending Saturday night.

My freaky, geeky body is going to waddle to a friends house now and watch Star Trek reruns all night. *snort* Maybe we'll tape our glasses up, too.

We can well imagine.

Oh, how exciting life must be when you're a Magic athlete. It's only a matter of time before Dan Patrick is soberly reeling off the drunken driving incidents and paternity suits facing these elite card-players on SportsCenter. That is, when they're not too busy dispelling myths about their mystical sport by doing things which require kinesthetic skill and writing Web sites in a desperate effort to prove they're not anemic weaklings.

Or so UltraDzan would have us believe. He writes:

I play Magic but I also surf, play baseball and swim.

But after looking at his AOL profile -- and AOL users, that is the first thing we check when you send us e-mail, so you only have yourselves to blame -- we can only conclude that UltraDzan is a big, fat liar. Consider these enlightening entries:

Occupation: Part time badass; full time pimp
Personal Quote: "I'm not a drug dealer, I'm a street pharmacist."

Translation: To compensate for my stultifying suburban existence, I've opted to adopt the pose of the thug life. Either that or UltraDzan is the Latrell Sprewell of the Magic circle. And if so, then there's no telling what we can expect next: Imps braining us with an empty King Cobra bottle? Hos and succubi trying to get our Benjamins? An Orc patrol waiting to administer a beatdown?

Worse, as it turns out. More Magic players, like Tony Drew, bleating about how their silly card game is a sport.

Looking at many baseball and football lineman, with their massive guts,I wouldn't call them atheletes or what they do a sport either.

Tony, feel free to tell that to the next professional football lineman you meet. In the meantime, the alphabetically challenged n1ck p@gano proudly continues the Magic trend of atrocious misspelling and simplistic logic when he attempts to deconstruct football and baseball:

Let's evaluate football and baseball, shall we?

Football: throw ball, crush opponent, win game, break bones, lose brain cells, rinse, repeat.

Baseball: throw ball, hit ball, run, sit, rinse, repeat.

Notice how there is no redundency or routine like such in Magic.

By gum, he's right! Every single baseball game is like every other one! Each team has the same members, who perform the same actions, in the same set of circumstances over and over!

It's not like some card game at all -- nobody knows what will happen when the card wafts down to the table surface. Will it generate a draft that causes a monsoon half a planet away? Cut someone's finger as they tease it out of the deck? Nope, baseball and football are bleak treadmills of aimless activity. There's no strategy or skill involved at all.

Besides, after reading reader Anthony Justice's plaint, we're convinced that Magic players have it hard. In describing how "gruling" these tournaments are, Anthony writes:

Preperation for an event of this caliber is a tremendoulsy difficult task. the competors pratice for 8-9 hours daily, in all seriousness that has got to be as much as any other self claimed "sport"

Who knew? We had no idea that Magic was so physically taxing, or that its top players could rival UNLV basketball players in literacy scores.

Sadly, we do know that -- James Falco aside -- only beautiful people play. Beautiful people like the intriguingly mononamed "Jenkins" who opines:

I play the game, AND I'm a model. FUCK YOU!!! I get payed to be adored by people

What more is there to say? Congratulations, Jenkins, on your superior genetics and your fine Magic-playing skills. We know they'll serve you well later in life.

In all seriousness, though, we have the sinking suspicion that many of our Magic-playing readers didn't care for Gregg Wrenn's digs. Call it our intuition. Call it the dozens of letters laced with profanity and comical Olde English spellings. Or call it the plaintive wail of Brian K. Miller who writes:

If Greg Wrenn doesn't appreciate the challenge of Magic:The Gathering, why did he write the article in the first place?

Why, to make fun of people like you, of course!

No, no. That's not right.

For a group of people that pride themselves on their mental dexterity, the Magic Men seemed to have trouble grasping the gist of the article. It wasn't to mock and ridicule Magic players -- that's what this article is for. No, what Wrenn was getting at was that in a world of multiple 24-hour sports outlets that maybe, just maybe, the bar for what can be considered a televisable sport has been lowered somewhat.

And no, Magic players, your card game -- as challenging and orc-filled as it may be -- doesn't pass muster. Where do you draw the line? Televised Scrabble games? The World Championships of Rock 'em Sock 'em Robots? Essay writing tournaments? Jerking-off marathons?

We have a feeling that many of the guys who wrote us would be top contenders in that last one.

Try to telling that to Dan Ford who, in his all consuming lust for Magic, nerver learned that brevity is the soul of wit. Our Danny tells us:

I just finished reading the article posted on your website entitle Truly Magical Telivision, and after doing so I now feel the need to refute this article as incredibly insulting to a fairly large number of people

You mean the part where we claimed you're a bunch of over-serious weenies, without the good sense to laugh at yourself when you do something silly? That part?

Never mind. Dan goes on at great length to expound upon the and outs of Magic. Then, capping off an oratory that would do Stephen Douglas proud, Dan implores us:

I hope that you serisouly consider posting this email to your website, and maybe even consider extending an apology to those whom this article may have upset.

An apology? Hmmmmm. Let us think about that one for a moment...

No.

After all, it was reader Mike Klein who crystallized things so perfectly for us.

Your article is very disrespectful

Then our work here is done!

Additional contributions to this article by: Lisa Schmeiser.

I should explain: born and baptized a Catholic, I was planning on greeting the New Year with a Millennial Celebration. The Church was encouraging us to embrace the prospect of putting our mark on another thousand years of theology: 0 to 1000 CE -- we gave you martyrs, good for both instant sainthood and entertaining the heathen Roman masses; 1000 CE to the present -- you got the Crusades, the Inquisition and the Legion of Decency urging you to boycott Dogma.

Clearly, we've given the world a rich legacy of religious spectacle. But will it be enough when the Lord and Savior comes down to separate the sheep from the goats?

Or, for those of you who don't conflate my freshman chemistry class taught by Samir Patel with the New Testament, will being a member of the one true church be enough to guarantee salvation?

Frankly, I suspect not. The Legion of Decency thing makes me nervous. So I'm going to spend my last hours on earth watching the Eternal Life Network on cable and rededicating my life to Jesus without worrying about pesky denominational considerations.

Here I go: the first steps on my road to rededication.

6:05 p.m. I am watching a call-in show: three clean-cut and righteous people answering the phone calls of viewers. Two of the people on the show are guests; they are sharing their problem -- and its Godly solution -- with the host. I decide not to bother learning the names of the guests, the host or the show: after all, when we are all bodily assumed into heaven at the stroke of midnight, we will all be given new names under the Lord.

Or so I'm hoping, because it will be damned embarrassing to run into strangers and have to search their washed-white-in-the-blood-of-the-Lamb robes for a name tag.

As I understand it, the problem the two guests had is that their marriage was plagued by lust. This makes me sad: it seems like even the righteous are beset by Jerry Springer-like spectacles. But it turns out the lust is not directed at another man, woman, parental love-puppy or group marriage, but rather toward one's spouse.

On Oprah, this would be considered "healthy" for a marriage. Here, however, it's a problem. Fortunately, through prayer, any and all lust for one's partner has been banished.

I have difficulty reconciling this "solution" to its effect on a long-term relationship. I decide this is just one proof of the phrase "The Lord works in mysterious ways."

9:19 p.m. Mother Angelica, a relic of my old faith, is on. I watch as a test of my newfound relationship with a higher power.

After an hour of testing, I decide that Mother Angelica really should have paid more attention to the book of Revelations. And, for that matter, I should have too.

10:10 p.m. Fund-raising pleas. Since I went off money and onto the raccoon currency system two weeks ago, I'm unable to tithe one-tenth of my critters via phone pledge. I decide to see what the ungodly are watching tonight:

TNT -- The Seventh Seal
HBO -- the Prophecy
Sci-Fi: part four of The Stand
American Movie Classics: The Ten Commandments
MTV: Real World VIII: Helsinki

Oh, why won't the world read the signs it is given? I go out to read the parable of loaves and fishes to the raccoons while I feed them kippers and hardtack.

11:55 p.m. I am quivering with anticipation. In just five minutes, the lovely violet-haired minister -- who, I have been reassured several times, loves me enough to save me a seat at her right hand when she lunches with Jesus -- will taken home to meet the Lord. And we will all get to see it on television! Yes, even the righteous will be watching: from what I can make of the sermon, the Rapture will commence in the same fashion as boarding a plane: families with small children and those needing assistance go first, then the gold-class frequent fliers (televangelists), the silver-class frequent fliers (people who have died on the operating table, seen the light, then come back to tell us all what we're missing), then rows 1-30. Since I bought my ticket late, I'm going to have plenty of time to watch the spectacle.

I wonder idly if actors get frequent flier miles for portraying religious figures -- it distresses me to imagine that Jon Voight and Mary Steenburgen get to jump to the head of the line based on the Noah miniseries. I decide this idea is another test of my faith.

12 a.m. Nothing. My good friends at the Eternal Life Network are all still on camera, and looking vaguely surprised to be there. I walk over to the window and check the night sky: no horsemen yet.

I click over to MTV, and shriek "The whore of Babylon!" Upon closer inspection, I realize it's only Madonna, whose latest hairdo only appears to be comprised of serpents and a crown of seven stars on her brow.

12:15 a.m. Well, I've done it now: blown the biggest night of the last thousand years watching redneck televangelists, and I didn't even get my goddamned salvation for this. I even turned my back on the Church! Oh, God! Forgive me!

Fortunately, the Church is a lot like the Mob -- you're never an ex-member. I decide to do a rosary for penance and contemplate the third secret of Fatima.

I decide it says "The Millennium really starts in 2001."