April 2001 Archives

"Every time Dick lies, his nose gets shorter."
-- Anonymous "Saturday Night Live" staffer, on Dick Ebersol

The above sentiment comes from the wonderfully gripping but sadly outdated book Saturday Night, a backstage history of the late-night sketch show written by Doug Hill and Jeff Weingrad. The unnamed staffer worked on "SNL" at some point when Ebersol reigned as executive producer, the time between 1981 and 1985 when the cast included at different points Eddie Murphy, Joe Piscopo, Harry Shearer, Christopher Guest, Julia Louis-Dreyfus and Billy Crystal, among others. You would think with names like that attached to the show, those would be pretty memorable years for "Saturday Night Live." But really, you watch episodes from those seasons these days and they hold up about as well as a Christmas ham you leave in the trunk of your car... until July.

Yes, things have changed mightily since those days -- and some of them for the better. Dick Ebersol hasn't produced Saturday Night Live in more than a decade, moving instead to the world of sports. Christopher Guest and Harry Shearer have carved out quite successful comedy careers that don't depend on whether the studio audience can grasp the nuances of a three-minute skit. Joe Piscopo's presence on my TV has been limited to reruns and the occasional broadcast of "Johnny Dangerously" on HBO.

Even that opening bit of anonymous slander that takes Dick Ebersol and his pug-like proboscis to task isn't all that fair or accurate these days. After all... there are limits to how much a man's nose can shrink.

But we kid Dick Ebersol.

Ebersol, of course, could use a laugh -- even if it's a cruel, mean-spirited one at his expense. Ebersol has just spent the last few months presiding over the rise and fall of one the biggest broadcasting disasters in recent memory, a spectacular flame-out that makes the Hindenburg crash look like a fender-bender in the parking lot at your local supermarket. Ebersol was in charge of NBC's sports operations at a time the network was trying to make a go of it with the XFL, the football league for people who think, "You know what this sport really needs to make it more palatable to the home audience? NFL castoffs, cheerleaders that dress like porn starlets and a sitting governor as your color analyst."

They'll be digging the bodies out the rubble for a while on this one, but for now, the preliminary damage reports look like this for the XFL: NBC's ratings toppled 60 percent from the first weekend to the second weekend and fell another 44 percent the week after that. Fewer than 2.2 million people tuned in for the March 17 game between the New York Whosits and the Memphis Whatevers -- setting an all-time ratings low that the XFL managed to match the very next week.

The inaugural championship game of the made-for-TV league drew a 2.1 rating -- good enough to finish tied for 93rd among prime time shows airing that week. And the XFL wound up selling about two-thirds of its allotted advertising time; the rest was given away to sponsors for free to make up for lower-than-promised ratings. The total loss for year one of the XFL: more than $50 million, says the Wall Street Journal. So far.

So why hang this on Dick Ebersol, then? After all, he's not the only mastermind who decided a prefabricated football league targeting young adult males would be a perfect fit for Saturday nights -- the one time of the week when young adult males aren't within a football field of the nearest TV set. The XFL was a joint venture of NBC and the World Wrestling Federation. So that means there are plenty of executives whose hare-brained decisions and strategic blunders led to the eighty-car pile-up we'll be telling our children's children about. Dick Ebersol had plenty of help in making America long for the subtle charms and compelling drama of American Gladiators. What has he done to deserve to get singled out for the dunce cap?

Plenty, as it turns out. Because if you believe the Wall Street Journal -- and there's no reason you shouldn't, apart from the paper's inexplicable decision to banish both the funnies and Ann Landers -- then every mistake the XFL made was either instigated, OK'd or otherwise endorsed by Dick Ebersol. When a fledgling sports league needed an executive with more than two decades of sports broadcasting experience to guide it through the tough times, there was Ebersol, mixing bleach with ammonia, throwing tinfoil into the microwave, diving into the swimming pool right after eating and doing various and sundry other miscues that he should know better not to do.

The overblown commentary from the XFL's hyperventilating announcers in the premiere broadcast? Ebersol was in the production truck with other executives shouting orders to the on-air talent. The appearances by pro wrestlers at a sporting event for a league trying to reassure people that it was on the level? "Fun stuff," Ebersol declared, as curious football fans that might otherwise have given the XFL a fair shot changed the channel. All that NFL bashing? Like everything else, it also carried the Dick Ebersol seal of approval.

That last mistake was particularly costly, as the folks who advertised in the XFL are the same people who will be buying ads when the NFL kicks off this fall. And if it comes down to choosing sides, which league do you think advertisers are going to pick -- the multi-billion dollar operation whose championship has become a de facto national holiday or the first-year league which broadcasts a third of its games on UPN? "To be the enemy of the NFL was not good marketing," Tony Ponturo, a vice president at Anheuser-Busch and an apparent master of under-statement, told the Journal.

Interestingly enough, the World Wrestling Federation realized all this. Say what will you about Vince McMahon and the WWF, but they know their market research the way chemists know the periodic table of the elements. You give them the name of a 14-year-old kid in Boca Raton, and they'll tell you how many hours a week he watches wrestling, how many pay-per-view shows he orders, and how much he's likely to spend on a Stone Cold Steve Austin T-shirt.

Well, the WWF did some market research on the XFL -- and it found that what New York/New Jersey coach Rusty Tillman lovingly called "that WWF crap" wasn't flying. The people who like the XFL were by and large football fans who liked the idea of faster-paced games and no-name, no-ego athletes playing for factory worker salaries.

And so after the first few broadcasts set new standards for broadcasting ineptitude and audience indifference, McMahon began pushing for changes to reflect the XFL's strengths. Ebersol's reaction? "Mr. Ebersol told a friend he wanted more pizzazz and wrestling," the Wall Street Journal reported, "still sure that that was the path to young viewers."

No word on whether Ebersol also insisted to friends that New Coke tasted much better than Classic Coke and that consumers would realize this "any day now." And that Chevy Chase Show? Sure, people gag at the sight of it now, but they'll come around.

Won't they?

Not too many people could misjudge something so badly -- and not just misjudge it once, but again and again while friends and associates and business partners are waving frantically to get your attention to let you know that, yes, you're now chin-deep in dogsick -- and keep their jobs. Disagree? Try making $50 million worth of mistakes at work this week and see how well the boss laughs it off.

Lest we forget, Dick Ebersol's XFL folly is hardly the lone feeble pop-up to shortstop interrupting a string of doubles down the line and opposite-field home runs. Before introducing an uncaring world to the likes of He Hate Me and the Cheerleader Cam, Ebersol was spearheading NBC's coverage of the Summer Olympics from Sydney. Don't be embarrassed if you don't remember a lick of NBC's Olympics telecast -- if the ratings are any indication, a lot of people are in the same boat as you.

To recap then: Ebersol opted to air the Olympics on tape-delay with some events not reaching American television more than a day after they took place on Australian soil. That turned out to be a rather curious decision, given that (a)the Olympics are, in essence, a news event, (b) news generally requires timeliness to be of interest to people and (c) there was nothing stopping, say, ESPN from spilling the beans that Dara Torres or the U.S. baseball team had won medals, thus spoiling the surprise NBC had planned for us later that night. Not a surprise then that NBC's ratings tumbled far below what it had promised advertisers and -- in an eerie foreshadowing of the XFL's salad days -- the network was forced to give away ad time for free.

Airing Olympic footage past its freshness date was Ebersol's biggest Olympic transgression, but far from his only mistake. He packed the telecast with gymnastics coverage, ignoring other events that only have their day in the sun every four years. After promising to cut back on the maudlin athlete profiles that marred the 1996 Olympics, Ebersol delivered just as many sappy, syrupy up-close-and-personal segments as ever, chronicling competitors who battled back from rickets and ringworm and RSI to contend for Olympic gold. And if you weren't an American athlete, your chances of appearing on NBC were about as good as... well, the chances of your event appearing live.

Ebersol's defenders will point out that NBC just took home 10 Emmys for its coverage of the Sydney games. Great -- maybe the network can pawn the awards to make up for all the lost advertising revenue.

The fact of the matter is, Ebersol blew it with the Olympics -- even more so than he did with the XFL, because in Sydney, the stakes were bigger. But that's par for the course at NBC, where sports coverage has increasingly grown more tedious and unremarkable. Ebersol let the NFL and Major League Baseball slip away to other networks, the only college football broadcasts to speak of involves repeated airings of Notre Dame football games, and NBA playoff series have become so drawn out and unexciting on NBC that if a Knicks-Raptors game broke out in my kitchen, I wouldn't even bother to turn my head to watch.

Ebersol's punishment for running the sports department into the ground? He's currently doing prep work for NBC's 2002 Winter Olympics coverage, no doubt ensuring that the Salt Lake City broadcast will be every bit as mawkish, over-produced and unwatchable as its predecessors. Ebersol, it seems, has more lives than a shelter full of kittens -- either that or incriminating 8mm film of other NBC executives.

Or maybe it's something else. "I really learned to respect Dick's business ways. His handling of budgets, lawyers, schmoozing, the half-truths, the way he strokes, his corporate mind, his keeping you constantly insecure." That's Jim Belushi talking in the Saturday Night book, but it could very well be an NBC executive talking about Ebersol circa 2001. After all -- to paraphrase a Billy Crystal character from the Ebersol-produced SNL -- at NBC, it's better to feel good then to look good.

Let's begin today by talking about broken dreams. Not the pathetic, silly dreams of the pudgy kid who always gets picked last for P.E. teams and fantasizes that a steady diet of Ho-Ho's and cable television will lead to a lucrative career as starting point guard for the Milwaukee Bucks or the groundless delusions of Jojo the Dog-faced Girl who hopes against hope that the captain of the football will look past her acne, see the inner beauty of the girl inside, ask her to the senior prom, and kick the ass of anyone who gives him any guff about it. No. Let's talk about dreams that could actually come true. Let's talk about seemingly unthinkable marvels and wonders that -- miracle of miracles -- materialize for a fleeting moment before crumbling away at the whim of the wind.

We're talking America, reveling in its new-found status as King Shit of the post-War world -- just as President Kennedy's motorcade makes its way to Dealey Plaza. Or the Boston Red Sox, who decide to celebrate their third World Series title in four years by trading a promising left-hander by the name of George Herman Ruth off to the hapless, titleless New York Yankees for a sack of baseballs. Or there's the cast of ER, taking time out of polishing their Emmys to welcome brand new cast member Erik Palladino.

To those wretched ranks, we add the dot-com industry circa 2001, when would-be J.P. Morgans and easily cozened day traders finally realized that mounting losses, declining revenue streams and no short-term hope of profitability was not a blueprint for financial success.

They say that Alexander the Great, after his last battle, wept -- for he had no more worlds left to conquer. But tell us: what would Alex have done if the start-up he founded reported eight straight quarters of losses, the VC money had dried up, and the company's burn rate left him with just enough cash on hand to turn out the lights before the office door smacked him in his ass on the way out?

He'd probably do what we did -- sob into our now-worthless stock options.

Yes, the dot-com downturn has hit your TeeVee friends like a Hasim Rahman jab to Lennox Lewis' glass jaw. Back in the before time -- 1999 -- people couldn't give us their money fast enough. And while we tried to exhibit some fiscal prudence, there was just too much lolly floating around not to blow it on a handful of extravagances. Like the mandatory steak dinners in the TeeVee cafeteria. Or our now-foolhardy decision to build the TeeVee Break Room entirely out of milk chocolate. And, of course, keeping Boychuk on staff -- wasted money, every last red cent of it.

And now, we're gripped by the Fear. People walk around with their heads drooping and their eyes downcast. Those skinflints at Whirlpool repoed the Editor's Jacuzzi after just a few measly missed payments. Last payday, a couple of the junior staffers opened their envelopes to find they had been paid in bottlecaps and string. And it's only a matter of time before the layoffs begin. Sort of like when we fired Collier... only this time, it may be someone valuable.

Someone like your old pals who heroically staff the TeeVee Mailbag.

We try to be good team players. When Michaels is stuck trying to come up with a joke -- an all-too-frequent occurrence, believe us -- we gladly let him steal our best material. When Rywalt enters the building, we don't act like most people and ask, "Who let you in here?" We just nod and smile and pretend to know what it is he does for us. And Lisa Schmeiser -- we're always staring at her, you know, to make her feel pretty. Turns out we've been creeping her out, as TeeVee's legal counsel has just patiently explained to us.

The point is, we've tried to make ourselves a valuable asset to TeeVee Enterprises Unlimited and all of its subsidiaries. But as it turns out, we are -- as that snippy English woman likes to tell dullards who can't properly answer trivia questions -- the weakest link.

We saw the writing on the wall a few weeks back when TeeVee Editor Jason Snell -- Bastard, to his friends -- posted an irate letter from an Erik Palladino fan defending the honor of the much-maligned thespian, who could just possibly be the worst actor on the planet.

We have to admit, that took us aback a little bit, when the bossman muscled in on our territory. Hey, we thought -- we don't try and do Bastard's job. You'll never find us handing submissions back to people and saying "Can you make this funnier?" or hiding under the desk every time Boychuk starts heading in our direction -- that's what Bastard does, and we respect his bastardesque abilities. So why doesn't Bastard treat us with the same respect?

But then, after fuming about this galling turn of events for a while, we were cool with it. Snell wants to do our job? Fine by us -- more time to play Quake III Arena on the company's dime, we say. All we would want is for him to come up with the kind of life-affirming mockery and good-natured abuse that has made TeeVee Mailbag this Web site's sixth most popular recurring feature.

Which is when we noticed that Snell didn't write a blasted thing. He just slapped the letter on the Web page with nary a witty comment and called it a day.

And that hurts. Bad enough to discover that our services are considered completely expendable by the powers that be. But to be told by your employer that "I would rather publish nothing than the unfunny swill you jokers are likely to produce"... well, even NBC treats the writers of The Weber Show better than that.

So we decided to show our cruel masters what's what, prove to them they couldn't just toss us aside like a used orange peel or an extra cast member of Law & Order. We would tear into the cards and letters readers have thoughtfully sent to TeeVee with the ferocity of a cornered and frightened badger, producing wondrous, job-saving comedy that would force Bastard Snell to emerge from under his desk and say, "Job well done, fellas. Why don't you spend the rest of the afternoon playing Quake III? After cashing this generous bonus check, of course."

So sundance_06@yahoo.com, step forward and take your punishment:

I am outraged that you could actually vompare freakylinks to Shasta McNasty! It shows what you know about television. FreakyLinks was one of the best series last year and part of this year.

OK, so maybe this letter wasn't the best one to pick right out of the gate. This poor woman is obviously delusional, and the less we mock her pitiable condition, the better off for all concerned.

So let's move on to the pointlessly named User@Prodigy.net, who's writing to us about... um... FreakyLinks:

I really liked Freaky links every Friday I was looking forward to be ready to watch my favorite show. Why I liked it? You might ask. Because it would take something real and turned it into something fictitious. Lots of time I found myself researching about stories they would cover in Freaky Links. Now its being about 3 maybe 4 Fridays that I don't see not even a glare of it and when someone told me that the Network cancel the Show. I said to myself whoever did it don't know Jack of what we want or doesn't believe in the occult. Remember the greatest lies that the devil did was to deny his existence. So yeah I believe that weird stuff happens out there. So when are you going to re-instate the show?

Probably about the same time Fox hires us to make all of its programming decision. Which is to say, never.

But thanks for writing.

We received maybe a half-dozen other letters extolling the merits of FreakyLinks and begging the powers-that-be at Fox to give the long-forgotten show one more chance before it's cast out onto the mulch pile that is Fox's Friday night programming catastrophes. But the thought of publishing any more FreakyLinks correspondence gives us a rash. So onward and, hopefully, upward to this e-mail from Lone Gunmen fan Dave Clark.

You obviously need to do your research into the Lone GUnmen, as Frohike is the oldest! Johnathan Fitzgerald Byers was borin on November 22, 1963 (approximately the same time JFK was killed, which is why Byers' father insisted on naming him after JFK) and that Ringo Langley was born approximately 1968! If you've bother to do your research, then you'd know all this....did you EVEN watch the first 6 seasons of the X-Files?

Guess User@Prodigy.net was right -- weird stuff does happen out there. Nevertheless, Dave Clark -- who, we're guessing, is no relation to the frontman of the British Invasion pop band of the same name -- isn't done pestering us with minutae yet.

By the way, smartey-breeches, which was the only one of the Lone Gunmen to bring flowers to Agent Scully when she lay comatose in the hospital?

If we answer correctly, do you promise to get out of the house more?

Perhaps reader Cathy Verwaerde can raise the tenor of debate...

can i just say , what the f**k are you on about , Erik palladino is a great actor and who r u to say that he isn't

...or perhaps not.

Geez, maybe Snell is doing us a favor by handing us our walking papers. Of course, then we wouldn't be treated to brain-teasers about The Lone Gunmen or this puzzler from TV reader George:

To: teevee@teevee.org
Subject: April Doeden(SHI)

What do you know about her?

Um... that she doesn't have half the rabid following that Erik Palladino enjoys? That she was the only one to bring flowers to Agent Scully? That she hates her job as much we hate ours right now?

Really... we're drawing a blank here.

We can't help but think back to another time -- a simpler time -- when readers sent us letters that a) had a point and b) didn't require hours of lab analysis and futile search engine queries just to figure out what they were talking about. We used to receive tome-like missives from our readers, point-by-point rebuttals that questioned our arguments, our intelligence and our ancestry. Back in those days, our readers gave no quarter and asked for none in return.

And now? Erik Palladino fans send us e-mail that look like they were proofread by e.e. cummings and spell-checked by Prince.

Speaking of royalty, reader Siobhan Doran has a question from across the pond:

Do you know of a UK-based website who hosts tv awards like the Tee Vee awards, particularly those that cover 'worst actress' or 'worst actor'?

Siobhan, if we knew, trust us, we'd have already applied for jobs there. Their hate mail probably features better spelling and grammar than ours.

Needless to say, the first batch of letters that we came across didn't do much to bring us out of our job-induced funk. And our mood only worsened when we came across this e-mail from a young Czechoslovakian woman, whose name we're withholding for reasons that will become all too apparent in about three paragraphs:

I have been studying English language for many years, it is my hobby. However, I need practical experience. I feel that the best way in learning this language is to stay some time in an English speaking country. For this reason I am sending you my job application and would like to ask you for a job. I have chosen California as always wanted to get to know this state, its culture and customs. And I have this wish until today.

As you will see from my CV, I graduated at the Business High School, passed the College of Economy, just going to complete the university course in Management and have plenty of experience. Iam very flexible and hardworking person and I feel to be great contribution for your company. That is why I am convinced to be able to carry out various jobs in your company.

I strongly believe that my application held your interest. I would like to assure you that if you provide me an opportunity to work in your company I will repay you for your kindness by working at full stretch, with maximum diligence and responsibility so that you find me as great contribution for your company. At the same time you will help my lifelong dreams to come true.

Now our first thought when reading this was: Collier, we don't care what crazy persona you're adopting this week, you still can't have your job back.

But then it hit us: what if this is a legitimate letter from an actual Czech who actually dreams of coming to work for us? If that isn't a stinging indictment of the costly legacy of the Cold War, we don't know what is.

We shredded the letter. We had to -- the way things are going around here, Bastard Snell might actually hire this woman to replace us, thinking that he could pay her 6 cents a day. We hear that's how Boychuk got hired, at any rate.

Well, that just about convinced us to throw in the towel. Type up the resignation letter, let Snell hire the Czech broad, and we can move on to a more life-affirming line of work like retail or PR or telemarketing. Thankfully, just as we were putting the finishing touches on our updated resume, we stumbled across this e-mail from Scott Peace.

OK, this may seem like an odd request, but I found your address while doing a search on TV theme music as having something to say about the same (or at least part of the equation). I live on a small island off of Washington State. On fog-enstrouded Monday nights we gather together at the local Ale House for trivia night. The bonus questions this week (which we can research for a week, so your help would not be cheating!) is "What was the first network TV show with no theme music"?

I am stumped, and thought maybe you could help be on this one, so if you know who and when, or are able to point me towards a good source of information, it would be much appreciated.

Now, folks, we didn't rise to the lofty heights we have in life without having a few instincts. And our first instinct after reading Scott's letter was to mock him viciously. "Life must be pretty dull and desultory on islands off the coast of Washington State if TV theme music is what passes for scintillating tavern talk," we wanted to tell Scott. And then we would mock him some more and tell him to beat it, and then send him crying back to mammy while we chuckled amongst ourselves about his shocking naivete.

Yes, that was our first instinct. And that's exactly what we did, what on account of our poor impulse control.

But then, after crumpling Scott's letter into a ball and tossing it into the incinerator, we came across this e-mail from TeeVee reader Chris:

I read the article about Gideon's Crossing by Matthew Stephenson hoping to find an answer to a question that has bothered me for sometime....my question is what is the theme song title of that show. I see the previews of Gideon's Crossing with this oldies catchy music and have been trying desperately to find the song title.

So that's two letters about TV theme music in the span of just a few minutes. Our keen journalistic minds spot a trend.

And that's when it hit us -- a way out of our dead-end Mailbag jobs. Instead of making fun of the people who take the time to write us with questions -- an admittedly fun though surprisingly unprofitable line of work -- we could instead try to help them. Oh, not try very hard, mind you -- that might cut into nap time. But it seems like there's a demand out there for information about TV theme songs, a niche so small that it could only be filled by someone with modest ambitions and a command for the trivial.

Sounds like a job that's right up our alley.

So, unknown TeeVee reader, the theme song of Gideon's Crossing is, in fact, a bluesy cover version of AC/DC's "Dirty Deeds, Done Dirt Cheap." Andre Braugher is apparently a huge Angus Young fan.

And Scott -- we don't know what the name of the first TV show without any theme music was. But we do know that the most recent TV show to air without any theme music was Chevy Chase's late night talk show -- it opened with Chevy's muffled sobs and nervous coughing from the studio audience.

Oh, and Scott -- life must be pretty dull and desultory on islands off the coast of Washington State if TV theme music is what passes for scintillating tavern talk.

Sorry. Old habits die hard.

William Jones had a TV theme-related question of his own:

Can you tell me the name of the music that plays during the openning creates of Boston Public on Fox on Monday nights?

Around the TeeVee offices, William, we believe the theme for Boston Public is entitled "Blood Curdling Scream" by Philip Michaels, followed by "Frantic TV Remote Clicking" by the same artist. Hope that helps.

Say, it's TeeVee reader Shadoz! Looks like he has a question, too!

im a fan of the real sex hbo documentary. im trying to find a complete musical credit (from episode 1 to present), can you help me out or direct me to someone that is able to provide this info.hbo has not responded to my e-mail and im a little lost trying to find these tunes.

Just try noodling around on a Casio keyboard, Shadoz -- you'll stumble across the tunes eventually. Be sure to throw in plenty of wocka-chickas.

In a trend that alarms us as much as it intrigues us, Shadoz's letter wasn't the only inquiry we got about Real Sex this month. TeeVee reader KiKi had a question about the HBO series as well -- and it wasn't about the theme music.

I was watching REAL SEX on HBO the other night. It was actually Real Sex 19...and one of the things on it was about these brothers who make special ordered pornos. I'm almost positive the name of the company was Dianne Peerless, but I can't find anything about them on the internet. They do auditions pretty frequently and I was hoping to get in touch with them...literally. Do you know where I could get the information on them?

Yes. You can write to them care of TeeVee Mailbag, San Francisco, California.

You know, in case this TV theme music scam dries up.

Additional contributions to this article by: Philip Michaels.

First off, I've got nothing against transvestites finding gainful employment in the TV industry. It's a big world, people, and there's room for all of us. All I'm asking is that the networks to be up front with the viewing public.

I mean, do the geniuses at NBC really expect us to believe that host Anne Robinson of their new British import game show, The Weakest Link, is a woman? I'm sorry, but this English muffin comes with a side order of sausage just as sure as TeeVee is your leading source of television news. Yep.

Those scheming network weasels must have something up their sleeve (or pant leg, if you will), like springing the painfully obvious news on viewers during May sweeps in hopes of reversing waning interest. There has to be some reason for keeping this steaming tower of crap on the air until then, because after last week's inexplicably high-rated blitz of premiere episodes, there's nowhere for this irritating Who Wants to Be a Millionaire knock-off to go but straight to hell or back to England. You can decide for yourself which destination is worse, but one has infinitely better food.

It's common knowledge that a hard man is good to find, but who walked into the London drag show and picked out this half-assed Sally Jesse Raphael impersonator to host The Weakest Link? Even more perplexing, why did NBC decide to keep Anne (actually -- world exclusive! -- Arnie Robinson of Liverpool) in lieu of hiring Survivor publicity 'ho Richard Hatch, who auditioned for the Yankee version? Sure, he's an insufferable grease stain, but at least we know what he's packin'. As the saying goes, the enemy you know is better than the strapped-down he-bitch in sensible shoes.

If you've had the good sense to avoid watching The Weakest Link, here's what you've been missing: Eight contestants in a circle on what looks to be a leftover set from the porn version of Star Trek, answering quickly-dispensed trivia questions posed icily by "Anne." They range from sorta-tough ("In the New Testament, who is called 'the beloved physician'?") to dead-dumb ("In the song, what were Frosty the Snowman's eyes made of?") to just plain creepy ("For extra points, who wants to rinse out my panty hose?"). The quiz kids work as a team, but vote out the member who under-performs at the end of each round, who then takes the Walk of Shame as Anne spits her catch phrase, "You are the weakest link--goodbye," at them. The worst is yet to come, as the ejected losers are then shuttled off to the nearby Family Feud studios to wax she-male game-show host Louie (Louise) Anderson's back. How's that for incentive to win?

To be fair, the British don't have an exclusive lock on game shows hosted by cross-dressing men--we've got The Test (FX, weeknights), hosted by Jillian (Jonathan) Barberie. On the upside, The Test replaces the idiotic X Show, a drooling testosterone-fest that made The Man Show look like Christopher Lowell. On the downside, all of the X Show's players apparently weren't taken out back of the FX studios and each given their well-earned .44-caliber severance package to the base of the skull, because here's Jillian, hosting his own brand-new show.

Less convincing as a woman than Anne, Jillian nonetheless has viewers of Los Angeles' Good Day L.A. and Fox NFL Sunday snowed, not to mention all those ex-X Show devotees. So what if his hipless, chestless body and Charlie's Angels hair make him look like the singer of a Black Crowes tribute band? To legions of unemployed frat boys sucking down MGD and defiling Maxims on a school night, Jillian is a street-smart goddess with a husky voice and a great set of lips. Hey, I'm not judging--I think he's kinda hot, too.

Even though The Test is really just a music-free clone of VH1's The List, it's still oddly watchable pop culture in motion. Plus, instead of revolving celebrity guest hosts, you get Jillian every night, which means in no work for Meat Loaf this month. Celebrity guests of the C-list variety, like Tom Arnold and Carmen Electra, respond to questions regarding morality, sex and greed--which is kind of pointless, because if they were any good at any of them, they would at least have made the B-list and been invited to Politically Incorrect.

Viewers at home are invited to get interactive through the show's website and check how their own answers stack up against those of soulless showbiz parasites. "Marcia Clark wouldn't steal cable? That's cool and all, but there's no way I'm actually paying for FX, dude."

Hold your breath, folks. We now live in a world of network free-agency.

That's right. Buffy the Vampire Slayer made The WB what it is, but now she's pulling up stakes at the Frog and moving to the other fledgling network, UPN. The big announcement came late Friday -- it's a two-year, 44-episode deal worth roughly $100 million... and about $30 million more than The WB's last, best offer.

Keep in mind where The WB was when Buffy premiered. Heck, just read my article from early 1997 on the subject. The fact is, The WB deserved its "We Blow!" nickname. Today, things are different, and the network is populated with solid series. Some of them are just my taste (Buffy, the Buffy spin-off Angel, and Gilmore Girls) and others aren't (7th Heaven, Charmed, Dawson's Creek, Roswell)... but they're all respectable on some level.

In the meantime, UPN has stunk up the joint. Star Trek: Voyager was the network's marquee show for a long time, despite its status as a fading, uninteresting copy of a copy. Finally in 1999, after years of trying, UPN got its signature show... and it was WWF Smackdown!

Now Voyager's staggering to its conclusion, and while there's a new Trek series in development, there's no guarantee it will air on UPN. The network needed a marquee name, and it's gotten it with Joss Whedon and Buffy.

It's a fair question to ask if the acquisition of a five-year-old show that's probably heading for a long downhill slide into syndication is worth two million an episode -- but let's leave that aside for now. Instead, consider for a moment the dramatic change this might have on the television landscape.

Buffy is network TV's first free agent. It's the first show to switch from a network that wanted to keep it to some other network. And at $50 million a year, The Slayer turns out to be worth even more than Alex Rodriguez.

More than that, Buffy's departure is an example of the growing importance of corporate synergy in the TV industry. That's because although Buffy was airing on a network owned by AOL Time Warner, it's owned and produced by Fox. And this move means that Fox has chosen to relocate its series to a network that's not just the highest bidder, but one that's half-owned by Fox itself.

Sure, Fox could've chosen to air Buffy on the Fox network. But perhaps Rupert Murdoch's crew decided it was more useful to use Buffy to invest in UPN's future. Or perhaps the money was just too sweet to ignore -- that's what Fox is saying about the deal, anyway.

But forget about why Buffy moved for a second. The big question is, will it be a quirk in the history of TV, or a milestone? Lately there have been lots of rumblings about series bolting for other networks -- and before you break out the hankies for The WB, let's not forget that Warner Brothers held NBC hostage over ER (which it produces) a few years back -- but none have made the big jump yet. Most network-jumpers have either been series that were past their prime, hadn't yet found an audience, or simply were no longer wanted by their network.

We might have cynically looked at the games of chicken over ER and Frasier and the like and decided that it was all just part of the negotiation, that eventually a deal would be done. After all, ultimately if a network wants a show, it always keeps it.

That time is gone. Open the floodgates. Nothing's the same anymore.

For a split second, it seemed like a wacky idea for a TeeVee piece: What if I were to actually participate in National TV Turn-Off Week during April 23-29? Seven whole days, joining the "millions of people around the world who will rediscover that life can be more rewarding, interesting and fun without TV," as the self-appointed TV Turn-Off Network (formerly TV-Free America) tells me. Nothing but reading, gardening, riding bikes, balancing my checkbook after ordering a $30 membership from www.TV-Turn-Off.org, and who knows what else? Maybe I could even join in on the more committed "Cold Turkey Turn-Off," which runs from April 23 to July 15! No TV for 12 glorious weeks! What a life-enhancing experience it would be!

Then I put down the crack pipe and came to my senses. These lunatics had nearly sucked me into their godless commie cult! Forgive me father, for I have sinned. It's been three days since my last Access Hollywood....

Going without television is just not an option for me, but not merely because of this sweet TeeVee gig. The very existence of some TV shows, I'm convinced, depends upon my continued viewership. Whether or not I'm really the only one watching them or just the lone voice who'll admit to it is irrelevant: These programs need me even more than I need them, and no semi-organized group of fanatics is going to browbeat me into pulling the plug. Go calibrate your solar panels and leave us alone, you dirty hippies.

Why else does Son of the Beach (FX, Tuesdays) continue to air if not for my own pleasure? Sure, the numbers show the Howard Stern-produced comedy to be the most happenin' thing on the FX cable net... which ain't sayin' much. (How many 90210 reruns can there be, anyway?) And still, I get the feeling that I'm the only person who appreciates the over-the-top, under-the-bottom Baywatch satire's snappily dense gags-per-second scripting and unerring attention to detail.

For sheer funny, SOB makes Airplane! look like Requiem For a Dream, but writer and star Tim Stack's bonehead genius elicits zero props from the snooty TV-critic intelligentsia. Well, they can all just suck my Horatio Hornblower.

And can we talk about 18 Wheels of Justice (TNN, Tuesdays)? Of course not, because I'm the only one who watches it. Male model Lucky Vanous is federal agent Chance Bowman, undercover in the witness protection program and fighting crime across this great country's highways and byways with his teched-up Kenworth "super truck," kinda like Knight Rider meets Convoy.

Yes, we're all asking ourselves, How can this not be the greatest show in basic-cable history? Add in the occasional B-list country music star and G. Gordon Liddy as Chance's evil mob nemesis, and you've got... hell, who cares what you've got? Despite molasses pacing that's slower than an uphill rig with the jake brake on, 18 Wheels is downright inspired -- and shot on a budget of about 38 bucks (not counting costar Billy Dee Williams' contractual Colt 45 amenities). Why anyone would even suggest a national TV turn-off week when a gripping action-drama like this is available is beyond me.

WOW: Women of Wrestling (syndicated, barely) is another tube gem that fails to spark any water-cooler chatter 'round my office. (Keep in mind, water-cooler chatter at my office usually begins with "When are we going to fire that creepy guy, anyway? Oh, hey, Bill! Uh, how long have you been standing there?")

WOW, one of the only TV wrestling shows left not owned by Vince McMahon's WWF, is also the most gynocentric and multicultural, which makes it at least as socially relevant as anything on Oxygen. Female grapplers like Latina Caliente, Asians Jade and Lotus, Polynesian Paradise, Guatemalan Jungle Grrl, Iranian Farah and others face off against all-Americans like L.A.'s Disciplinarian, Nebraska's Farmer's Daughter, Texas' Charlie Davidson, New York's Jacklyn Hyde, Nevada (State Prison's) Caged Heat and more in bouncily brutal matches every week. It's a veritable Rainbow Coalition, with a more demographically pleasing soft-porn/soft-violence angle.

Knuckle under to the TV-Turn-Off Nazis and chance missing mega-mulleted Selina Majors take on 200-pound biker chick Thug in another hysterical WOW steel-cage match? I think not. Culture is far too important to me.

Additional contributions to this article by: James Collier.

I have been a TV Guide subscriber for years, and before I was, my life was a total mess. I didn't know what was going to be on the tube from day to day, frequently missing shows I desperately wanted to watch. And I was always the odd man out with my peers, when they talked about hot shows around the water cooler.

Since getting my subscription, I am no longer that troubled outcast. My life has changed for the better, and now I have knowledge that week in and week out, the finest collection of TV journalism will be delivered directly to my doorstep. And not only that, but sometimes they even have collector's editions that have more than one cover (how great is that?)! All with no fuss, no muss, and no waiting in lines at the supermarket.

TV Guide is more than a magazine, it's an experience. And as a subscriber for more than 15 years, I have learned many tricks that maximize my enjoyment of the magazine. As a special service to you, the TeeVee reader, I would like to share some of them today.

Tip #1: Keep Your TV Guide Protected!

I can't tell you how many times my children have spilled fruit juice on my TV Guide, or how many times my wife has tainted the crossword because I left it out in the open. That's why I have my TV Guide delivered to a secret post office box: to ensure I am the first person to have access to it. I also have invested in mylar polybags to further protect them. And I've had a Plexiglas case with a lock (to which only I have the key) installed on our coffee table. While a Plexiglas case is moderately expensive, you will have peace of mind knowing that wherever you are, your TV Guide is safe, sound, and in mint condition. And how can you put a price on that?

Tip #2: Remember, Vigilance is the Key

Despite all of the protective measures you will take for your TV Guide, do not be lulled into a false sense of security. I have on several occasions caught my wife attempting to pick the lock in order to do the crossword puzzle.

Tip #3: Don't Throw Out That Sunday TV Section!

Now you might ask, with the TV Guide safely under lock and key, how does the rest of your family find out what's on TV if you are not around? I have found that the TV magazine in your local Sunday newspaper, while an inferior product, is a suitable substitute for my wife and kids.

Tip #4: Get a Safety Deposit Box

I mean, where else would you keep your old copies, for chrissakes?

Tip #5: The Table of Contents: A Window to the Wonderful World of Entertainment!

It's the best way to find what stories are in the magazine and what page they are on! I can't tell you how many times I've seen folks thumbing through TV Guide, trying to find an article about their favorite personality and failing miserably. "Where's that darn article about Sarah Michelle Gellar?" they'll whine. The smart TV Guide reader should always check the table of contents first. For example, a couple of weeks ago, I checked the contents page and I noticed there was an article about Joan Cusack! If I hadn't checked the contents page, I might have totally passed over the article!

Tip #6: Color Code Your Listings!

After thoroughly completing my first review of the listings and grids, I go through again and color code them. Blue for "can't-miss" shows, yellow for shows to tape, and pink for shows to avoid at all costs.

Tip #7: Pay Close Attention to The "Close Up" and "Editor's Choice" Boxes!

They put the spotlight on the best viewing experiences of the night!

Tip #8 : The TV Guide Horoscope: Words to Live By

For example, a couple of months ago, my horoscope in TV Guide said that "you will meet a stranger who will give something you will cherish." Lo and behold two days later, while my wife and I were at the supermarket, this woman who I've never met before in my life, came up to me and asked me if I'd like to sample something called a "pirogi." Let me tell you, brother, those pirogis were awfully tasty. Now some people might say that that was just a coincidence, but I know better.

Tip #9: Always Do the Crossword in Pencil

And it wouldn't hurt to xerox a few copies of it to work on before you officially fill it in.

Tip #10: Matt Roush? Skip Him

Trust me, the "Cheers and Jeers" section is all the guidance you'll ever need.

Additional contributions to this article by: James Collier.

Watching the first episode of That's My Bush! is a weird experience. The show is being billed as, and would appear to be, political satire; but in fact it's much more subversive. Bush! isn't satirizing politics, it's satirizing television itself. But it's doing so by being a very bad sitcom -- with a straight face. If such a thing seems impossible to you, well, you haven't seen this show.

There's also the talking fetus.

The premise could only come from the minds of the guys who brought us South Park and "Orgazmo." It is so outrageous, so bizarre, so obvious, so dumb -- in short, so unlikely to be found on television -- that it could only be birthed by midwives who also brought into the world a super-overacheiver like South Park. Apparently Trey Parker and Matt Stone have no intention of becoming faded has-beens continuing to churn out variations on their previously successful formula; they brought South Park into the world, and now they're looking for even more twisted mutants they can usher into our living rooms.

So, the premise: That's My Bush! stars Timothy Bottoms as President George W. Bush, living in the White House with his wife, Laura, played by Carrie Quinn Dolin. They have hilarious misadvantures along with their wisecracking housekeeper, Maggie (Marcia Wallace, in full Mrs. Garrett mode); Karl Rove, George's Chief Strategist (it's wonderful to see Kurt Fuller still working); Princess, George's personal secretary (a marvelously well-balanced Kristen Miller); and Larry (John D'Aquino), the Bush's wacky neighbor.

You will note an interesting mix of real people and stock sitcom characters in this description. That's what might make you think this is political satire: George W. Bush really is president, he really lives in the White House with his wife Laura, and Karl Rove really is something like his Chief Strategist (although what Karl's actual title is, I am not sure). Bottoms has been made to look rather strikingly like President Bush the Younger, Dolin resembles Laura, and Kurt -- well, he's a balding pudgy white guy with glasses, and that's about right.

And that is just about right where the political satire ends. The entire show is run on this one half-empty gas tank of a joke: Imagine if someone made a sitcom starring the President of the United States! Beyond that, there is no relation between the characters of the show and the real world. They have the same names, they look similar, and that's all.

This is where the real subversion begins. On top of this premise is layered every sitcom trope, every touchstone, every nuance you've come to expect from a poor half-hour of television. And then some. Do sitcoms have laugh tracks? Oh boy, does Bush! have a laugh track. Do audiences whistle and hoot when hot chick characters enter the scene? It sounds like feeding time at the nearest Delta Tau Delta house when Bush!'s Princess comes onstage. And sitcoms always have wacky neighbors who arrive according to the demands of the plot and help themselves to food -- even if one wonders how far away the nearest neighbor of the White House lives, and why the White House would stock beer in a fridge by the door. And sitcoms always have witty acerbic domestic help to make snide remarks undercutting the main characters.

What Parker and Stone have managed to do is find a perfect way to highlight the immense stupidity of the average sitcom as designed and built for the last thirty years or so. By slathering standard kneejerk piss-poor sitcom conventions over the thoroughly ridiculous concept of President-as-Tim Allen, they have stripped -- deconstructed and demolished -- the structure of the sitcom and shown in very bare terms just how truly impoverished and pathetic it has become. Probably no other character or real world figure could so admirably perform this function. It's the application of the Standard Sitcom Toolkit to the sitting President which is so ridiculous, and which shows, by extension, how ridiculous the Toolkit is even when used sincerely.

So watching the first episode of That's My Bush! is a weird experience, because while you are thinking, "Lordy, this is a bad show," you are also thinking, "But you know, this isn't much worse than a lot of shows I've seen which were seriously produced," and furthermore you're thinking, "How long are they going to get away with this?"

And then, as I wrote earlier, there's the talking fetus.

The talking fetus arrives like an alien from an alternate sitcom universe, like something from -- well, South Park. He's even voiced by Trey Parker and sounds a lot like Cartman. The talking fetus is Felix Harris, "anti-abortion leader," and is supposed to be literally a failed abortion, a nasty little blind fetus-like puppet with a comb-over. The puppet looks nasty and says nasty things you wouldn't expect anyone on TV to say, which is the point. The talking fetus is also the only sharp spike of true satire in the whole show, a painful and bizarre and hilarious little creature, and entirely wrong but in a good way, if you like that sort of thing.

Somehow the invasion from the planet of satire meshes perfectly with the surrounding stupidity, as if the mere Noh play conventions of a sitcom can swallow any indignity, any offense no matter how horrific; as if anything can be sanitized with canned laughter and a doubletake from a loveable protagonist.

That makes the point of the show even more strongly. I believe it was Henry Miller who wrote that one gets used to Hell, and in a way that's what makes it Hell. Likewise, I think we can say that one can get used to the sitcom form, and be lulled by it, and that's what makes it Hell.

All in all, I don't think the show can or will survive very long. I also think that's beside the point: With a show like this, I think Parker and Stone just want to get it on the record that they were able to create this show, and get it on the air, and get some people to watch it, no matter how incredibly weird it was, and tasteless, and inane. It's a one-line joke whose point is not the joke itself, but that the joke was told at all.

I have a terrible thing to admit. I'm so ashamed of it, I almost wrote this piece under a ridiculous pseudonym -- "James Collier" or something. But I'm making myself be courageous about this.

I really like Once and Again. In fact, I record the damned show every week. And every week, my roommate mocks me: "Aren't you going to put on a dress to watch that show? Are you going to cry like you always do? My God, man, are you opening another bottle of wine?"

OK, that last criticism is unrelated to the show, and probably justified. But the rest is a little unfair. I mean, this isn't completely a chick show, and I'm just crying because I do that when I'm really drunk.

Last night, his ex-girlfriend was over while I was watching the show, and when he started picking on me, she leapt to my defense: "It's a great show!" Frankly, that just made it worse, since her favorite shows are Felicity, Dawson's Creek and Jack and Jill. Not at all the company I wish to keep.

The ABC web site has this blurb about the show: "Rick and Lily are in love. Their children and former spouses aren't always supportive, and often have dramas of their own."

I'm even more ashamed after typing that, but I'm going to summon some more courage and say that while this may be a chick show, it's a well-made one. The cast is outstanding, for one thing, and I'm happy to admit (in a confident, manly way) that I started watching this show because that Sela Ward is a hottie. She's also 12 years older than me, so I don't have that horrible old-man feeling like when I realized Ed's Julie Bowen was younger than me.

I suspect a lot of people -- mostly those hateful baby boomers -- watch this show because they relate to it in the same way they related to thirtysomething a decade ago. And, yes, this show is fortysomething. And, yes, Edward Zwick produced both shows, and there are other overlaps.

But I watch it in the same way most people watch NYPD Blue or CSI: for a view into an alien world. I haven't been married, have no kids, and of course, don't have to deal with ex-wives or even ex-girlfriends (at least until the restraining orders expire). The logistics of remembering to change the kitty litter when my roommate is out of town kind of overwhelm me, so watching these people deal with the hassles of kids who live in two places, and ex-spouses who have different parenting ideas, and, OK, "dramas of their own," is kind of fascinating, just like a police procedural. How do the millions of people in America deal with all of that?

The show is not only well-acted, but the shows are well-paced, and the potentially very silly technique of cutting to the black and white shot of the actors alone in a bare room to share their innermost feelings is only slightly silly, and sometimes very funny and effective.

But the thing I like most about this show, and the thing that keeps me coming back to it (other than Sela Ward's beautiful eyes. Ahh, those eyes...) is that this show belongs to the very small minority of television that doesn't paint every issue in black and white. It's not always clear what a character should do. Stop and think about that for a moment: the vast majority of television relies on the viewer feeling a sense of superiority to the characters on the screen. We can't figure out our own life, but we know for certain that Ally McBeal should dump that jerk, or the defendant on The Practice is a racist pig, or homophobe, or whatever other self-righteous crap David Kelley is spewing that week. We're better than those people, and it makes us feel good.

But the really great shows, like West Wing or Law and Order or ER (in its heyday, anyway) don't feed that feeling (or, at least, do so with more restraint). The right course isn't always clear, and most of the time there isn't a right option, just a lot of choices that represent different sets of trade-offs. Once and Again isn't a great show, but it's good, and its missteps are not as irritating as the average TV show's best moments.

When Lily deals with her sister, or mentally ill brother (in a particularly deft episode), or kids, it's not always obvious who's right, or what's ethical. Rick is a little more one-dimensional, and less attractive (at least to me, what with that manly confident thing), and his storylines are a little thinner. His client is obviously a jerk, and we're obviously supposed to be uncomfortable with the big development he's working on and the old neighborhood that is being torn down because of it. But even there, that's what architects do and we understand that work is about compromises.

Or take Lily's problems with a co-worker who sexually harasses her, a situation most shows would turn into a silly morality play about evil men and helpless women. But Once and Again is far more nuanced, and Lily ends up admitting to the co-worker that she over-reacted because of what happened to her first marriage, and that the co-worker reminds her of her ex-husband. Did he really sexually harass her, or was it just the kind of pass that happens at workplaces every day? The show doesn't tell us, and that's a rare thing on TV.

So I'm going to keep enduring the comments about wearing panties to watch the show, and needing a hanky, and all of it, and I won't care a bit. You know why?

Because I'm drunk.

It's a good thing the so-called "recruits" in Fox's new series Boot Camp are not actually defending our country. If they were, we'd have bloodthirsty Canadians pouring through Minnesota, Washington and Alaska, their plutonium-powered hockey sticks slicing through the this batch of reality show toy soldiers like a John Deere through a nest of gophers.

The title of the show is self-explanatory. Sixteen contestants are plunged into simulated military basic training at the hands of four real ex-Marine drill instructors. Each week the squad is assigned a "combat mission" and a randomly-selected squad leader that is supposed to guide their fellow contestants through the challenge. At the end of every episode, one person in the squad is voted out and that person gets to choose someone else to leave with them. The missions feature rewards such as earning an extra hour of sleep and a successful attempt gives the squad leader immunity from being voted out.

The contestants are mostly young and good-looking with the token 50-year old and a couple of not-so attractive ones that make up for their lack of physical gifts with "heart," whatever the hell that is. Not surprisingly, sports bras are an integral part of the female battle dress uniform, while the men seem to think their best defense against enemy attack is removing their shirts.

Fox has found itself a nice diverse bunch of recruits, all very chatty and willing to share their feelings. Of course, perhaps one or two of the entire group might be able to survive real military life. In the reserves. As a REMF logistics officer. In France.

Sure, Fox tries to make a big deal about how realistic Boot Camp is. The network even created its own training site in Florida complete with alligator-infested lake, heavy woods, chow hall and "Dismissal Hill" where the contestants gather to vote one another off the show. The fact is, however, that these are the nicest drill instructors in the world. Sure, they spend most of the time screaming at the contestants, but they don't swear, they don't threaten and they spend down time telling the camera that they're actually nice people once you get to know them.

There were a couple of high points in the premiere. One of the recruits, Yaney, is a balloon sculptor in real life. Lord knows why, but he brought some of his balloons with him. When the DIs found out that he makes inflatable animals for a living, they forced him to make one for them. Whether he was nervous or just a lousy sculptor, we'll never know, but the result was some kind of orange lizard with a glandular problem. Yaney called it a poodle. The drill instructor ate it.

Some of the other recruits include Haar, a female pig farmer who is the kind of dead weight that NBC makes sappy Movies of the Week about. She has "heart," "guts," "gumption," "gusto," and a "never-say-die" attitude. She's also an anchor that drags down everyone else in the squad. You'd think chasing pigs around all day would give her some semblance of physical fitness but it took her over ten minutes to run three-quarters of a mile and she ended up pulling a groin muscle. She must have some pretty slow pigs.

The first casualty on the show was Park, an entirely competent sort of fellow who was one of the main reasons the squad was able to complete its first mission successfully. He did this by taking charge and making sure people did things the right way. So, of course, the other recruits hated him.

Park's ouster was engineered by Meyer, a pretty-boy urban planner who has firmly entrenched himself as show weasel. Now I'm not going to go and do something stupid like accuse of the producers of Boot Camp of fraud, but Meyer is such a bad seed he was either extensively coached or he is, in fact, the anti-Christ. Meyer is the slacker who never does anything right, refuses to obey orders and schemes to get the decent recruits kicked out. He spends his tell-all moments reveling in his villainous machinations and is so over-the-top that you're waiting for him to twirl a handlebar mustache and cackle about tying Penelope to the railroad tracks.

Hey producers, if you use a plant next time, try to get a better actor.

Meyer's allies in his quest to destroy the world are the females of Boot Camp who, in just one hour of television, managed to set the struggle for women in combat back fifty years. Any feminists who caught the premiere must be pulling their hair out at the way the Boot Camp women are shaping up: weak, whiny complainers who don't care about winning as long as they enjoy the company of their friends.

Early on, it was obvious Meyer was a troublemaker and the early front-runner for dismissal. Along with his only male ally, he cooked up a plan to make a phony speech about deadbeat parents who abandoned him, leaving him without the concept of discipline. He even managed a few crocodile tears. While the rest of the men were rolling their eyes, the women came over to comfort him. Then, despite winning the challenge with ease, most of the females banded together to complain that Park was "being mean." Haar was the only exception, proving that pig farming endows one with more common sense than physical fitness.

I don't know if the women actually are spineless twits or if some creative editing on the producers' part has set up this battle of the sexes, but the real females of the U.S. Armed Forces must have been taking aim with their M-16s.

If you like reality shows, and if so please refrain from procreating, you'll probably like Boot Camp. There are hot babes, sweaty shirtless guys, evil slackers, plenty of screaming and lots of heartfelt talking about emotions in a place where emotions don't matter. But Fox doesn't seem to care about the truth in advertising laws -- you tune in to Boot Camp thinking you're going to get "Full Metal Jacket" and instead end up with Gomer Pyle.