January 2004 Archives

After months of insisting that it was just doing some re-tooling and would soon be re-launching, ABC finally shitcanned Karen Sisco today.

I was saving my review of the show for the re-launch, but I guess I'll be saving it a long time now. So let me be brief: Karen Sisco was probably the best new show of the 2003-04 season. It was a breezy, fun crime drama with great main characters and great guest characters. The bad guys were almost always dumb, because let's face it, most bad guys are. Carla Gugino was eye-opening, not only because she's gorgeous but because I had no idea she had a role like this in her.

As for ABC? Well, it's hardly breaking news that network suits often do stupid, stupid things. This is example 14,593,439 of that.

So they're finally making a feature film version of "The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy," apparently based on the late Douglas Adams' own screenplay adaptation. Hooray! And Martin Freeman, Tim from The Office is a great choice to play Arthur Dent, I think.

But in a move I'd never in a million years have predicted, Mos Def has been cast as Ford Prefect. That's about as far as you can get from David Dixon, but given Ford's wild background before he got to Earth, it might just work. It's certainly going to add to the quirkiness factor.

Zooey Deschanel is going to be Trillian. No word on who will be playing Zaphod Beeblebrox or Eccentrica Gallumbits, the triple-breasted whore of Eroticon 6.

I am reluctant to admit what I'm about to say because this is an edgy time in our nation's history. Dissent is frowned upon. Rocking the boat is very much discouraged. And during brighter days, when you could let your freak flag fly and the worst thing that could happen to you was a few raised eyes brows and some worried murmurings from the squares, you step a little bit out of the mainstream these days and the authorities start keep filing on you.

Nevertheless, in the words of poet/dancer/"Cannonball Run" extra Sammy Davis Jr., I gotta be me. I have to be true to myself, no matter what other people think. And so I'll say what I have to say, and let the repercussions and backlash fall where they may.

I have no interest in watching Super Bowl XXXVIII this Sunday. Zero.

There. I said it. And I'm glad I said it. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to pack for my Justice Department-ordered trip of indeterminate length. I understand Guantanamo Bay is lovely this time of year.

I'm being overly dramatic? Perhaps. But this is the Super Bowl we're talking about here. Each year, the game -- whether it's an instant classic or so wretched that NFL Films immediately sets fire to the rough cut -- is the top-rated event on television, attracting an audience that easily tops a hundred million people in this country alone. We are told it is the birthright -- nay, the duty -- of every red-blooded American male to watch the Super Bowl. Even people with a passing interest in the game -- the folks who couldn't tell the difference between the shotgun formation and the run 'n shoot offense -- will feel compelled to tune in. It is a Major Event that brings us as a nation together -- that's what we're told by sportswriters with a penchant for overstatement anyway -- a de facto national holiday built around sports, television, and guacamole (three things near and dear to my heart).

And yet, I can't find one compelling reason to watch, not even if they held the coin flip in my living room.

The shame of it all is, I'm a sports fan. When I get the morning paper each day, I cast aside the parts of the newspaper dealing with such trivialities as world events and finance and make a beeline straight for the box scores. I listen to sports-talk radio. I have passionate, extensively thought-out positions on everything from the designated-hitter rule to last summer's WUSA championship game. I've forgotten nearly everything I once knew about great works of literature, calculus, and the Periodic Table of the Elements, but I can still tell you who led the National League in home runs in 1977. Basically, if you can devise an easy-to-follow scoring system and figure out a way to crown a champion that does not involve the deliberations of a panel of experts (thus excluding figure skating, diving, and Division 1-A college football), you can slap it on the television and be assured that I'll be tuning in.

Unless, apparently, you're talking about Super Bowl XXXVIII.

I pin the blame on ESPN, which, for the past two weeks, has relentlessly promoted the upcoming Patriots-Panthers clash on shows like The Sports Reporters, Pardon The Interruption and especially Sports Center as if it were all three Ali-Frazier fights, the Battle of Getttysburg and the second coming of Jesus Christ all rolled into one three-hour football game. Nothing wrong with that, in theory -- ESPN's raison d'etre is to get people interested in sports, even if over-hyping something jeopardizes its credibility. So we've been treated to extensive personality profiles, strategy breakdowns and point-counterpoint-style arguments on just how exactly New England and Carolina will give us a game for the ages come Sunday.

Only trouble is, the game is more likely to be duller than dishwater.

This is no knock on the respective football prowess of either the Patriots or the Panthers. It's just that, if history is any guide, the "super" in Super Bowl tends to be more of a marketing term than an adjective describing the game itself. A quick review of the facts reminds us:

• Of the previous 37 Super Bowls, only 11 have been good, memorable games (and we're being charitable by including Super Bowl V). Four have been decent, but largely forgettable. The other 22 have been downright dreadful -- usually decided by the time the halftime performers are limbering up.
• When there's a two-week period between the conference championship games and the Super Bowl -- as there is this year -- the superior team has enough time to prepare a game plan to snuff out any underdog's would-be upset.
• Based on win-loss records, New England was the best team in its conference. Carolina was the fourth-best.

Ergo, we head into Sunday's game with a 60 percent chance of suckitude and the likelihood that any time spent planning a victory parade route through downtown Charlotte is time misspent.

Then again, it's not as if the likelihood of a Super Blowout is a recent phenomenon. More often than not, the game looks like a blowout on paper, no matter how brave a facade Chris Berman and his NFL Countdown compatriots erect, and I still do my duty as a man and an American and turn in. So what's my problem with this year's game?

Maybe it's the teams. I have no vested interest in either the Carolina Panthers or the New England Patriots, emotionally or monetarily. I can't even work up the sort of healthy disdain for either franchise that fuels so much of my sports viewing. My dislike for the New England sports scene pretty much begins and ends with the Boston Red Sox and their cretinous fan base. As for becoming a ball of fury over anything Carolina-related, well, good luck there. I mean, what's supposed to raise my hackles? The team's drab, unexciting offense? Their uniform's color scheme? The franchise's cowardly refusal to pick a state -- North or South? C'mon, Carolina -- help me to hate you!

"OK, so the game is of no interest to you," you say. "You could always watch just for the commercials." To which I reply, listen to yourself. We spend 364 days of each year assiduously avoiding any accidental laying of eyes upon advertising. I bought a TiVo specifically so I would never have to watch a TV commercial again. And now I'm supposed to spend three hours of a perfectly good weekend sitting in front of the TV specifically so people can try and sell me stuff?

Besides, in case you haven't noticed, the Super Bowl ads have been really kind of awful for the last few years.

There's always the halftime entertainment, I suppose. But then I sort of stopped paying attention there once Up With People stopped getting the gig. Janet Jackson, Kid Rock, Nelly, and P. Diddy are all right for the kids, I suppose, but they're not really my bag. The bands I like tend to have died several decades ago and, therefore, are unavailable to perform on Sunday.

(This just in: a super-duper top-secret performer will be part of the halftime festivities on Sunday, Sports Illustrated reports. TeeVee's Jason Snell muses about if it will be accused child molester Michael Jackson, perhaps in a duet with accused child-pornography aficionado R. Kelly. Philip Michaels predicts that if it is the Gloved Fugitive, fans will riot until Reliant Stadium burns to the ground. Which may be a compelling enough reason to tune in, come to think of it.)

So you can understand my dilemma, then. Knowing CBS, the coverage will be competent but excitement-free. The commercials will be lackluster. Janet Jackson's attempt to reassemble the members of the Rhythm Nation will fail to move me. And the Patriots 22-5 victory over the Panthers -- courtesy of five Adam Vinatieri field goals and a Jake Delhomme interception returned for a touchdown, plus a Panther field goal and safety to avoid the first-ever Super Bowl skunking -- should put hundreds of millions of viewers to sleep round about the middle of the third quarter.

(Did you see what I just did there? By predicting a blowout -- and a Patriot win -- I have ensured that the game will now be relatively close and that the Carolina Panthers will pull off the upset. Guess my sniveling hatred of the thrice-damned Red Sox Nation does extend to the region's football team as well.)

So I'm inclined to sit this one out. For the first time in 23 years -- back when I was more interested in what letters and numbers were sponsoring today's installment of "Sesame Street" than who was advertising on the Super Bowl -- I could spend Super Bowl Sunday doing something other than stuffing my face full of snack food and watching some team run roughshod over its deflated opponent.

The problem now is, what do I do instead?

While there are plenty of other shows to watch on Sunday (look to your left or click here for them), the idea of trading one three-hour block of stupefying programming for another doesn't appeal very much to me. There are vigorous outdoor activities or books to be read, but it seems like I could do those any day of the year. I want to do something that explicitly takes advantage of the fact that the Western world will be hunkered down in front of their television sets watching a terrible football game, while I roam about the world footloose and fancy-free.

So I turn to you, the readers of TeeVee. Tell me what I should do in lieu of watching the Super Bowl Sunday afternoon. If the suggestion is good enough, I'll not only award you a generous prize package (once he finally awards the prizes for last year's Dead Pool -ed.) -- do the words "assortment of smoked cheeses" get your motor running? -- but I'll follow through on my idle threat to boycott Super Bowl XXXVIII and all its attendant hoopla. Just send your ideas to teevee@teevee.org. Hurtful suggestions like "Go jump in a lake" or "Whatever it is you do, for the love of God, don't write any articles" will be ineligible for the prize package.

Besides, if the game turns out to be any good, I can always catch it on TiVo on Monday.

I am not presumptuous enough to think that TeeVee is the one-stop online destination for this country's titans of industry -- obviously, titans of industry go to TV Tattle for their television fix -- but I do know that it's a pretty big World Wide Web out there. So the odds are fairly high, I think, that somehow, somewhere, someone out there reading our site is either in the employ of IBM or knows someone who is. And maybe, just maybe, that unknown someone can deliver a message to one of the higher-ups at Big Blue, a mover and/or shaker who knows where all the bodies are buried and can get things done with the snap of a finger. Sam Palmisano, say, or Lou Gerstner, or that machine that keeps whipping Garry Kasparov in chess.

And that message is: those IBM Linux commercials need to disappear from my television set. Now.

USA Today's Robert Bianco claims that the "prom video" episode of Friends was so good it changed the series forever.

This is the episode that brought us Fat Monica -- Courteney Cox dressed up in a fat suit to be the butt of numerous jokes.

Best episode ever? Featuring Fat Monica? In 2000, TeeVee's own Lisa Schmeiser begged to differ and criticized Fat Monica in all her forms. (Yes, as alert nitpicker Matt Deatherage notes, Lisa complained about a different episode. We know. But it's still Fat Monica. Which is kind of the point here.)

(Update: Tim Bland goes one better, insisting that the only real option is that the Friends all die at the end of the series. To which I say: Joey's gotta survive for the spin-off, unless the spin-off is retitled Ghost Joey. Which, come to think of it, doesn't sound too bad!)

A talk-show pioneer is dead. We often hear about the influence Letterman and Leno have on the political scene. I guess that's true, as far as it goes. But back in the day when viewers had three networks to choose from, Paar was a kingmaker, a giant. John F. Kennedy's appearance on The Tonight Show in 1960 was a huge and galvanizing event.

Leno and Letterman owe a lot to Paar, who was arguably more interesting than the former and more edgy than the latter (for his time). Paar walked off his own show after a dust up with network censors. He stayed off for a month, until the suits had bowed and scraped to his satisfaction. His first night back, he began his monologue: "As I was saying, before I was interrupted ... " Paar was 85.

Look, I don't go out of my way to disagree with any of the other folks who opine for your amusement here at TeeVee. Well, except for Rywalt. Because... because... well, you've read his stuff. Plus, whenever we give him the business, his right temple begins to noticeably throb and his face turns about six variations of red. It's kind of funny to watch. We really should post pictures.

The point is, I'm a pretty agreeable person. Amiable. A good co-worker. The sort of fellow who gives his colleagues all the respect that's due them (with the exception of you-know-who). And definitely not a person who derives any sort of pleasure by pointing out the howling errors made by others who may or may not contribute to this site.

That said, the article by young Nathan Alderman -- the piece we kept up for a week while the rest of us finish sleeping off whatever it is we downed over the holidays -- is simply wrong. UPN wrong. Let's-give-Tony-Danza-his-own-talk-show wrong. Wrong wrong.

Oh, not his central point -- that Fox's Arrested Development is a darn funny show and well worth your undivided attention. There, young Alderman was spot on. Highlighting the show's strong points -- superb writing and some fine comic acting, particularly from Jason Bateman and Jeffrey Tambor -- would just be repetitive, so I'll simply nod vigorously at Alderman's endorsement.

Which is not to say that Arrested Development is not flawless -- at this point in the show's lifespan, it can feel a little rudderless at times and there's about one no-account Bluth offspring too many in that cast (I'm looking in your direction, Buster). And the recent TelevisionWeek poll where TV critics hailed Arrested Development as the best show on the tube -- well, that's simply laughable, considering Arrested Development is arguably only the fourth best show on Fox on Sunday nights, trailing the resurgent Malcolm in the Middle, the woefully under-appreciated King of the Hill and the still-funny-no-matter-what-the-disgruntled-fanboys-are-griping-about Simpsons. Just goes to show that New Puppy Syndrome is still afflicting our nation's TV critics at epidemic levels.

But this is simply nitpicking. If Arrested Development had made its debut during a Golden Age of Sitcoms, it would still stand out in a crowd. That it's plying its trade at a time when Whoopi Goldberg is able to hold a terrified nation at bay explains why people are so eager to throw critical hosannas in its general direction, deserved or otherwise. All you need to know about Arrested Development is that if you enjoy laughing with television instead of at it, you really ought to work the show into your rotation.

No, where Alderman's argument goes off the rails is when he contends that Fox is already sizing up Arrested Development for a pine box and a decent burial suit. Like the old man at the beginning of "Monty Python and the Holy Grail" who's not quite dead yet, Arrested Development isn't even within shouting distance of death's door. Fox, it seems, after a lifetime of primping and polishing up new shows all nice and pretty-like only to throw them under a bus the minute the No. 7 Express rolls on by, has finally figured out how to nurture a show. And not in its usual "We picked up Undeclared for a full season -- oh whoopsie, just canceled it" sort of way.

Now, when Fox says it's picked up Arrested Development for a full season, it means an honest-to-God fall-to-mid-May timeframe. Fox is also promoting the hell out of the show. Just look at the network's playoff coverage the last two weeks -- difficult to do, I realize, when Joe Buck and Troy Aikman are anywhere near an open microphone -- where Arrested Development promos blanket the airwaves alongside ads for My Big Fat Obnoxious Fiance. (In case you confuse the two shows, the former focuses on a group of conniving, amoral sociopaths, while the latter considers conniving, amoral sociopaths to be its target audience.) And perhaps most telling of all, Arrested Development airs on Sunday nights -- the Fox scheduling equivalent of a Supreme Court appointment. Once you're in there, you're in until they wheel you out on a gurney. Or until they catch you taking bribes. Whichever.

Consider the case of Oliver Beene. In case you don't remember the show -- and I'm going to assume that sound of crickets chirping means you don't -- it's the one about the kid who reminisces about growing up in the coo-coo-crazy '60s. You know, sort of like the Wonder Years, only without the heartwarming writing. Or Winnie Cooper. Or the vague interest of more than a handful of viewers.

And yet, turn on your TV on Sunday night sometime in February, flip over to Fox, and you'll find Oliver Beene, bright-eyed and busy-tailed and back on Fox to the general puzzlement of nearly folks who think the show has something to do either with that Naked Chef guy or the long-last Brady Bunch cousin. I didn't watch Oliver Beene, and you didn't watch Oliver Beene, and even if we did, we certainly didn't care if it ever drew another breath again. And yet, there it is, back on our TV, like some long-lost relative we had forgotten existed who showed up at our front door and immediately established a permanent residence on our futon. If such a mediocrity as Oliver Beene can claw out a second season, surely a return engagement is in the bag for Arrested Development.

Besides, you want to know when to start worrying about Arrested Development's immediate future? When Fox moves it to any other night but Sunday.

Stroll away from Fox's Sunday night stronghold, and you find a landscape littered with the bleached bones of comedy programs mowed down before their time. For every That '70s Show which has managed to thrive outside of Sunday night's protective embrace, there are dozens of Ticks and Actions and Family Guys dotting the landscape as if it were some sort of scheduling No Man's Land. Stacked up against Fox's non-Sunday track record with comedies, and the Amityville Horror house starts to look like an attractive fixer-upper and your local ancient Indian burial ground seems like a really nice place to build that Chuck E. Cheese you've been thinking of opening. Britney Spears has had better, more lasting luck with marriages than Fox has had with weekday sitcoms.

Just ask poor, dopey Norm Macdonald.

The one-time "Weekend Update" anchor and current Canadian got a full-frontal dose of Fox-style programming savvy when his new show, A Minute With Stan Hooper debuted last fall. In it, Macdonald played a Charles Kuralt-esque TV newsman, whose weekly commentaries are peppered with paeans to the simple joys of small-town living. Swayed by his own prose, the Macdonald character grabs his wife -- played with nearly life-like adequacy by Feminine Comedic Unit 2.1, or as she was dubbed by her creators at U.S. Robotics, Penelope Anne Miller -- and hies himself hither to a small town in Wisconsin. Because this is television, the town is populated by wacky eccentrics, whose off-beat antics never cease to fluster and bemuse our hero.

Fox promoted A Minute With Stan Hooper fairly extensively during the baseball playoffs. It unveiled the show the Wednesday after the World Series ended and broadcast four episodes. Then, after Stan Hooper failed to garner any kind of overwhelming critical buzz or newspaper editorials denouncing it for being an affront to decency -- seemingly the only two ways a program can impress the executives over at Fox -- the network yanked the show from its schedule with the kind of fanfare the Soviets used to shower upon out-of-favor agricultural ministers.

I happened to catch Stan Hooper last month, when Fox stealthily burned off two more installments on a Friday night, thus allowing the show to reach the magical half-dozen-episode threshold. (Only 94 more, and you're in syndication, baby!) As the premise detailed above suggests, Stan Hooper wasn't exactly the most inventive show to hit the airwaves last fall. It fell back to readily on the ol' gee-we-sophisticated-city-folk-could-sure-learn-a-lot-from-you-yokels-and-your-backcountry-ways shtick. Both Stan Hooper installments also seemed to borrow heavily -- and not always successfully -- from the vastly superior Newhart, another series in which a sophisticated urbanite is slowly driven mad by the rustic and bumpkins surrounding him. (There's a reason for that similarity: both Newhart and Stan Hooper were produced by Barry Kemp, who also must one day answer for developing Coach. However, Christian charity and forbearance prevents us from denouncing him for that latter show, even if it's responsible -- no matter how indirectly -- for The District.)

Set aside Stan Hooper's pat premise and its failure to successfully steal from its betters, though, and you're still left with a fairly entertaining show. It's nice to see Norm Macdonald play against type, replacing the smart-alecky blowhard that he normally portrays for a more genial, good-natured brand of blowhard. Macdonald does exasperated incredulity surprisingly well, particularly in scenes like the one in which he's shocked to discover that no one in his new hometown locks their doors at night -- including the local businesses. Driven slowly mad by the townsfolk's insouciance, Macdonald decides to teach them a lesson by robbing the local diner -- and winds up hanging in a giant net for two weeks per the town charter's proscribed punishment for theft. There's no surer laugh-getter than having affable public figure completely lose his shit, and in this particular episode, Macdonald loses his shit with the best of them.

Stan Hooper also features as a supporting player the great Fred Willard, who can milk laughs out of even the most slender of expository lines. The rest of the cast is solid, if not particularly memorable, with even Penelope Anne Miller managing to occasionally escape from the paper bag she normally can't act her way out of.

In short, watching Stan Hooper was a generally pleasant experience. Chuckles were had. No animals were harmed. And I didn't have to draw the shades, lest the neighbors think I was watching something unsavory like porno or According to Jim. If that doesn't exactly sound like a ringing endorsement, consider that you could airlift Stan Hooper to ABC, UPN or the WB and, without improving a thing, it would automatically be the best comedy on their schedules. Perhaps the best comedy to ever air on the WB.

Instead, through a cruel twist of fate, Stan Hooper is on Fox. And, as a result, it's as dead as Dillinger. Those two little-promoted, blink-and-you-missed-'em episodes I caught by accident happened to represent Stan Hooper's last best chance at survival. And, not surprisingly for something that's little promoted or missed once anyone blinks, Stan Hooper missed its shot. The episodes attract Fox's second-smallest audience for a Friday night this season, best only a repeat episode of the chronically unwatched and mercifully canceled Skin. Earlier this month, Stan Hooper joined Skin in the boneyard.

The reason, of course, that Fox chose to burn off episodes of Stan Hooper on a Friday night was that it has plenty of airtime to fill. The network canceled one of its Friday night comedies, Luis, before anyone 'round these parts could even muster up the strength to review it. And Fox's other Friday night show, Wanda at Large, was seemingly renewed at the end of last season just so the network could can it right before the holidays.

Well, Fox's viewers aren't stupid, their embrace of The Simple Life notwithstanding. They keep seeing shows like A Minute With Stan Hooper barely outlasting the lifespan of a fruit-fly, and pretty soon, they're going to figure out that if a new Fox comedy isn't flanked by The Simpsons on one side and Malcolm on the other, they'd probably be wise not to get too emotionally attached to the newbie. So they don't watch, the show tanks in the ratings, and Fox executives furrow their brows and pull the old show off the schedule in favor of some new cannon fodder. And thus, Fox's misshapen circle of life begins anew.

I'm sure that the lesser demons who run things at Fox whenever Rupert is busy reigning over Hades can produce reams of data that prove I don't know what I'm talking about -- that canceling shows that don't immediately dominate their timeslot is a sound strategy, that audience goodwill is a myth, and that viewers love to invest time and attention to a show only to see it eradicated as if on a whim. Why show any patience in developing new shows when you've got 15 seasons' worth of Simpsons reruns to plug those holes that invariably crop up on any network's schedule?

The problem for Fox is that, increasingly, those holes are called "Monday through Friday." And as good as Arrested Development may be, it's just one half-hour on a network that's increasingly holding its schedule together with repeats, reality shows, and dead air.

25 years ago today, Bo and Luke Duke outsmarted Rosco P. Coltrane for the first time.

To celebrate, download a copy of Waylon Jennings' brilliant ballad for only 99 cents!

Or just jump through the window of your car today rather than opening the door; either one will work.

Bob Keeshan, a.k.a. Captain Kangaroo, joins Mr. Rogers and Howdy Doody in the great kids' show in the sky. He was 76.

Some strange things can happen when disparate copyrights are united by corporate mergers and buyouts. I found one over the weekend which was certainly unforseen either by Martin Nodell or Tex Avery: Daffy Duck as Duck Dodgers, through a mix-up at the dry cleaners, joins the Green Lantern Corps.

This Duck Dodgers in the 24½ Century cartoon is pretty hip. I have to say I never really liked Tiny Toon Adventures or Animaniacs because the aniamtion quality was downright hideous; but on the evidence of Duck Dodgers, I'd have to say those kwazy Koreans are getting really good. Having seen both the premiere of Dodgers and this episode, I can say this toon, while not as good as the very best Looney Tunes, certainly beats a lot of the lousier shorts.

In addition to using actual Green Lantern characters (including Sinestro and off in the background Guy Gardner) the hipness quotient is enhanced by the villain's being voiced by John DeLancie and the appearance of Hal Jordan hisownself, voiced in another wet-dream wish-fulfilliment career move by uber-comic geek Kevin Smith.

I'm on my way to getting tired of all the hip in modern cartoons, but anything which appeals to my inner comic nerd gets a pass.

I'm not really into the reality television. I've watched a few shows, but I'm not what you'd call a huge reality television buff. It's possible that my distaste for the genre stems from my low opinion of reality in general; if I'm watching television, I want something as wildly unrealistic as possible.

However, that hasn't stopped me, in my role as internet television loudmouth, from being aware of the various shows. I keep myself informed, and I was able to participate in the April Fools Page last year, which seemed to amuse people who knew what they were talking about. I even watched most of The Amazing Race and American Idol the last time they were on.

But here's the thing. I recently got a new apartment which came equipped with a roommate. And while said roommate more or less shares my attitude toward reality shows, the two or three she watches are not the two or three I watch, and before you know it, there are fifteen reality shows cued up on the ol' TiVo. I realize the math doesn't quite work out there, but apparently there's some sort of synergistic effect going on. All I know is that I might end up watching the All-Star season of Survivor even though I've never seen the show before. Hey, here's a question: don't most of the people who used to be on reality shows hang out at the same Los Angeles bar? So won't that make the cast of this season not "a bunch of strangers" but "bar buddies"? It seems like that would change the dynamic considerably.

Two of the shows that are currently on that my household has been watching are America's Next Top Model and Celebrity Mole: Yucatan. Oh, and The Surreal Life. There was also Celebrity Poker Showdown but that's already finished. So I guess I'm watching three reality shows now. No, four: American Idol will have started its three-day premiere (or whatever Fox is calling it) by the time you read this.

Of the shows about celebrities, my favorite is Celebrity Mole because they're not playing for charity. Let's face it: Keshia Knight-Pulliam is not going to be able to live the rest of her life on her Cosby millions. So why not let the celebrities fight it out for real? Whoever wins can go ahead and give their prize to charity if they want, but as far as I'm concerned, being stuck for two weeks with Stephen Baldwin means they've earned their prize. The only time I'm interested in a celebrity's charity is on that poker show, when Nicole Sullivan and David Cross started sniping at each other over whose charity was more deserving.

True to its name, The Surreal Life doesn't make a bit of sense. So far I've learned that some girl from The Real World (which, like Survivor, I haven't watched because I'd apparently rather spend my time on fifth-generation ripoffs) thinks she's a celebrity and Vanilla Ice is always as crazy and violent as that time on MTV when he freaked out and scared Jon Stewart half to death. Oh, and Erik Estrada seems like a pretty centered guy. At least, compared to Tammy Faye Messmer and that girl from Baywatch.

Since America's Next Top Model has just started, I'm not sure whether I'm going to like it or not. Oh, I know it had a season already, but I wasn't watching then. As far as I can tell, it features young, fresh-faced girls being berated by Tyra Banks. So already it sounds like a success. I think the problem for me is that I don't have any great investment in finding out who the next Top Model is. I'm not even sure I know who the current Top Model is. It seems like this show is for people who read Vogue a lot. Incidentally, one of the commercials during the first episode was for a video game called SOCOM II, which is heavy on the guns and general manliness. I mention that because it seems like an odd thing to advertise on such a girly show. Presumably, someone is banking on the appeal of fresh-faced girls and snarling Tyra Bankses to pull in the same guys who watch the Victoria's Secret Fashion show.

And then there's American Idol. You already know what you're getting with American Idol: a few weeks of terrible singing and British-accented insults, followed by several weeks of kids prostrating themselves on the altar of pop culture fame, followed by an overhyped anointment, followed by a clip show. Personally, I think you could probably just watch the clip show and get all you need to know. It would certainly cut down on your Ryan Seacrest exposure.

As someone continually amazed both by our ability to reinvent ourselves and the America public's seemingly limitless tendency to forgive and forget, I've been rather amused by the emergence of Snoop Doggy Dogg as the corporate pitchman du jour. First, it was appearing alongside septuagenarian Jerry Stiller -- now there's a wacky morning drive-time duo -- to proclaim the virtues of AOL. That was followed by a series of ads tied into Nokia's sponsorship of the Sugar Bowl and incomprehensible to anyone over the age of 30.

In short, Corporate America has clasped Snoop to its cash-stuffed bosom. Quite a ride for our Snoop -- from fearsome gangster rapper and defendant on an accessory to murder charge to beloved adult-film impresario, Jimmy Kimmel Live co-host and sought-after product spokesman.

Now I'm not going to make like some editorial writer for a third-rate fishwrap and tut-tut Snoop's evolution into the hip-hop generation's Art Linkletter. Far from it -- I believe this development betides great things for the future of advertising. In fact, I now look forward to the day when I'm watching the 2024 Sugar Bowl with my sons Yzerman and Shanahan, and the three of us are treated to the sight of Michael Jackson, Scott Peterson, Pete Rose and the cryogenically-frozen head of Robert Blake saying a few kind words on behalf of the good men and women of Kraft Foods.

I do like catching Match Game once in a while. I didnât get it when I was a kid, but those people are so drunk...in fact, since they shot several shows a day, you can kind of tell where the show is in the sequence. By the last show of the day, no one is even matching each other, and they are all slurring their words.

Great TV.

Loyal reader Tim Bland of Lifetime Movie Title Generator fame writes about an insidious change going on at Game Show Network:

Attention, Game Show Network viewers: like too many cable networks before it, your channel is about to begin trashing its original cozy niche (and fan base) and trying to be everything to everyone. Here's the big clue: the network is changing its name to just its initials: GSN.

Thus, GSN joins the ranks of MTV, VH1, AMC and TLC, networks that intentionally dropped the long forms of their abbreviations so they wouldn't be tied down by, you know, a purpose. (In a league by itself is The Nashville/National/TNN/Spike TV Network, which changes names and branding schemes every couple of months. It even occasionally also changing its lineup in the process.)

When the name goes, so goes the heart of the programming. Give it two years, and game shows will be as scarce on GSN as videos are on MTV. And Sunday on AMC, don't miss that American Movie Classic, "Legal Eagles."

At least AMC is degenerating slowly. GSN is charging headlong into the blight, loading up its schedule with dating nightmares (a new show called Fake-a-Date, hosted by beloved non-cowboy liar Evan "Joe Millionaire" Marriott), hidden-camera discards (Spy TV), and second-run, second-rate reality shows. You know what that means: more Kathy Griffin. You may destroy your television now.

For those who don't get enough of an adrenaline rush from watching people hold and then lay down poker cards on every other channel, one of GSN's new "original" offerings is The World Series of Blackjack -- surely to be followed by The Super Bowl of Nickel Slots, then Monster Coin Flipping.

So, game-show addicts, kiss your Password goodbye as GSN rushes toward the lightning round of homogeny.

Is NBC the destroyer of worlds, schedules and entertainment that is alleged nearly continuously by America's leading entertainment commentators? I'll leave that to you to decide, but you got to wonder what possible advantage could they gain by starting shows at one minute before the hour and half hour. Yeah, they could wreck the programming assignments of the thousands of households that use TiVo or the other assorted DVRs that exist (or if you want to go prehistoric, your VCR pre-programmings), but in the eyes of God -- His name being Nielsen -- you only exist as a curious sideshow, to be studied. One minute isn't going to give any network a programming advantage over another. It'll likely make it easier to switch from NBC to another network, since you won't be jumping into a mystery or a joke already in progress. Starting two or three minutes early, or even one minute late would be a much better strategy to hold onto viewers the whole night, though determined viewers can fight the siren song of "Must See TV" even if NBC decides to resurrect Turner Time.

Then why, NBC? Perhaps it has everything to do with local news. For years in the major markets, local news divisions have been running an arms race with earlier and earlier start times for their afternoon shows. The six o'clock news starts at 5:57 p.m. The five o'clock news starts at 4:58 p.m. And in markets where there is a four o'clock news, it's actually considered restraint if you wait until after the credits end to start the tease. Better to shrink Oprah to a barely visible smudge than to let the competition be alone in jumping the gun. And why not? Really, there's nothing else to distinguish one police-scanner relay from another.

So it was simply bowing to the inevitable when NBC announced in November to officially codify 10:59:30 as the time affiliates can start their local news. Most stations have been using that half-screen opposite from the credits to jump ahead of the line. Now, how would NBC make up for that 30 seconds of lost time? If you said to cut ad time, tear up that resume. You will never work in network television. Make the program shorter? How dare you suggest such a thing! Who do you think you are, NBC?

No, my friends, the correct answer is to slap an additional 30 seconds of ads in your show, start everything one minute early and start raking in the cash as your affiliates become the first to speculate each night on whether the fires, floods or robberies are the result of terrorism.

And if it causes some of your TiVos to break, thus forcing you to watch the commercials, well that's just a fortuitous break in the minds of NBC.

I've had to say goodbye to many shows since I started writing for TeeVee but none left my heart as heavy as waving wistfully from the dock at Boomtown as it was towed out to sea by NBC and summarily scuttled.

To make things even worse, NBC threw the last four episodes on in just two days in the wasteland between Christmas and New Years Eve -- you know, when no one in their right mind is showing anything at all they expect anyone to watch. Luckily, I never delete Season Passes from my DirecTiVo, so I was pleasantly and painfully surprised to find four hours of Boomtown waiting for me to watch them.

Pleasantly surprised because I figured the show was long gone -- NBC even took the show's Web pages down -- and painfully surprised because there's something awful about watching a show you love knowing it's for the last time. You know it's not worth getting involved with the characters any more, and yet you're drawn in anyway. Altogether difficult.

I'm not sure why NBC ran the shows, either, unless they had a massive gap to fill in their schedule -- what's the matter, repeats of reality shows don't fly? -- or, and this is the most likely possibility, they're just spiteful. NBC wants to rub Boomtown's fans' noses in the show's cancellation and they want to make sure the inevitable DVD can't be marketed with "never-before-seen episodes," that's my guess. There's also the fun in seeing fans get their hopes up: Maybe if enough people watch the last shows, they think, NBC will bring the show back! Uh huh. And maybe if the test patterns NBC's been running in Boomtown's time slot got worse ratings than the show did, it wouldn't have been cancelled in the first place.

So that's that for Boomtown. Although I'll readily admit that three or four years from now I'll be re-reading old articles on this site and wonder why I was getting so worked up since the show did not, in fact, leave a hole in my life. But as a reminder, I'm going to keep an MP3 of the show's brilliant theme song, composed by Philip Giffin, which you can find on his site or over here in higher quality.

You know how NBC has had odd start (and end) times for their shows on Thursday nights? ER starting regularly at 9:59, for instance. This is frustrating if, for instance, you have TiVo Season Passes for both ER and CSI. If ER is the higher priority Season Pass, it will be recorded but CSI over on CBS won't because of overlap. (CSI runs from 9 to 10, so it's just that one minute overlap, but TiVo isn't smart enough to realize that). And if CSI is higher on your Season Pass priority list, ER won't record for you. Unless you've tweaked your Passes manually to make 'em reflect these odd times.

Months ago when NBC first made the time changes on Thursday nights, I predicted this would happen. Hoped it wouldn't. But it did. When I started work compiling tv picks for the coming weeks, I noticed that NBC now appears to be making this a regular practice on just about every night of the week. Law & Order: SVU will start at 9:59 on Tuesday nights, where it'll conflict with my Less Than Perfect Season Pass for 9:30-10 p.m. Even Ed now starts at 8:59 p.m., where it'll conflict with my Joan of Arcadia Season Pass. On and on it goes.

It's just stupid, and all kinds of bad. NBC and TiVo still have some kind of partnership, don't they? Do they realize they're making things difficult for folks who use TiVo? And it may mean that folks will miss some new episodes of NBC shows, depending on what shows they've given what priority in their Season Pass manager. Bleah!

Anyway. If you have any Season Passes for NBC shows on your TiVo, you may want to look over your Season Pass manager. Definitely go to your To Do List and look at View Recording History to see if any new episodes of shows you like aren't gonna record 'cuz of conflicts due to this crap.

"It's not fair," the wife said, as our traditional pre-Christmas viewing of "How the Grinch Stole Christmas" reached its dramatic conclusion, with the title character joining all the Whos in Whoville for a redemptive dinner of roast beast.

"What's not fair, honey?" I asked her. This not only gives my wife the impression that I am interested in what she has to say, but also buys me enough time to quickly determine whether I'm the cause of her irritation.

"This show," she replied. "The Grinch."

"Look, I realize the Jim Carrey movie was awful, but I don't think it in any way diminishes the 1966 animated classic that we're..."

"No, no, no. It's not fair what happens to the Grinch."

And here is the essence of my wife's complaint. After spending the better part of 30 minutes slandering, plotting against and ultimately stealing from the Whos, the Grinch -- having had his heart grow by three sizes -- returns to Whoville with his stolen loot and, instead of being clapped in irons, is greeted warmly by his one-time victims. My wife, an animal lover, is particularly incensed by the Grinch's abusive relationship with his dog Max and that the animated special does not conclude with the Whoville chapter of the ASPCA stomping a mudhole in the Grinch's belly. Yes, Max receives a generous slice of roast beast at the end of the animated special, but does that really compensate him for a lifetime of suffering at the hands of someone who was perfectly willing to conscript poor Max into hauling a heavy sleigh up the side of Mount Crumpett?

My wife would argue no. And I believe our marital vows compel me to agree with her, at least publicly.

Granted, the central theme of "How the Grinch Stole Christmas" -- that Christmas isn't something you buy from a store, but that Christmas, perhaps, means a little bit more -- doesn't leave much room for violent revenge fantasies. But then again, my wife may be on to something. After all, it's not like the Grinch's spiritual apotheosis lasts for very long -- a scant decade later, he's back to menacing the Whos in Halloween Is Grinch Night. How do you think the Whos felt about sharing their roast beast with the Grinch after that incident? Like suckers, I'm willing to bet.

The lack of evildoers being made to pay for their crimes by vengeful mobs -- that's a concept missing from most Christmas-themed specials, come to think of it. Ebeneezer Scrooge shows up with a goose and a few kinds words for Tiny Tim at the end of countless televised retellings of "A Christmas Carol," and the entire Cratchit clan is supposed to forget about how he's dicked them over year after year. Rudolph saves the day in Rankin & Bass's "Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer" and receives cheers and adoration of his fellow reindeer. But if he ever enjoyed any measure of revenge for being denied entry into their reindeer games, well, it happened off-camera and was never immortalized in the lyrics of Gene Autry's little ditty. And magic silk hat or no, Frosty the Snowman never manages to get the upper hand on his old enemy, the sun.

Look, no one's saying the messages behind these beloved holiday classics aren't valuable. Treat others with kindness and charity. Heroes can come from unlikely places. There are few better ways to wile away a winter's afternoon than with a magical talking snowman. But incorporating scenes of unmitigated vengeance -- the three ghostly visitors pimp-slapping Scrooge around, for example, or Rudolph flinging down his badge Marshall Will Kane-style in front of the other chastened reindeer -- would allow us to enjoy oft-told Christmas tales on whole new level.

It's too late, of course, for the Christmas stories mentioned above. But I beseech future spinners of holiday yarns -- when creating your sure-to-be classic Christmas tales, in addition to your usual themes of peace on earth and goodwill toward man, mix in a little bit of the gift that keeps on giving -- bloodthirsty revenge.

And on behalf of all the Vidiots, I'd like to conclude this holiday season and welcome the new year by wishing you and yours all the best for 2004 -- peace, happiness, and the warm cheer that comes from hearing the pathetic whimpers from the broken bodies of them that wronged you.