February 2001 Archives

Ron Toms is cooler than you.

Toms has jumped into the Grand Canyon and surfed down a dam and pioneered the ahead-of-its-time subscription underwear business. He goes out into the desert with a catapult and a bunch of watermelons and a shotgun and combines them in interesting ways. He wants to build a machine capable of throwing a school bus. He has spent nights sleeping in his car and has owned a dot-com and has generally had more adventures than one person is supposed to be allowed to have.

But even ignoring all that, Toms is still cooler than you -- because he's been on Junkyard Wars.

Damned near the best show on television, Junkyard Wars is engineer-geek nirvana. Two teams -- each of three regulars and one expert -- race to build a device assigned at the start of each episode, using only what they find in an actual, working scrap pile. Ten hours later, the teams pit their machines against each other for the crowning glory of... Well, just winning, really.

Toms tells the following story of his trip to the show. He dispels a few myths (the definition of "ten hours" is pretty flexible), illuminates a few mysteries (the junkyard is seeded with required parts) and just generally makes us feel inert and lazy and couch-bound.

Because Ron Toms is way cooler than us.

I was a fan of Junkyard Wars from the first time I heard about it. I thought to myself that I would love to be on that show, but I was busy working 90 or so hours a week for a hectic dot-com and sometimes I didn't even get to watch. Then two things happened: The dot-com failed the business plan reality test and laid everyone off, and the producers of Junkyard Wars discovered my web site -- Trebuchet.com.

A trebuchet is a particular type of catapult that uses a heavy counterweight as its source of power, to rotate an arm with a sling and hurl things. "Trebuchet" is an old French word meaning "to tumble." The projectiles from a trebuchet tend to fall end-over-end in the air.

When I was 12 years old, I had read a story of a king whose castle was under attack. The attacking army captured one of his sons and put him in a catapult, hurling him against the castle walls. I thought that if you could eliminate the wall, it might be a fun ride! So 12 years later I got some friends together and we built one. It had 1,200 pounds of counterweight, was 20 feet tall and was designed from the beginning to throw people. We spent a whole day throwing each other into a river until the machine self-destructed.

At the time the show's producers found Trebuchet.com, the site was just that one story and a simple bulletin board where people could exchange information on how to build catapults. Apparently, they lurked on the message board for a while, then sent invitations to myself and one of the other Trebuchet.com regulars who calls himself "The Melon Musketeer." We weren't allowed to talk to each other since we'd be competing. We also had to audition. They sent us a list of instructions: 1) Get a video camera. 2) Demonstrate how a machine works using anything you can find. 3) Etc....

Months before the show, we were each given the task of hurling a ten pound pumpkin 50 yards into a bathtub. We had to come up with a detailed design and a wish list of parts we would hope to find in the yard. The producers actually have real engineers review the plans, and they forward lots of questions and concerns back to us. The designs are pretty well established before anyone gets near the set.

I had decided that a modern air cannon needed to compete against something more modern than a 700 year old catapult design, so I created an entirely new design of catapult for the show. This was going to be a test of accuracy, and I knew I'd only have a limited amount of time to adjust the machine, so I designed something with all that in mind. My design stumped the engineers on the show, and they tried to talk me into building a more traditional model. But I was able to convince them that it was worth trying. Actually I don't think I convinced them it would work at all. I think they were willing to let me fail. It is a TV show after all, and a spectacular crash can be just as dramatic as a win.

Once we got to England, we had a day to rest, which was really only a half-day with the time change, then one day for the team to practice welding, get costumed and get familiar with the set. The experts had to wander the yard looking for all the parts we thought we'd need and alert the staff if something important was missing. Filming started the next morning.

The teams know nothing until the show. The Musketeer and I weren't allowed to talk to each other beforehand either. We weren't supposed to know what the other team was building. Of course, MM and I knew each other from the board, and he knew that I was a trebuchet architect. I knew that he was an air cannon engineer. So it wasn't much of a suprise.

The first two hours go by in a flash. It's a new environment, everone's getting to know each other, and the experts have to teach the teams all the principles of the device that's going to be built. By the time the plan is in everyone's head and most of the parts have been collected, it's time for a mandatory lunch. We didn't want to eat, we wanted to work on the project! But they made us sit down for half an hour. One of the guys on our team didn't like the British food (bangers and mash and peas) and started throwing wads of the food over the fence at the other team. We had a massive food fight! I was disappointed that they didn't put that on the show!

After lunch, it's a mad dash to get the thing built. There really isn't enough time. None of the welds are solid, we only have enough time to tack things together. None of the measurements were accurate. My track wasn't level enough to survive even one firing. The Musketeer's air cannon wasn't air-tight, either. Remember, this is TV. If it looks like a machine, it's a machine. Still, everyone wants to make it as authentic as possible, so every minute is used to get as much done as we can.

The big secret about the show is that there is an extra day between the build and the contest. They call it a "safety" day. The teams get the day off, but the experts and some real professional welders and mechanics come in and make sure the machines actually will work and no one will get hurt or killed. In some cases I heard that they will actually deconstruct a machine and re-build it from scratch all over again. Of course, with no cameras, real professionals, a partially built machine and all the parts at hand, the second day is a breeze.

This is really only fair though. Even though they say we have 10 hours, keep in mind that first and foremost this is a TV show. That means that every team member on the show has a cameraman following them around, getting in the way, and regularly stopping him and asking him to "do that thing again" so he can get a better angle or framing or something. We had to repeat some things four or five times. That can suck-up a half hour right there. Anytime we were about to do something important we had to first tell the cameramen and wait for them to get in position. Also the host likes to come in every hour or so for mini-interviews with the teams and the experts. We may be working frantically, but when they do this we have to stop, take a deep breath and chat a while. This is TV time, remember. The last 15 minutes can take an hour or more! Watch how fast the sun sets on some of the shows in the last 30 minutes.

After it was all over, my team won, but only due to a friction problem and a flawed strategy by the other team. For small projectiles (like pumpkins) the air gun is much more powerful than a trebuchet, but this is a contest for accuracy -- we had to drop the pumpkin over a wall into a circle of bricks. (They determined that a bathtub was too small.) Hitting the wall of bricks counted for 30 points, but getting it into the circle without hitting the wall was worth 100 points. With only three shots apiece, the strategy to win was to lob it into the circle.

Unfortunately, the air cannon had a friction problem. Not enough power and the pumpkin got stuck in the barrel. Enough power to clear the barrel, and the pumpkin sailed about 30 yards too far! So they shot a high lob, and the wind blew the pumpkin off course to the side of the castle. No points.

We fired, but I had too much counterweight and we overshot by about nine feet. No points. The air cannon team should have recognized that the wind was a real problem, and level their cannon for a direct hit for only 30 points. This way they would be guaranteed a hit -- they had more than enough power for this. But no, they tried another lob and missed again. No points.

We adjusted our weight, and hit right at the base of the brick wall. A direct hit -- 30 points! The cannon had one shot left and now their only hope for a win was to get the lob. But the gusty wind killed it again. Zero total points for the air cannon.

It was great fun, but also very hard and incredibly stressful knowing that everyone in the world will see you and your handywork! There's a lot of pressure, too. I didn't even realize that one of my knee pads was on too tight, all day, and had cut off the circulation in my leg. I couldn't feel anything in that leg for a couple of days!

Between all the excitement, the time difference, an unusually severe heat wave and a hotel that didn't have air conditioning (typical for England) I hadn't really slept in about three days. I remember being totally exhausted when the show was finished and thinking that I was grateful I didn't have to go back and do another one. The experts don't go back even if they win -- the team gets a new expert each time. Of course, if they asked me....

The biggest perk to writing about television is that the people who work in the medium will never stop surprising you. Unfortunately, it's always the kind of surprise you feel while blindly reaching for the source of some mysterious kitchen odor and sinking your fingers into a six-week old burrito lodged under the fridge.

Sure the pay is lousy and the conference room pastries are decidedly stale, but for those of us with bottomless wells of righteous indignation, eviscerating the boob tube means there's never a dearth of bankrupt souls, ripe for damnation.

For example, the Fox News Channel program News Watch recently reported on the publication of some fan mail addressed to notorious n'er-do-well Theodore Kaczynski, the one and only Unabomber. Thanks to the University of Michigan and TheSmokingGun.com we can see that mixed in with the crazed rantings of Kaczynski's fellow tinfoil haberdashers are the crazed rantings of some of network news' biggest and brightest, all begging for an interview.

It turns out that Katie Couric, America's early-morning sweetheart, is something of a whore. She tells Kaczynski: "I look forward to hopefully hearing from you. I'd also be more than happy to just come and meet with you." Well, isn't that cutest thing. Katie and Ted, pen-pals forever. Maybe the Unabomber can join her and Matt for a cooking segment. I hear fresh roadkill really spices up Luddite Hermit Stew.

One of Barbara Walter's producers, a woman named Katie Thompson, assures the Unabomber that, "No one else could more powerfully express your views, and this interview would help bring readers to your book." That's just swell. Barbara wants to help Teddy sell some books. Maybe she could set him up with her agent who could get him some endorsement deals as well. Fruit of the Loom perhaps? Or maybe the Pitney-Bowes postage meter people?

Just imagine next Oscar night when ABC presents The Barbara Walters Special featuring powerful, touching interviews with Oprah, Burt Reynolds, Michael J. Fox and Theodore Kaczynski.

BARBARA WALTERS: Ted, if you were a tree, what kind of tree would you be?

THE UNABOMBER: The kind that made the paper that I wrapped my bombs in.

BW: That's very touching. I knew you had a sensitive side. Are you starting to tear up? Would you like a Kleenex?

UB: Kleenex is a clenched fist of oppression wielded with harsh impunity by the homogenized corporate superstate. Death to technological tyrants.

BW: So what do you think of Burt Reynolds?

A producer for Good Morning America tries reaching out to Kaczynski by bonding over shared 18th-century ideals and confiding that he too has "a cabin in the woods... that has no electricity or running water."

Wow, ratings at GMA must be way down if the producers are living in refrigeator boxes. You think Charlie Gibson even gets enough to eat?

Yet as bad as these examples are, the missive from Shawn Effran, a producer for CBS's 60 Minutes II is the clear winner of this Race to Destroy the Tiny Smidgen of Journalistic Credibility TV News Has Left. Effran, who probably wrote a follow-up letter offering to wash Kaczynski's car, explains that, "I want to give you the opportunity to show the American people that you are, in fact, rational, clear-headed and sane."

Of course, he's sane and rational. After all, he always used correct postage to mail his letter bombs which helped destroy the shadowy airline cabal that is conspiring to rule the world thru bad food and repeated showings of "Beethoven II." And you really do have to be clear-headed to try and commit suicide using your own underwear -- after all, it's not like he tried using somone else's.

If one were to check Effran's files, I'll bet one would turn up previous letters that included an invitation for Jeffrey Dahmer to debate the merits of vegetarianism, an offer for Timothy McVeigh to dispense fertilizing tips and a suggestion that Osama Bin Laden enlighten us about his Fourth of July plans.

The sad thing is that I'm not trying to make some tasteless, inappropriate one-liners here. Effran may not brag about it, but he'd do anything to get McVeigh or Kaczynski to talk and probably defends that lust with lofty talk about the public's right to know. Just like "the public has a right to know" which trailer-park hussy caused Jerry Springer's latest overweight lesbian couple to split up.

Naturally, the only person with any dignity remaining after this whole affair is the homicidal maniac. So far, Kaczynski has refused all interview requests and must be feeling pretty smug that his rantings about a demented society have been so nicely substantiated by network television news.

People sometimes ask me what my television guilty pleasures are. Normally, I respond that I'm not guilty about any of the terrible shows I spend my time watching, and that Cleopatra 2525 is a sadly underrated show. But lately, I've been forced to admit that I feel just the tiniest bit guilty about watching WOW: Women of Wrestling.

This show is so bad that even other wrestling fans look down on me for watching it. It's embarrassing, is what it is. And much as I'd like to come back with "Oh yeah? I suppose you think that watching a WWF pay-per-view is any better than watching WOW?" I have to admit that there's a sleaziness in WOW that not even the XFL can match.

To begin with, it's syndicated. That means not only is it not good enough to be on UPN, it's not even good enough to be on cable. When the WWF moved from USA to TNN, USA looked at WOW and said "Eh... Maybe we're not quite that desperate for a replacement."

Second of all, you remember GLOW: Gorgeous Ladies of Wrestling? It was on in the '80s, right around the Cyndi Lauper-Rock 'n' Wrestling thing. It was run by David McLane, the same "mastermind" that's behind WOW. The spectacle is pretty much the same: women in spandex running around a wrestling ring and occasionally throwing each other to the ground.

The main problem wrestling fans have with WOW is that the wrestlers aren't very good. They rely heavily on dropkicks, which rarely go higher than waist-level. Also, even for a fan base trained to accept "The Undertaker" and "Tazz," wrestler names like "Beckie the Farmer's Daughter" and "Jungle Grrl" are deeply unconvincing.

And, of course, people that already look down on wrestling can easily tell that it gets even less convincing when you take out the steroided-up freaks and add in, well, breast-implanted-up freaks.

So why do I like it?

Well, for one thing, the plots are cheerfully ludicrous, and I respect that. Bronco Billie is losing her farm? Oh no, it's been bought by the evil Disciplinarian! And the acting's no worse than you get on Black Scorpion or Tucker. And, yes, the fact that these terrible storylines are being enacted by pretty women wearing spandex helps things along. It's called the Baywatch Effect.

But if I was just in the market for cheesecake, I could just spend all my time surfing the Internet (and I do!). When I watch WOW: Women of Wrestling, there's actually something involving. Well, mildly involving, anyway. More involving than the average beer commercial, that's for sure.

You see, WOW is one of those shows that knows it's bad. It's not "camp." It's not "ironic." It's just bad. And it's bad in every way possible. The speeches are terrible (Jungle Grrl, who is allegedly from the rain forest or something, had to say "Put 'em in the ring and they'll find out. One. By one. By One. They will fall. They will lose. I will have that title belt. Jungle Grrl will be number one." Now, it's bad enough to have a line like that. But to have it read by someone in a leopard-print miniskirt, well, that's just bad. Bad bad bad.

Also, there used to be a rule in wrestling that all the characters had to have really unconvincing puns as their names. Isaac Yankem, the wrestling dentist. Paul Bearer, the mortician. WOW is deeply into that tradition, as it would have us believe that the basketball-playing wrestler is named "Slam Dunk," and the split-personality wrestler is named "Jacquelyn Hyde." Like "Jekyll & Hyde," you see. It shows a sense of history, albeit a history that's basically goofy and unconvincing.

But at least they have the courage of their convictions. In "real" wrestling, when there's a hair match, the loser gets a marine haircut. Here, the loser got shaved bald. It was kind of disturbing, actually. And I think that's a good thing, because the most involved I usually get with television is rolling my eyes at the foolishness of it all. Which I do a lot at WOW, too, now that I think of it.

I also roll my eyes at the commercials. Phone-sex lines, smooth '70s collections (whatever happened to Neil Sedaka, anyway?), and sex drugs. And Benny Hill video retrospectives.

And there's the general surrealism of the whole thing. There used to be a cheerleader team (of course there was!) composed of Patti Pep and Randi Rah Rah. Patti Pep turned evil (making her a cheerleader-gone-bad) and Randi Rah Rah was out of action with an injury, but just came back. With an eye patch. So there's an evil cheerleader and an eye patch-wearing cheerleader, both out there beating people up. How am I supposed to look away from that?

So there you have it. I have almost nothing good to say about this program. It has all the faults of pro wrestling (unconvincing storylines, bad acting, scripted outcomes) with none of the good points (Um... Is watching muscle-bound goons beat each other up for my amusement a good point?). It's amateurish and silly. It's on in the middle of the night on a channel that, if we still had dials, would require an extra-big dial to get to. The entire process of watching it makes me feel like I'm less of a person.

But I watch it every week. I almost paid thirty bucks for the pay-per-view. So, yeah, I feel guilty, but I like it. But do you know what the worst part is? I'm afraid it's not the worst thing I like. I'm convinced that any second now I'll think of something even worse that I watch all the time. And I don't think I want to face that about myself.

If you commit a crime on television, you never know how you're going to be hunted down. As a public service, we present a guide to what you can expect and how you can act accordingly.

Superhero Show (Black Scorpion)

The first thing to do is to get yourself a snazzy costume and a catchy name. You're going to be involved in three or four fistfights before you're finally brought to justice, so you'd probably do well to have a few witty retorts prepared.

If you're animated (look around; the background will be brightly colored and often only sketched in), you might also be attacked with actual superpowers, so it wouldn't hurt to have some kind of power armor or portable laser weapon.

If you find that you're getting away with your crimes (which are more likely to be "evil deeds"), it's good manners to leave taunting clues for the authorities. If the taunting clues don't work, make them progressively more obvious until you're essentially telling the local superhero exactly when and where you'll strike next.

Mystery Show (Diagnosis Murder, if that's still on the air)

You will be expected to commit your crimes in a complicated manner; try to plan all your actions so that they have a theme. If you only commit one crime (which will inevitably be murder), make sure to leave thousands of clues, both real and false, to occupy the heroes.

You won't have to do much during the actual investigation aside from being briefly interviewed by either the brilliant hero or the dimwitted sidekick. Don't worry about what to say; if you sound guilty, then everyone else will too. If you sound innocent, everyone will sound innocent. Sadly for you, just as you're feeling cocky, your nefarious plans will be found out, probably by your standing up and confessing in the middle of someone else's trial.

Scientific Police (C.S.I.)

If you find yourself being tracked down by science cops, there's very little required of you, aside from committing the crime in the first place. It would help if your crime involved some arcane tidbit of forensics that the heroes can use to lecture each other about, but it's not necessary.

Don't be concerned if it seems to take an excessively long time to bring you to justice. Sometimes this kind of television police force likes to solve crimes decades after they were committed, just to show off.

It's polite in this circumstance to listen attentively when you're lectured on the scientific details that caused your downfall. Try not to ask questions like, "Whut's a DNA strand?" Remember: it's not about you; it's about science, and how smart the stars are.

Police Drama (NYPD Blue)

There's a chance you'll be knocked around a bit when you're arrested. There's also a chance you'll be totally ignored as the arresting officers might spend all their time talking about relationships or movies or something.

It might be good news for you if you find yourself up against this kind of television police force, since you might get to go free in a stark indictment of our justice system. On the other hand, you might get shivved in the holding cell in a stark indictment of our justice system. It could go either way, really.

It doesn't really matter how you act, since it's important that these shows get a wide range of criminal. You can even behave like you're on a Superhero or Mystery show, although then you'll have to deal with being the "crazy criminal" that week.

Police Sitcom (Barney Miller, which I realize was awhile ago, but you never know)

Try to commit an entertaining crime, like thinking you're a werewolf or something. Once a season, somebody gets to be a Very Special Episode, so you might want to be prepared to be a terrorist threatening to blow up to police station. However, don't get too excited, since under no circumstances will your foul plans actually come to fruition, although you might accidentally kill one of the supporting characters.

BattleBots (BattleBots)

Don't be stupid. If you're committing a crime on television and suddenly discover you're on BattleBots, something has gone terribly wrong, and I can only recommend that you weld some whirling blades to your frame and try to fit in.

Oh, and see if you can do something about Bill Dwyer. That guy bugs the snot out of me.

Lawyer Show (Law & Order, Law & Order: SVU)

Good news! Depending on the show, there's a chance you're innocent! You'll know right away, because if your defending attorney talks twice as much as everyone else you run into; that means you've got one of those lawyers that never loses a case.

However, if your lawyer spends a lot of time in meetings with the prosecution and the judge, they're probably all obsessing about how it can be fair to give slime like you a fair trial. Being a criminal on this sort of a show is a bit disappointing, since someone else gets to make the big dramatic speech at the end. Maybe if you get the death penalty, you'll get to make a redemption-style apology to the families of your victims.

Reality Show (Cops)

Clarification: I'm talking about the Cops kind of reality show, not the Popstars kind of reality show. By the way, this has nothing whatsoever to do with the issue at hand, but isn't Popstars just "A Chorus Line: The Series"?

You'll know right away if you're to be up against reality show cops, since the screen will be all shaky. Also, you'll be yelling a lot. The appropriate etiquette is for you to run for a couple blocks before being taken down. Also, shout as many obscenities as possible. If you want to appear on one of those "Too Hot For TV!" videotapes, you'll probably want to drop your pants at some point.

Oh, and it's recently become appropriate to drive as quickly and unsafely as possible.

Supernatural Show (The X-Files)

You might not have to be a criminal to get the attention of the federales; sometimes they'll just show up and start asking questions if you're an alien. Or a mutant. Or engaged in a massive conspiracy to rule the world. Or if you cloned their sisters.

The most important thing to know is that you'll probably have to squint, because the lights will be turned down, and there might be fog everywhere. You don't really have to worry about being brought to justice, though, so just hang loose. It'll pass.

DISCLAIMER: TeeVee does not advocate committing crimes on television. It's much better to become sick on television (Coming soon: "Medical Behavior for Dummies!"), have adorable moptop children on television, or hang around a coffee shop on television with your buddies. On television.

There comes a point when you begin to wonder if television is exerting perhaps too great an influence on your life. You look back and tally the wasted hours and the extra work that has gone into your habit, and you begin to think of what might have filled that time instead of the flickering cathode glow. You begin realize that what you are doing for TV, for the deluge of swill it mercilessly, endlessly pumps out, is entirely out of proportion to what it does for you.

Or at least that's what I was thinking when I found the dead rat.

A few weeks ago, burly workmen arrived carrying the new couch my wife and I had ordered. Its appearance was the result of an extensive, exhaustive search -- long hours spent suffering through the minutiae of multi-person leisure furniture, researching the historical importance and impact of each of our options: the features of the futon, the substance of the settee, the characteristics of the chaise. We spent more time birthing this sofa than our children.

We knew we wanted something to watch TV from, and we knew we wanted to be as inert as possible while we did it. Our old sofa actually required the use of neck muscles to keep our heads from nodding forward, and we were going to learn from that mistake.

After the sofa was pushed against the wall and the plastic wrapping was stripped away and the "Do Not Remove Under Penalty of Law" tags were removed, we edged up to our new home-within-a-home, turned, and planted our asses on it with all the grace that the word "plant" implies. And then, in that instant, we knew -- we knew -- we had found exactly what we were looking for. Clouds parted and angels trumpeted and we had forged our own little slice of visual spectrum heaven: an honest-to-God La-Z-Boy sofa, with dual spring-loaded, integrated, independent footrests and wall-flush full reclinability. Without the gimmicky distractions of a built-in refrigerator or an Internet connection -- my wife wouldn't let me get them -- this baby was fertile potato field, a high-tech command chair for commanders who happen to fall asleep during The Daily Show. Oh, yes.

The only problem was, it was on the wrong damned wall.

The cable outlet was against the west wall, meaning the couch was against the east wall, meaning that there was no way to actually squeeze our unplanted asses out the sliding glass door against the north wall. Normally, access to the outside world wouldn't be a big concern -- Chinese food is delivered by the front door, not the back -- but sealing off the yard meant that the dog would eventually starve, and probably do a lot of distracting barking in the meantime. And so, armed with a drill, a measuring tape and fifty feet of coax, I slid the parts of me that would fit under the eighteen inches that my house hovers off the ground and began to crawl.

The underside of a house is a world unto itself, populated by piping and duct work and inconveniently-placed floor supports and a fine, dark dust that turns to mud at the slightest contact with sweat and gets up your nose and into your lungs and down the front of your pants. I plowed a trough through the muck, grit coating my teeth, my tongue, my eyes, and found the spot under the east wall where the cable outlet of my dreams belonged. I drilled a hole in the floor and fed the coax up through it and into a junction box I had put into the wall earlier. Gathering my tools, I trudged on, trailing cable behind me. The splitter was on the other side of the house and I had a lot of winding, turning, vent-avoiding crawling to do.

Halfway there, of course, I found the rat.

God knows how long it had been down there. It wasn't so much a body as a white, desiccated shell, still held in rat-shape by the mysteries of nature. Half-buried in the dust, I was almost on it, over it, when I saw its beady little lack-of-eyes staring up at me.

And it all came collapsing in. What the hell was I doing down here? What the hell? Was I insane? Soaked, dirtied, sore, bent, under an expensive new couch, and face to face with the corpse of an animal that, if The X-Files is any indication, has the distinct possibility of suddenly coming to life and eating my face. And for what? Television? For sixty or seventy channels of crap? For more of my precious youth, pissed away? For the numbing, narcotizing slow death that is modern American televised entertainment?

Good God, was all of this worth it?

Of course. Don't be stupid. I went around the rat, hooked up the cable and, dude, it's awesome.

In the annals of phrases that just don't sit right, "subtle television" is probably nestled between "classy porn" and "benevolent dictator." It's a hard phrase to process -- subtlety is composed of restraint, forethought, understatement, aesthetic precision. Television, on the other hand, is made up of such works as MTV's Undressed, the XFL and Cybill Shepherd. This is not a medium that rewards subtlety.

Some -- devotees of Marshall McLuhan or anyone currently suffering through his work in a communication theory class -- will argue that television is inherently incapable of subtlety. To quote Canada's weirdest national resource, "In television there occurs an extension of the sense of active, exploratory touch which involves all the senses simultaneously, rather than that of sight alone. You have to be 'with' it."

In other words, television is the media equivalent of a three-ring circus. There's no chance for subtlety there. McLuhan more or less confirms this when he draws the dichotomy between "cool" media and "warm" media; the temperature gauge refers to how extensively one or more of your senses gets saturated with information. Reading is hot, since you're processing a lot of information via your eyesight. Television is cool, since more than one of your senses is engaged, and all of them have to work hard to gather and interpret information.

This is where that twaddle about the medium being the message comes from. Want to convey a detailed, precise, rational, subtle argument? Use a hot medium. Want to go for a simple, emotional sucker punch? Go with a cool one.

I couldn't help but flash back to the interminable hours I spent reading McLuhan the last time I watched 100 Centre Street. The new A&E series triggers the comm theory flashback precisely because it's attempting to do the impossible: create a subtle, compelling television show.

The show's aesthetics were the first clue: the theme music sounds like it's coming from two rooms away, and the credits are muted chalk sketches of the show's principles. Since the show revolves around night court cases and the people who work them, every other scene takes place under cool fluorescent office lights. Nobody has worn a color brighter than mauve.

The acting is understated too. People who think Dylan McDermott's turning in a fine performance may be bored silly watching Alan Arkin and LaTanya Richardson quietly debate judicial leniency, but it's a delightful departure from the scenery-chewing antics in most courtroom dramas. There's a scene in the first episode where Richardson -- who plays a hardnosed judge Atallah "Ayatollah" Sims -- goes over to the house of her best friend and judicial opposite, Arkin's Judge "Let 'Em Go" Joe Rifkind. The quiet discomfiture when she meets his wife, and the two women realize that they've known about each other for years yet are only meeting now made that moment riveting.

The stories are ambivalent and the endings ambiguous. There are no plaster saints working in the judicial system: everybody's good intentions are compromised by circumstances both within and out of their control. One prosecutor's single-minded faith in the system is undermined by her attempt to use that same system to help a friend of hers who's a homeless bipolar depressive; another compromises his own career at the beseeching of his father. Whatever happy endings there are usually come from someone learning that yeah, the system doesn't work but that's not the end of the world.

So: exquisite aesthetics, actual acting and uncompromising storylines. This should, in theory, be a winning series. And if that golden triangle of elements isn't enough, the entire enterprise is helmed by Sidney Lumet, the man who gave the world Fail Safe (the original, not the George Clooney remake), the televised versions of The Iceman Cometh and Rashomon, 12 Angry Men and Dog Day's Afternoon. Sure, he's also responsible for Shining Through, but they can't all be gems, folks. The point is that the man knows how to tell tough stories in an entertaining way.

Or does he? I've watched every episode of 100 Centre Street now, and I still can't make it through the show without my attention wandering. At first, I thought it was me; I figured that all those hours spent reviewing terrible new shows, smirking ironically at Raw is War and watching silly sci-fi series had finally caught up with me, and I was now incapable of focusing on anything that lacked small words, pretty lights and loud noises.

And then I figured out a way to shift the blame. It all comes down to Marshall McLuhan -- he's the one who theorized that movies are hot media -- information-rich experiences that demanded very little from the audience. What McLuhan neglected to mention was that movies offer something television shows don't: closure. We walk into a movie, we walk out two hours later and the experience of watching the movie is over. You can think about it until the cows come home, you can chew on all that information you were, in theory, processing while you watched the film, but you've got some measure of closure from your day at the movies.

Consider a television show: the addictive -- or horrifying -- thing about any show is that it's going to be on again later. The overarching narrative spins out over a series of installments, demanding sustained attention. Combine that with the hunt-and-gather aspect of sussing out and interpreting the actual content of the show, and it's easy to see why McLuhan contends that television is all-absorbing.

In other words, think about how tiring it is to try to keep the who's-sleeping-with-whom data straight on something so simple as your typical Aaron Spelling vehicle.

Now imagine that spending an hour with your brain on overdrive, trying to resolve the interesting, understated points an episode of 100 Centre Street raises. And the frustrating thing is: I do this, week after week. And there's the occasional resolution -- but it's only temporary, before things get even more complicated in the plot.

In a movie, this is what keeps you glued to your seat even after the 32 ounces of Diet Coke you drank in the previews are clamoring for escape. In a television show, this sustained ambivalence only makes your head hurt.

A good television series manages to balance self-contained episodes against season-long or series-long themes. It's a challenge that's unique to the medium, and it's entirely due to the reasons we watch television: to immerse ourselves in the entertainment, and to safely and repeatedly enter and exit the experience. A seasonal theme is usually the most elusive thing about a TV series, whereas the story in each episode is the most immediately satisfying.

100 Centre Street is subtle in all the wrong ways, and that's why watching it throws me off-balance: the overall premise of the series is as clear as a bell, but each episode is so unresolved, it's like watching Act II of a movie without benefit of the preceding or final acts.

So it's frustrating to watch 100 Centre Street, because it's almost a great show, but it's in the wrong medium. And what makes it even more frustrating -- at least for me -- is every time I watch the show, I think McLuhan may have been right. The medium is the message -- and I want a messenger who gets the medium.

This was supposed to be The Big One, the mother of all heavyweight bouts. Think Ali vs. Frazier. Patton vs. Rommel. Brown vs. Board of Education. 1960s Celtics vs. 1980s Lakers. Shirts vs. skins.

Think about them all. And then multiply it by ten. Because this pier-six brawl was going to make those stand-offs look like naptime down at the local preschool.

Survivor vs. Friends -- the Rumble for the Ratings. The Duel over the Dial. The Punchfest in Prime Time.

In the red corner, you have Survivor: The Australian Outback, the sequel to last summer's TV phenomenon. Airlifted into a new exotic locale and restocked with much more attractive contestants, this second serving of Survivor promises to stomp any show in its path to Nielsen supremacy -- the widow-maker of the reality-programming genre.

And in the blue corner, there's Friends, the aging-but-game ratings champion. Armed with the kind of promotional muscle that Joseph Goebbels would envy, Friends underwent a rigorous training regimen to bulk itself up by an astonishing 10 minutes. The result? A muscular, mean show-killing machine that will defend NBC's Thursday night turf like a cornered wolverine protects her pups.

Survivor vs. Friends -- Thunderdome-style! Two shows enter. One show leaves. If only they decided presidential elections this way.

So after the first two rounds, which show can claim victory? Both, actually. Just as both Survivor and Friends can be considered the loser in this head-to-head contest -- though not losing as badly as the other shows that occupy the Thursdays-at-eight time slot.

In week one, Survivor scored a 17.3 rating, which translates to about 29 million viewers. Friends tallied a 14.2 rating, or 22 million viewers. And even a product of the California public school system can tell you that 29 is greater than 22. Those numbers essentially held up for week two.

But before you send a condolence card to the Friends widow, NBC would like to point out that its numbers in the 18-to-49-year-old demographic -- the group that appeals to advertisers the way winos go for Thunderbird -- are extremely comparable to Survivor's, thank you very much. And ratings for Friends haven't dropped off any since Survivor moved into the neighborhood. In fact, the bloated Friends episode that went up against Survivor for the first time actually posted a higher number than the show's season-to-date average.

Which means that viewers are flocking to CBS at the expense of Gilmore Girls, Whose Line Is It Anyway?, WWF Smackdown and whatever caught-on-tape abomination Fox has cobbled together this week. It's as if Mike Tyson and Evander Holyfield got together for a boxing match and wound up joining forces to beat the tar out of a couple of people sitting ringside.

Which could happen at a Tyson fight, come to think of it.

Not that CBS and NBC should be lighting victory cigars with charred copies of TV Guide. The current hoo-ha over the Survivor-Friends showdown has only distracted people from noticing some major problems waiting in the wings for both shows.

Friends' troubles have been brewing for a while. It passed the freshness date for sitcoms long ago, the once-beautiful cast now looks desiccated or bored or a combination of both, and there are just so many variations on the "Chandler and Monica have a comical misunderstanding" theme that you can pull off in a season or two. To top it off, the show hasn't changed or evolved since it hit the airwaves in 1994. And as charming as a cadre of aimless twentysomethings who spend all their time with one another may seem in season one, it becomes kind of dreary and sad once they log a few more years on the odometer.

And consider this: facing their gravest ratings challenge since going head to head against Living Single, how do the creative forces behind Friends respond? By tacking on another 10 minutes -- four, really, after you subtract the commercials -- of sex jokes.

(It's also a testament to Friends' overrated impact on NBC's prime time fortunes that the only show to ever benefit from the ratings lead-in has been 20 minutes of sketch comedy from a 26-year-old variety program. If nothing else, the success of the Saturday Night Live filler on Thursday nights should convince the network to take any executives in charge of developing sitcoms for the past five years and exile them to the promotions department of NBCi. Lord knows, they can't do any more damage there.)

As for Survivor, things seem to be going great now. Enthusiasm hasn't waned since the summer, the show battles ER for the top spot in the weekly ratings, and CBS has ordered enough installments to carry us through the waning days of the Bush administration.

But fortunes can change quickly when you're banking on public sentiment for your success. And if you want any proof how TV networks can not only kill the golden goose, but bludgeon it, gut it, and melt it down to lead, all you have to do is turn your gaze to another Thursday night ratings loser -- ABC's Who Wants to Be a Millionaire.

No one could have made a statement like that a year ago. Like a feudal king, Millionaire ruled the prime time universe, single-handedly reviving a network's fortunes and striking fear into the heart of rival programmers. It didn't matter when it was on -- people tuned in to watch Millionaire. They talked about Millionaire. They even dressed like Millionaire's Regis Philbin. For a time, it seemed, the sun wouldn't come up in the morning without an OK first from Regis.

ABC executives did what anybody would do in their place -- what you would do if you were in charge of a TV network with one hit show and nothing but a lot of offal starring Geena Davis on deck. They stuck Millionaire on four nights a week and muttered a hasty prayer that the American public wouldn't get too bored with the show.

Unfortunately, the American public did get bored -- they got bored so fast, it may have broken the sound barrier. And, like any sentence that contains offal and Geena Davis in close proximity, the results were not pretty.

Millionaire's ratings are off 26 percent from last year. And the viewers fleeing ABC in droves are the young, demographically appealing ones; the average age of ABC's viewers has climbed to 46.1 years, up nearly five years from where it was before the Millionaire glut hit. What's more, Millionaire's inability to launch other shows has Friends looking like a kingmaker -- not good news for a network that hasn't debuted a hit new sitcom or drama since the four-years-old-and-fading-fast Dharma & Greg.

And Thursday nights? Don't ask. Millionaire, which airs at 9 p.m., was the fifth-highest-rated show on Thursdays before Survivor landed. The next week, it fell to 19th overall -- better than a poke in the eye with a sharp stick, but not the kind of numbers you like to see for your flagship show. It means the viewers watching Survivor and Friends are sticking around to watch CSI and Will & Grace, respectively, instead of flipping the dial to watch Regis stump shut-ins and housewives.

Make no mistake: Millionaire's producers are in full panic mode. In a transparent and admitted attempt to bolster interest in the show, they've started boosting the jackpots whenever someone fails to hit the million-dollar threshold. They've conjured up gimmicky theme programs and even invited celebrities on air to show off their knowledge -- or lack of same. There's a reason, after all, that Rosie O'Donnell is hosting a talk show instead of charting the human genome. This week, musicians get their turn in the hot seat, finally answering a question that has plagued mankind for generations -- just how much does Metallica's Lars Ulrich known about obscure sports trivia?

Millionaire, it seems, is about to run out of lifelines.

That's worth remembering as Survivor bestrides the prime time landscape like a khaki-clad Colossus. Jeff Probst and his band of merry publicity-seekers are living high on the hog now but will people still tuning in by Survivor IV: Kuala Lumpur or Survivor V: the No. 7 Train to Queens?

Still, it's funny -- with all this jawing about Survivor taking on Friends, who would have thought that it would be Regis that would wind up voted off the island first?

I like to tell myself it's all part of my rigorous and unending quest for self-improvement. But really, it's just because one day when someone says to me, "This swill tastes like it came off the back of a Rice-a-Roni box," I want to be able to retort, "Well, actually, I saw it on Emeril Live, and besides, Rice-a-Roni is the staple of any healthy diet."

We all have our demons. Mine just happen to be rice-related.

The point is, I tape a lot of cooking shows. And the other day, I recorded one that I thought could give the venerable Good Eats a run for its money as the king of all food-related programming: Cooking Secrets of the CIA.

I'm not ashamed to admit it -- I had really high hopes for this show. I mean, who wouldn't be interested in learning all about the heretofore covert cooking techniques they're teaching government spooks down at Langley? Stuff like how to make canapés for a mid-size dinner party without making a mess or blowing your cover. Or preparing a roast pork using nothing but a handful of seasoning you managed to pilfer from the black market and a piano wire you used to garrote your Soviet shadow. Or the secret behind William Casey's jerk chicken legs (Here's a hint -- the secret is in the nutmeg).

"So after I assassinated President Mobotou using my trusty Glock," I envisioned one of the guests saying, "I added another coat of glaze to the ham and went to work preparing the garlic broccoli. Then I made sure to burn my identity papers."

I mean, the KGB would kill for this kind of stuff.

Sadly, it turns out the CIA with the cooking secrets is not the Central Intelligence Agency at all, but rather the Culinary Institute of America. It also turns out that I'm apparently a moron. And while the Culinary Institute show taught me a lot about marinating shrimp and whipping up a nice mango chutney, it had precious little to say about poaching salmon while trying to undermine the government of a rogue nation or making cheese fondue as you debrief a double-agent at a Prague safehouse.

And that's the sort of information we aspiring chefs need.

Maybe you read this Web site fairly regularly and have formed an impression or two about the folks who do all the writing and handle the production and swing the lucrative cross-promotional deals. Maybe working for TeeVee seems like it's more fun than Friday night at the Clinton pad when Hillary's back in Washington for a committee hearing and Bill's having the interns bused in. Maybe you log on to us each day thinking, "My, those Vidiots seem like a charming bunch of guys and gal. With the banter that must go on at TeeVee headquarters, I bet it's a regular Algonquin Roundtable there, only without the rampant alcoholism."

Well, you're wrong. Wrong about how fun it is and how chummy we are and all that banter that's supposedly taking places. And wrong about the rampant alcoholism. Especially wrong about that.

Personally speaking, the past four-plus years of writing for TeeVee have been like hell for me. Not a day goes by that I don't suffer some slight at the hands of my colleagues. If it's not Rywalt leaving a mess in the break room, it's Pete Ko snagging all the blueberry scones on Free Muffin Thursday. Indignity after in-damn-dignity gets heaped upon me. And I'm not going to take it any more.

Later this afternoon, I'm filing suit against TeeVee Inc., seeking unspecified damages to compensate me for years of abuse and mental cruelty. This isn't about the money -- though, obviously, the money is substantial and awfully, awfully important. No, this is about respect. This is about standing up for yourself. This is about righting egregious wrongs.

And I have Stacey Stillman to thank for showing me that I don't have to suffer in silence any more.

Stillman, you may recall, is one of the cast members of the original Survivor -- the group that ate rats off the coast of Borneo last summer as opposed to the folks currently choking down insects in the wilds of Australia. If you don't remember Stillman, that's perfectly understandable -- the San Francisco attorney wasn't on Survivor for all that long. In fact, the tribe booted her off the island after only three episodes. And so Stacey Stillman faded from memory, while America got up close and personal with Rudy and Susan and Richard, the devious, fat, naked guy.

Most people would have figured they lost fair and square. Not clever Stacey Stillman. She smelled a rat -- and not just the rat that Gervase was frying up on the other side of the island.

So Stacey Stillman, attorney-at-law, did some digging. And she was able to uncover a conspiracy so nefarious, it made the Kennedy assassination look like a fraternity hazing prank. She discovered that her banishment may have been a result of skulduggery and chicanery on the part of producer Mark Burnett. Before the fateful vote that sent Stillman packing, Burnett reportedly paid a visit to Survivor contestants Dirk Been and Sean Kenniff, urging them not to vote to banish Rudy Boesch. Stillman reasons that Burnett had Rudy's back because the cranky ex-Navy Seal gave a good sound bite and fit CBS's desired demographic profile to boot. So it was out with the cute-as-a-button, sure-to-be-a-finalist Stillman and in with that crabby, good-for-nothing Rudy.

So shocked by Burnett's villainy that she waited six months to do anything about it, Stillman filed suit against CBS this week. She wants restitution for the prize money she didn't win, punitive damages and $75,000 for out-of-pocket expenses.

That must have been one hell of a hotel bar tab.

"Burnett improperly abused his relationships with the contestants," Stillman alleges, "and exerted unfair and unlawful pressure and persuasion on Been and Kenniff to cast specific votes, thereby rigging the contest."

Imagine -- a TV producer using manipulations, deceit and tricky editing to smear the good name of reality programming!

It must have been particularly galling to Stillman that her fate was sealed by the likes of Been and Kenniff, whom faithful Survivor viewers will remember as not exactly the brightest torches on the island. Bad enough that an international cabal of producers and network executives is conspiring to hold you back. But to be felled by a couple of simpletons -- that's the greatest humiliation of all.

Believe me, that's a burden I have to shoulder every day.

Like poor Stacey Stillman, I am the victim of the fiendish machinations of powerful men. Or, in my case, the machinations of the bozos who run this site. For instance, I'm always getting passed over for plum assignments in favor of clearly inferior writers who appeal to certain segments of our readership. How else do you explain the fact that we still employ Boychuk, if not to sew up the valuable moron demographic?

Stacey and I have other things in common as well, and no, I'm not talking about our ravishing good looks, though thank you for making that assumption. Stillman complained that when Survivor aired, the producers had doctored the footage to make her look whiny and unlikable. Or, as she told the San Francisco Chronicle last year, "They're representing me as the sort of Heather Locklear-Melrose Place bitch"... a heartache I know all too well.

The TeeVee editors are always going through my articles and rewriting them to make me come across as some sort of grouch -- an Oscar Madison-Odd Couple grouch, if you will. I think most of the TV programs on the air today are top-notch -- I'm particularly fond of NBC's sitcoms -- but to read my articles after they've been edited to ribbons, you would get the impression I can barely stomach anything outside of The Prisoner reruns. A simple phrase like "I get such a gas out of watching Tony Danza" becomes "Tony Danza gives me gas" after Jason Snell gets his paws on my prose.

So I'm with you, Stacey. The others may laugh. But not me.

Now cynics will wonder why Stacey Stillman is just getting around to suing CBS now. They'll drudge up CBS's allegation that Stillman tried to coerce the network into putting her on another reality show and, when that suggestion didn't fly, offered to drop any legal action in exchange for a generous cash settlement. And then they'll point out that while other Survivor alumni have landed commercials and guest star appearances -- that sinister septuagenarian Rudy even hosts a cable show -- Stacey Stillman hasn't seen much in the way of filthy lucre. Which is nonsense, since everybody knows that the CBS affiliate in San Francisco made her a special Survivor correspondent for a while and she's also done... um... uh...

Well, I'm sure she's had offers.

And for anyone who doubts her commitment to justice, remember that Stillman plans on arguing the case herself. And you know how that old saying goes about lawyers who represent themselves: Man, there goes one clever lawyer!

So let others jeer Stacey Stillman. Let CBS and Burnett try to hide their guilt the way my fellow Vidiots try to feebly claim they're not out to get me. Let Been and Kenniff issue their tepid denials of a conspiracy. Let everyone have a good laugh at Stacey Stillman's expense. Because only people who've been victimized by a system that's been rigged against them can understand what's she's going through.

And from one victim to another, Stacey, I hope you get everything you deserve.

If the XFL is to outlast that last great attempt at a second football league, the USFL -- and it's got two years, three hundred sixty-three days and an entire antitrust lawsuit to go -- then it has an image problem to overcome. As in, it has no image.

Take this report from the San Francisco all-news radio station this past Saturday: "The San Francisco Demons will take on the L.A. Xtreme this weekend," said the announcer, a chuckle clearly audible in his voice. "And in real football, Rich Gannon of the Oakland Raiders will take on the NFC's best in the Pro Bowl."

When professional journalists consider the NFL's annual all-star game -- a contest with all the intensity of a flag-football showdown between the bald guys and the fat guys at the company picnic -- it's clear you've got a credibility gap. So as Vince McMahon and Dick Ebersol attempt to dethrone the NFL and restore football to its former greatness (or at least make some cash and plug a hole in a weak Saturday night prime-time line-up) there's still a lot of work to do.

It's not easy to pronounce judgment on the XFL after one weekend, especially since it's clearly a work in progress. In a way, it's much better than expected -- which probably says more about our expectations than the league's actual performance. After all, the ground didn't open up and swallow the teams, cheerleaders, and announcers whole. In another way, it's still a loser: dull, minor-league football spiced up with some novelty camera angles. It's a mixed bag.

On the good side, since the XFL is essentially made for TV, the league got to try some innovations that Paul Tagliabue and his army of attorneys would never consider for the NFL, not even after triple shots of schnapps at the owners' meetings.

Take the on-field camerawork, which puts viewers inside the huddle before a play. Sure, it's only a matter of time before one of those cameramen finds himself on the wrong side of a forward pass -- one unlucky Teamster got clocked Saturday night, no doubt to the delight of Vince McMahon and his testosterone-loving flunkies -- but you can't deny that it brings you closer to the action.

Another cool novelty is the overhead "X-cam," a camera strung on wires that floats over the action, giving you a video-game-style perspective on the game. But it's not a new innovation: the NFL tried that same technology years ago, and there was probably a good reason they didn't stick with it. Setting aside technical challenges, the X-cam gives a weird perspective to the game that makes it hard to judge where the play is headed and where you are on the field at any given time. Imagine having the worst seats in the stadium and getting motion sickness as part of the bargain. Still, there's something intriguing about watching a football game as if you're an injured player having an out-of-body experience.

The XFL telecasts should truthfully be called "What Fox Hath Wrought." The broadcasts go even further than the ridiculous extremes that Fox's football programming goes to. Rupert Murdoch's most evil creation started us down this road years ago, with its endless additions of microphones, sound effects and dancing cartoon robots to sporting events. So the XFL has just wired almost everyone for sound and cranked up the volume.

The cartoon robots, presumably, will make their debut in a couple of weeks.

The result? Some interesting stuff -- coaches calling in plays, players making comments after a big hit -- but also a whole lot of over-modulated noise, yelling, and meaningless fragments of conversations. Just because you can hear indistinguishable mumblings and half-hearted cliches from players and coaches doesn't mean it's all that interesting.

Which brings us to one of the XFL's big liabilities: its announcers. Sure, it's fascinating to hear a head coach radio a play in to his quarterback. But those play names are complicated -- although "82-46-red-on-three" practically trips off the tongue -- and viewers need an analyst who can explain what to look for in the ensuing play. Instead, NBC viewers on Saturday night were treated to Jesse Ventura making comments about how hard players were hitting other players, or complaining that a quarterback didn't know what he was doing.

Ah, Jesse Ventura behind a mike. The most embarrassing performance by a sitting governor since Orval Faubus started hanging around schoolhouse doors.

And yet, Ventura and his partner, Matt Vasgersian -- the guy who sounds like a video game announcer, because he is a video-game announcer -- are actually the seasoned, smooth professionals of the XFL. Or maybe you didn't hear NBC's other announcing duo, Jim Ross and Jerry Lawler. NBC had to switch over to Ross and Lawler in Orlando since the only thing extreme about the Las Vegas-New York/New Jersey contest that Vasgersian and Ventura were covering was how extremely boring and one-sided it was.

Ross and Lawler are Vince McMahon yokels who announce for the World Wrestling Federation. They are proof positive that what sounds perfectly reasonable when you're excitedly describing Rikishi taking a steel chair to the head of Stone Cold Steve Austin can seem downright silly when you hyperventilate over another incomplete pass from Jeff Brohm. While Vasgersian and Ventura could be caught following the XFL script on occasion -- screaming over a crushing quarterback hit, when, in fact, the quarterback had fallen down essentially untouched -- Ross and Lawler's first night was an embarrassing barrage of lewd comments about cheerleaders (and always the same lewd comments, not even a "hubba hubba" tossed in for variety) and nonsensical "analysis."

"What a play!" Ross would say.

"What a great debut for the XFL!" Lawler would enthuse.

Fellas, we get it. The XFL is oh so much tougher than the NFL. Message received. Now stop reading the company press releases and try formulating a sentence that doesn't sound like it was cleared by Tass.

Ross, incidentally, may have made broadcast history Saturday night by using the word "slobberknocker" three times in less than a minute. Without irony.

The XFL at its most clever is when it turns down the volume on the hype machine and actually makes you feel like you're at the game, surrounded by a bunch of crazy, screaming fans -- but with a conveniently-located, relatively well-maintained bathroom that you don't have to share with any of them. And there were moments, especially early on in NBC's Saturday broadcast, where it worked. But then NBC's in-the-stands announcer appeared, asking stupid questions of drunken Las Vegas Outlaws fans, and the spell was broken. Because, to be honest, drunken XFL fans don't really hold the most coherent conversations.

Still, the XFL is hardly the biggest embarrassment to debut on NBC this fall -- I'm looking in your direction, Steven Weber. A few modifications, and Vince McMahon's attempt to meld pro wrestling with football just may prove to be a watchable diversion during the long, lonely months (both of them) between the Super Bowl and the first pitch of the baseball season. Tone down the "wheat production up 3%" rhetoric. Send Jesse Ventura back to St. Paul to work on his day job. Keep working on the camera angles and innovations that will strike fear in Paul Tagliabue's black heart. And maybe only go to the money shots of the cheerleading squad... well, let's just say never.

Sadly, it's not going to wind up like this. Vince McMahon has promised skits and pro wrestling-like antics to save us from the doldrums of athletic competition. The cheerleaders will be given their own distinct personalities. Players will be encouraged to strut and preen in front of the camera. Like the wrestlers that are McMahon's bread and butter, the players will probably even get catchy nicknames to call their own.

We can only pray that no one winds up with the moniker "The SlobberKnocker." Jim Ross already has dibs on that one.

The Super Bowl party was in full swing. People were laughing and chatting and devouring crudites. The surround-sound from the home entertainment system thundered in the background. All in all, it had the makings of a memorable Super Sunday.

Or so we thought. Maybe we were too blind to see it coming. Maybe we were subdued by the camaraderie, lulled into a stupor by one too many cocktail weenies, too drunk on the esprit de corps and cheap domestic beer to realize the disaster that awaited. But when Brad Maynard of the New York Giants lined up to punt the ball away to the Baltimore Ravens, little did we know that he would also be kicking away our delusions of a happy Sunday afternoon.

Maynard kicked the ball high in the air, booting it some 40 yards down the field. And for a moment, the party-goers stopped, breathlessly anticipating the coming chaos. Maybe the Ravens would run the ball back down the field for a touchdown. Maybe the Giants special teams would surround the runner and tear him from limb to limb. As the football hurtled downward, plunging ever closer to terra firma, the possible outcomes of that play, of the rest of the game, of life seemed endless.

Which is when Jermaine Lewis of the Ravens stuck his hand up in the air and signaled for a fair catch.

A fair catch. In George W. Bush's America.

"Run it back, jackass," someone at the party must have screamed out loud -- we were all screaming it in our hearts at any rate. But the damage was already done. The ball landed harmlessly in Lewis' arms, he bent down on one knee, and the New York tacklers -- moments ago on a search-and-destroy mission to cripple anyone wearing a white jersey -- pulled up and peeled off without so much as brushing harmlessly against the Ravens' ball-carrier.

And as Lewis casually flipped the ball to the referee, it's probably safe to say that a little bit of us died inside, right then and there.

Football didn't used to be like this. Football was once played by men -- thick-necked brutes who could barely read and write but who exacted their revenge on the heartless world that had shunned them by dispensing hearty servings of punishment every Sunday. These were men who feared no earthly grave. Men who would laugh off sprains and strains and dislocations as the proud trophies of battle. Men who ran back punts.

And now? Now football is played by girls -- dainty little girls who take a knee rather than risk having to run down the field and soil their Sunday frock. Girls named Bubba and Lester and Leroy, yes, but girls nevertheless.

It's like we lost a war.

But terrible crises give rise to great men. And just as a divided America had Abe Lincoln, just as a war-torn Britain had Winston Churchill, just as the '75 Steelers had Mean Joe Greene, we have a man with a singular vision. We have a man with his finger on the zeitgeist of our troubled modern times -- a man ready to give us order out of the chaos.

We have Vince McMahon.

Vince McMahon knows all. Vince McMahon understands. He realizes that a nation satisfied with docile football players and orderly games is a weak nation, susceptible to overthrow by crafty foreign nationals. He and he alone comprehends that what's plaguing America isn't poverty or a failing education system or a lack of faith in our most fundamental institutions -- it's the stifling rules imposed upon the brave lads who play football by the castrating termagants of the National Football League. He recognizes that, in this country, we return the goddamn punts.

McMahon's newly formed XFL debuts this weekend. The mainstream media have made some effort to report on this fledgling football league and its strange new rules: shorter halftimes, no in-the-grasp rule and -- sweet, everlasting hosannas! -- no fair catches on punts. But few have taken the time to sit down and really get to know the XFL -- to understand the rules and bylaws and sacred tenants that Vince McMahon carefully and deliberately scribbled down on the back of envelope one day while on his way to a Rock-Undertaker wrestling match at the Garden.

That is, no one has until now.

One recent afternoon, we sat down with a dog-eared copy of the XFL rule book and a nice, stiff drink. Our mission: to see if the XFL brand of football could rescue us from the heartbreak of gridiron doldrums. After hours of painstaking research, we're pleased to say this XFL thing could be big -- really big. King Kong Bundy big.

And Vince McMahon? Forget the Pro Football Hall of Fame. Reserve that man a spot on Mt. Rushmore.

Excerpts from the Official XFL Rulebook, 2001 Edition:

Before every game, each team is allowed to approach one (1) player from the opposing side and offer him cash, liquor or other incentives to become a TURNCOAT. The TURNCOAT may then switch sides during the third quarter, during the middle of a play, by removing his former team's logo from his helmet. The TURNCOAT is allowed to sack, tackle, and otherwise pummel his former teammates; however, if the former team is able to avenge the TURNCOAT'S treachery before the whistle, it will receive three (3) bonus points.

Coin toss at beginning of game replaced with "Rock, Paper, Scissors" using actual rocks, paper and scissors.

Rock does not tear Paper. Paper covers rock.

THE JACK TATUM RULE: Bonus points will be awarded to a team whenever one its players cripples an opponent. Higher points will be awarded based on the severity of the injury -- one (1) point for a sprain, two (2) for a separated shoulder, five (5) for a high-grade concussion. If the opposing player is killed in the collision, the game will be stopped and the team of the player who caused the injury will be declared the winner.

JACK TATUM COROLLARY: Players carried off the field after suffering a crippling injury will forfeit their salary for that week.

No XFL player originally in play may go out of bounds and return to the field to make the tackle unless said tackle involves a folding chair.

A large supply of folding chairs -- for the use of tired players and weary members of the team's support staff -- will be left near both team's sidelines during the game. Chairs are provided in a stack, and are available on a first-come, first-served basis.

To liven up off-the-field action, the XFL will encourage players and cheerleaders to date. Before each date, one (1) of the cheerleaders will be injected with a minor strain of a venereal disease. If the player she is dating contracts the disease, he will be brought out to midfield, ostensibly to be interviewed by an XFL sideline reporter. At that time, the reporter will shout at the player, "You've got venereal disease!" while leading the crowd in chants of "Unclean, Unclean." His team will be assessed a ten-yard penalty.

If a team uses a foreign-born kicker, that player must first sing the national anthem of his homeland, while the crowd derisively chants "U.S.A."

Players will be encouraged, through generous cash bonuses, to attack the mascot of the opposing team. To defend themselves, mascots will have their choice of weapon -- a roll of quarters, a folding chair, a canister of mace or a handful of dirt with which to blind their attacker. If a mascot successfully fells a player, that team will be penalized 10 yards.

Substitutions will only be allowed if the referee sees the tag.

At one (1) randomly chosen interval during each half, a siren will sound and the normal black XFL football will be replaced by the head official with a blue football (the "Money Ball"). The Money Ball is in play for one minute. When the Money Ball is in play, the following rules apply:

• Use of kickers is outlawed; all kicking must be done by real players.

• Offensive lineman are only allowed to block to the count of "three mississippi."

• The "Pass Interference" penalty is inverted; when a receiver is running downfield, they may be held, pushed, tackled, and beaten. However, once the receiver catches the ball, he can not be touched except to be pulled down by his face mask.

• Touchdowns from outside 40 yards are worth 10 points.

• Touchdowns from inside 10 yards are worth only five (5) points.

• Sacks are worth three (3) points and result in a turnover.

• THE "DODGE BALL" RULE: The Quarterback has the option to throw the Money Ball directly at an opposing player. If the player fails to catch the ball, he must sit out the following plays until a change of possession or until the Money Ball time elapses.

Players may attempt to knock down forward passes by using small firearms.

Between the conclusion of one play and the beginning of the next, the coach and quarterback will both be connected via an electronic audio transmission system, so both can listen to the cheers of the cheerleaders on the sidelines with clarity.

Before the snap, as the quarterback is giving his signals, speakers to the side of the field will electronically enhance and relay sound, in order to allow that sound to be heard over the noise of the crowd. And that sound will be AC/DC's "Back in Black" on constant repeat.

At the two-minute warning, a player chosen at random from the leading team will be asked a multiple-choice trivia question. After he hears his possible answers, he will be given the option to walk away and allow his team to keep its current point total. If he answers the question correctly, the point total doubles -- but if he answers incorrectly, the team's point total will be reduced by half. (The player may not consult with his teammates in order to come up with the answer; however, he will be allowed to ask a cheerleader.)

Traditional "safety padding" found in NFL helmets is not allowed. However, helmets will be lined with honeycomb containing angry bees.

If the referee is knocked out by one of the teams, play must continue until the referee regains consciousness. Whichever team is in possession of the ball once the referee comes to will be awarded seven (7) points.

If a player fails to make a solid tackle or pulls up instead of jumping on a downed opponent, he will be required to spend the rest of the game wearing a frilly, pink dress.

Kickoff return in thirty minutes or your pizza is free.

No kicks will be allowed for point-after-touchdown conversions. Instead, teams must run a play from the three (3) yard line. If successful, the team will be awarded one (1) point -- two (2) points if the play involves a midget.

After a touchdown, the person who enters the end zone will have 30 seconds to run an obstacle course and throw the football through a small hole 20 yards away. If he succeeds, his team will receive a two (2) point bonus -- four (4) points if he manages to toss a midget through the small hole.

A tie score at the end of regulation results in a 15-minute sudden-death overtime. A tie score at the end of overtime results in a battle between the head coaches to prepare the best 4-course meal they can in 30 minutes using whatever sport drinks and athletic accessories are on the field, plus a secret ingredient which shall rise from underneath the 50-yard line.

In lieu of an actual playoff system, the XFL playoffs will take place in one championship "rumble." Every two (2) minutes, a bell will sound and a new team will enter the game until all eight (8) XFL teams have entered the game. A team only leaves the game when its quarterback has been tackled in the end zone or his helmet has been thrown through the goalposts on the opposite end of the field. The last team remaining on the field at the end will be declared the champion.

Most importantly: NO WRESTLING or the jig is up!