February 2004 Archives

A couple years back I broke my hand -- sadly, it did not occur when I was defending some oppressed person's honor, but in an incident involving burned pancakes and an ill-advised show of temper. For reasons owing to cheapness and fear of fancy book-learned doctors, I did not seek immediate medical attention, waiting until my hand began to swell up and throb like Fred Flintstone's toe does when he stubs it on some rock-based product. So it was off to the hospital for me, where I was treated, lectured on the foolishness of ill-advised shows of temper, and sent home to watch "The King and I."

That's where my wife found me later that day, sacked out on the couch with a giant cast on my arm, weeping profusely.

"Oh, my God! Is it the pain?" she asked, rushing to my side.

"The king! The king dies!" I sobbed.

"Well... yes. It is 'The King and I.'"

"He's dead!" I insisted.

"They pumped you full of pills, didn't they?" she asked.

And they had. But that's not why I was crying. I always cry whenever I watch "The King and I," loaded up on painkillers or no.

Because, you see, at the end of the movie, the King dies. It is very sad.

"The King and I" is one of a handful of movies in which it is acceptable for men to cry. "Field of Dreams," you can cry during, but only if you had a lousy, unresolved relationship with your old man. "Brian's Song" is an acceptable crying movie -- Brian Piccolo dies at the end. "Gallipoli," as well. Everyone but Mel Gibson dies at the end. Then, if I remember correctly, Mel Gibson blames everybody's death on the Jews. Though I could be mixing up my Mel Gibson movies.

Anyway, it's all very sad.

I bring this up, because it's Oscar season and Turner Classic Movies is airing a lot of Best Picture winners this weekend. Which is when one of the Vidiots, knowing my unquestioned authority on the subject, asked for a list of movies it would be all right for him to cry during. Professional courtesy forbids me from telling you it was Rywalt, who mists up during "Dora the Explorer" episodes and will run from the room bawling like a toddler if you look at him funny.

I look at Rywalt funny a lot.

Anyhow, I'm always happy to oblige with such a list, although I should point out that "The King and I" was nominated but did not receive the Best Picture award for 1957, losing out to "Around the World in 80 Days." I believe the word that linguists would use to describe this outcome is "dumbfounding." "Around the World in 80 Days" is not very sad. Phileas Fogg does not die at the end. Nor does Pasepartout. Though about 20 minutes into the movie's three-hour-eight-minute runtime, you'll naturally assume that the editor died at some point.

(Besides, even if "The King and I" did win Best Picture, Turner Classic Movies couldn't show it, since AMC owns the rights. Which means you have to watch the King die in pan-and-scan mode instead of letterbox... right after these commercial messages. And that's very sad in a whole different way.)

Wait a minute. Wasn't I supposed to provide a list of some sort? Oh, yeah.

There's a great viewing combination for movie lovers out there: Turner Classic Movies and TiVo. TCM often shows movies without commercials and in letterbox format; with TiVo you can record them and watch them whenever you have time. Add DirecTV into it and you've got near-DVD picture quality, too. If you're like me, the kind of movie lover who never has time to rent classic films, this is nearly perfect. You can -- and this is just a random example -- catch up on your film viewing after midnight when your kids have finally conked out and your wife starts snoring over the Nickelodeon repeats of The Cosby Show she insists on watching.

Taking advantage of this, I found myself watching science-fiction great "Soylent Green," starring (of course you know this already) Charlton Heston and Edward G. Robinson. Two things struck me while watching this film: First, unlike most science-fiction movies, this one seemed more plausible, not less, than when it was originally made; and second, that the entire film is almost completely pointless if you know the surprise ending.

Huge numbers of classic movies have been ruined for future viewers by people blithely blathering on about the surprises in the films. I understand you can't really speak or write critically about a film without discussing what the film is about; that's fine for the kinds of nerds who attend film classes where they show "Occurence at Owl Creek Bridge" in the original French. But "Solyent Green" was wrecked for me in order to showcase Phil Hartman's Charlton Heston impression on Saturday Night Live. While Hartman's impersonation was admittedly excellent, is any joke on SNL a good reason for giving away a surprise ending? I don't think so.

Some might argue that any movie whose release date is far enough past should be fair game, since anyone who wanted to see it fresh should already have seen it. Thus anyone not knowing the ending shouldn't mind having it given away.

I'd agree that there's a statute of limitations for movies for which the viewer was alive and movie-going during the theatrical release. But what about older movies? What about the children? Won't you think of the children? I mean, my kids haven't seen "Planet of the Apes" yet. One day, they will pop in Dad's ole DVD of Charlton Heston's masterpiece and be dazzled by the sight of the starting menu, which is a honkin' big still from the final shot of the film.

Citizen Kane: The sled is "Rosebud."
Casablanca: Ingrid Bergman gets on the plane with Paul Henreid, leaving Humphrey Bogart with the slightly less attractive Claude Raines.
The Bridge on the River Kwai: The bridge blows up.
2001, A Space Odyssey: The computer kills the one guy, so the other guy shuts the computer off and becomes a flying space fetus or something.
Spartacus: Things end poorly for Kirk Douglas.
Ben Hur: Don't bet against Chuck Heston in the chariot race. Oh, also, Jesus is crucified.
King Kong (1933 version): The giant monkey dies.
King Kong (1978 version): The giant monkey dies.
The Godfather: The giant monkey (Marlon Brando) dies.
Patton: The Allied forces defeat the Nazis.
Star Trek III: The Search For Spock: They find Spock.
The Empire Strikes Back: Darth Vader is Luke Skywalker's dad!
Titanic: After more than three tedious hours, the ship finally sinks!
The Crying Game: There's a reason that chick Stephen Rea falls for has such a prominent Adam's Apple.

--Philip Michaels

It's a damned shame.

At least "Planet of the Apes" has more going for it than the ending. (Like Roddy McDowall as possibly the world's first gay chimpanzee.) But what about a movie like "Psycho"? From what I've read -- I can't say since I know the ending already, which kind of proves my point -- "Psycho" was shocking because the audience went in expecting one kind of Hitchcock film (his usual thriller) when the movie made a sudden left turn about a third of the way through. Sadly, virtually no one over the age of fourteen these days can say if it's shocking or not because everyone's had the left turn described to them in great detail, or anyway parodied in so many movies (up to and including the recent "Looney Tunes: Back in Action") that there's no way anyone can see it with new eyes.

Some things have the joy drained out of them by repetition. Take "The Matrix," for example. It was great because we'd never seen anything like it. In the intervening years they've used "bullet time" for everything up to tampon commercials, so the wonder of "The Matrix" is necessarly diminshed: We'll never again know what it's like to see a multiplexed camera shot for the first time.

We can't do anything about that. That's just the march of time and fads. But we can do something about more durable movie surprises. Like the premise of "Sophie's Choice" or the ending of "Casablanca." We can save these for future generations to enjoy as if for the first time. The Critic didn't need to tell me how "Casablanca" ended, did it? Well, probably I knew the ending before that.

Just think about it, won't you? Next time you're thinking of making some off-hand remark involving blowing the entire point of watching "The Sixth Sense," imagine me, if you would (don't worry, I usually keep my clothes on for movie viewing), sitting on my couch, wife a-snoring by my side, looking only for a little entertainment, catching up on classic movies thanks to TCM and DirecTiVo, and wishing that I didn't know how it wound up in the end. Think of me, and make some other stupid joke. Just do that for me. And the world will be a better place.

Following up yesterday's tear-streaked reaction to Scrubs, I watched the episode myself, feeling much the same as I did while watching "The Sixth Sense," knowing the ending.

So, early in the first act of the episode, Dr. Cox leaves the hospital, leaving J.D. to take Brendan Fraser's Polaroid-happy ("Till the day I die!") character for the tests on his leukemia. Later, when Cox returns, J.D. tells him that "he died twenty minutes after you left," and we're meant to think the dead guy is the heart patient we saw earlier. But clearly, in retrospect, it was Cox's brother-in-law, played by Fraser.

For the rest of the episode, only Cox speaks to Fraser, who (even two days later) is wearing the same clothes he was in the first act, and no longer has his Polaroid (aha!). It is only at the end of the episode that we realize that the event Cox is going to, where the honored guest is completely oblivious to the goings on, is not the birthday party for an infant but the funeral for Fraser's character.

Of course, Fraser didn't really look sick when we saw him, alive, scaring the bejeezus out of J.D. and taking oh-so-many Polaroids. But, of course, that was integral to the misdirection. Although we might be able to explain that one away by saying that it was Cox who was refusing to see his brother-in-law's real condition, which was more grim.

Or maybe he got hit by a bus! Either way, Mister Fraser, he dead.

Reader James Pollack wrote in: "Did you guys happen to catch the 2/24 episode of "Scrubs"? Had to have been the best half hour of television all season, if not the last few seasons."

James is right.

I spent almost the whole episode laughing my ass off, then cried like a baby. The ending so shocked me I went back and replayed every scene with Brendan Fraser in it, right up until the end, and then I cried even more.

Damn. I'd write about it, but I don't know what to say other than that. Alan Alda can go fuck himself: The best mix of comedy and pathos on TV is airing right now.

Rarely does a single episode of a TV series elicit so much response from our readers as the February 24th edition of Scrubs, a show that we Vidiots generally place among the top tier of comedies on TV right now.

Last night's episode, which featured the return of guest star Brendan Fraser, ended with a shock. And it led to our readers -- and the Vidiots themselves -- opining on the matter of "My Screw Up," episode 61 of Scrubs.

It began with reader James Pollack, who wrote:

Did you guys happen to catch the 2/24 episode of "Scrubs"? Had to have been the best half hour of television all season, if not the last few seasons...

To which Chris Rywalt responded:

He's right.

I spent almost the whole episode laughing my ass off, then cried like a baby. The ending so shocked me I went back and replayed every scene with Brendan Fraser in it, right up until the end, and then I cried even more.

Damn. I'd write about it, but I don't what to say other than that. Alan Alda can go fuck himself: The best mix of comedy and pathos on TV is airing right now.

Philip Michaels:

Alas, the Schmeiser-Michaels family missed it. One of the nice things about Scrubs moving to Tuesdays is that it no longer conflicts with Lisa's CSI recapping duties. However, for the next two weeks, Lisa is filling in on One Tree Hill, so Scrubs is but a rumor to me.

So basically, I missed out on a Scrubs episode that made Crywalt cry so that I could watch One Tree Hill or Dawson's O.C. or The Gilmore Girls' Party of Five or whatever cobbled-together angsty teen show you want to ape.

On the bright side, One Tree Hill does feature in its ensemble the great Barry Corbin as Whitey. Damnit, Fleishman!

Gregg Wrenn:

I don't think you missed much. There was some funny stuff but this one and the two with Michael J. Fox have all been subpar. Last night's surprise ending was obvious approximately two seconds after it was set up in the first act. On the other hand, John McGinley's performance was damn good near the end and it just proves the amazing thing about Scrubs is how it manages to do all the typical Very Special Episode topics without making them overly sappy or melodramatic.

Steve Lutz:

I'm shocked to find myself saying this, but I'm with Chris on this one. The ending came out of nowhere as far as I was concerned, and pretty much floored me. Admittedly, while I was watching the episode I was also listening to the daily recap of Signs That Something Might Be Horribly Wrong With The Baby, so I might have missed the obvious foreshadowing. But what I did see came as a bit of a shock, and had me rheumy-eyed like a poodle with cataracts in a matter of seconds.

Afterward, I kept hearing the line, "Where do you think you are?" in my head, and was bitter that I hadn't thought to have TiVo record it posthumously before jumping channels.

Incidentally, a question for those whose full attention spans were available to watch the show: was the episode implying that it was really Fraser that died under J.D.'s care and not the old man, or had Fraser already died before the episode started?

As for the Michael J. episodes, they didn't do much for me, but it was nice to see the ol' Teen Wolf back in action, and I was impressed that they didn't milk the potential for maudlin as much as a lesser show might have. And while I'd say that this season Scrubs has begun to sink into the McBeal Tarpit -- a bottomless mire of wacky character traits that traps and smothers any actual plot that might wander into it -- the show still produces more great moments than 90% of all other sitcoms combined.

Finally, reader Jeff Groves chimed in, replying to Rywalt's Station Break on the matter:

If Mr. Rywalt can't figure out what to write about last night's episode of Scrubs, someone better be able to. That episode deserves an article. Not only did they kill off a major guest star without making it "A Very Special Episode of...", but they spend the entire episode getting you to like him instead of stuffing him in a bed and having everyone mourn and sob about him. It hit like a sledgehammer to the gut and throws off any sarcasm you could've had about it, leaving you saddened and shocked.

Besides, we gotta figure out how/when he died. You guys have the TiVos; rewatch it for us!

Monty Ashley is happy to provide, Jeff:

Thanks to NBC's crazy and self-defeating policy of starting shows at one minute before the hour, I moved all NBC shows to below all non-NBC shows on my TiVo Season Pass list. That way, instead of a 9:59 show getting priority over both the 9:00 and 10:00 shows on other networks, it goes the other way. So now America's Next Top Model gets priority over Scrubs. Too bad!

As for editor Jason Snell, he was busy watching American Idol and 24 last night, and left Scrubs on his TiVo for some enjoyable viewing tonight. And so he thanks you all so very much for ruining the episode for him.

Oh well. At least he can watch to see when Brendan Fraser died, and report back to Jeff and the rest of us with the details.

Right? Jason? Jaaaaason?

So in some circles, the big question for the last week has been What Will Carrie Do? In these circles, it's not necessary to explain who Carrie is; she's part of a quartet of imaginary girlfriends you may have had, checking in with them once a week and trying not to pay too much attention to how much easier it was to meet with these imaginary friends than with your real girlfriends.

Sex and the City has always been about wish fulfillment, but the fashion, Manhattan real estate and nonstop men all fell short of the show's number one fantasy element: that you and your friends would always have the time for each other, and treat weekly brunch like an inviolable religious observance. Watching the show was a quick way to recall all the casual hang-out hours you had with your girlfriends before your life happened to you: your job got more demanding; you moved a couple thousand miles away; you bought a house and began doing yardwork on the weekends; you got married; you had kids. If you watched Sex and The City in the wrong mood, it was a lonely show; you'd sit there after an episode, wishing you could call your friends for brunch without already knowing all the reasons why they couldn't attend.

But the last few weeks of Sex and The City have been gently weaning viewers from the fantasy: Miranda has moved to Brooklyn; Samantha has a monogamous man who is something of a saint -- a very hot saint, but a saint nonetheless; Charlotte's been juggling puppies and adoption paperwork; Carrie's up and gone to Paris with the accomplished older artist Alexsander. People bought houses, got married, had kids, moved away.

However, Sex and The City backed away from fully embracing realism with the Carrie story. While anyone with half a working brain could see that Alex and Carrie were doomed -- he's a cultured man of the world, and there are actually yogurt containers in my fridge with more culture than Carrie has -- the real and interesting question was how these two would implode. Removing Carrie from New York City was a genius move: it would let the character realize that the greatest love of her life was actually the city itself, and it would show her that there was a whole wide world beyond Manhattan, maybe forcing her to grow up a little and show interest in something other than herself.

Sadly, the Paris plot line was nothing like this: Alex became a cartoon villain who went from treating her like a grown-up to smacking her around (however inadvertently) in their shared hotel suite; Carrie fumbled her escape plan and got completely derailed when ex-boyfriend Big came storming in after her in a gambit that was either romantic or stalkerish (depending on your perspective), and in the end, she gets the courage to shake off Alex because ... Big filled in instead.

For a show that treated women's lives in groundbreaking ways -- Miranda's plot lines alone rocked comedy conventions to their core -- this was a big disappointment. Granted, Big's plan to deliver comeuppance via fisticuffs goes off the rails, but at the end of the show, Carrie tossed years' worth of lessons she should have learned from Big's crappy behavior (a litany of which would push this into ten-thousand-word territory) and went back to New York, back to Big, and back to shopping. Nothing changed for her.

(And for those of you who think Big changed: girl, please. Have you forgotten how he treated her after heart surgery? That disdain wasn't just for the candy-striper outfit.)

Everyone else in the show changed. The entire episode hammered that home: Charlotte accepted one failed adoption attempt with a grace she wouldn't have had a year ago; Miranda opened her home to Steve's ma (whom she dislikes) because she loves Steve; Samantha let herself be loved. They've got whole, happy lives, all of which were made possible by them bravely accepting change and moving ahead.

And meanwhile, Carrie's still flouncing on down her New York streets with a shopping bag on her arm, talking about her relationship with herself and taking calls from Big. So what did Carrie do? Ultimately, nothing. How disappointing.

So tonight, ESPN's debuting Dream Job, in which 12 contestants compete for a one-year contract to anchor SportsCenter -- presumably the after-hours version watched only by insomniacs, drunkards, and people with money riding on the outcome of the Hawks-Raptors game. Dream Job represents the Worldwide Leader's latest foray into the treacherous waters of reality programming, marking a welcome departure from the network's regular m.o. to schedule shows in which reporters from east of the Mississippi spend half-an-hour screaming at one another, usually about something the Yankees did.

Or at least, it was a welcome departure, until I saw the promo for Dream Job. The 30-second clip featured a steady string of would-be announcers spouting a stream of gibberish -- non-sensical ramblings about jump-jacking taters and rim-rattling slamma jammas and other strings of words barely approximating English. These are, of course, catchphrases -- every good ESPN anchor has one or two (the not-so-good anchors have even more). So it stands to reason that this collection of pseudo-personalities, pretend-sportscasters, and Medici anchors would have prefabricated catchphrases of their own.

All of this put me in mind of a passage from one of the great works of literature:

These days I flip on the set and get an endless parade of people who think they're the next Dan and Keith: Wannabes desperately trying to squeeze a Larry Sanders reference in during a kick save by Ron Tugnutt. All I'm looking for is the Cavs-Pacers final, and what I get is something like Open Mike Night at The Chuckle Hutâ Please. I beg you. Enough.

The author is Bob Costas, and the quoted text comes from his introduction to The Big Show: Inside ESPN's Sports Center by Keith Olbermann and Dan Patrick, which is on my bookshelf wedged between Remembrance of Things Past and Ulysses, honest. Costas' point, if I'm following the pompous midget's line of reasoning, is that Olbermann and Patrick had a special gift for their particular brand of gab, that when it came to mixing sports highlights with wry commentary, well, that's not something that any old schmuck off the street could do. A decade later, and ESPN has taken a slightly different tack: not only can any old schmuck do this, the Worldwide Leader has decided, but you should want to watch a dozen such schmucks give it the ol' college try.

We are about two years away from a computer program that randomly generates catchphrases and hockey scores anchoring the 11 p.m. SportsCenter, aren't we?

Dream Job airs every Sunday at 7 p.m. PT, with a grand finale slated for March 28. The show is hosted by Stuart Scott, presumably so the contestants won't be intimidated by someone talented.

For some reason, this morning I was struck with a crystal clear memory. No, it wasn't triggered by the smell of madeline cookies. I'm not sure what triggered it. It appeared in my mind whole, with the strange familiarity of something you thought and talked about often over a period of time, and then forgot completely, so the memory is rich but has not been colored by later reconsideration. It is, instead, frozen in amber.

By now you expect something evocative, profound, and deep. But, no, this is about TV. Just be grateful it isn't about Gilligan's Island. I have those all the time.

My mom used to watch Phil Donahue's show. She found him annoying and silly, but liked his topics, and his audience (this was when it was in Chicago; she quit watching when it moved to New York). One show we watched--more than once, so it must have occurred right after we got the big Betamax--was an interview with other former talk show hosts. Merv Griffin, David Suskind and Dick Cavett were there for sure. I think Mike Douglas was there. There were four or five of the old talk show hosts, and in a way, a torch was being passed to a new kind of talk show host. But in another, way, no. (More on that in a moment.)

There were some great moments. I think it was Suskind who talked about meeting Egypt's Nasser and refusing to shake his hand. Even better was when Dick Cavett was asked about what it was like to interview Nixon. He waxed eloquent for a full minute--a long time on TV--about how he found Nixon surprisingly warm and open. Then he said, "...but I never interviewed Nixon. You have me confused with David Frost." Watching it a second time (remember, this replay ability was new to me), I loved seeing how the other hosts stayed silent but watched Cavett with astonishment, then collapsed in laughter.

These talk show hosts, to a greater and lesser extent, were giants. True, they were demi-giants to Johnny Carson's god-like giant status. But think about what they were, and what talk shows have fractured into since. These guys did everything, interviewing politicians and pop stars, launching careers of young comics and singers, and performing skits, songs and stand-up routines themselves. Part of the torch was passed on to all of the daytime talk shows now -- Ellen, Oprah, etc. Part was passed to the new, smaller Johnny-wannabees: Dave, Jay, Jimmy, Conan, and that guy who used to be on The Daily Show before it was funny. Other parts have spun into newsmagazines such as 60 Minutes and 20/20.

These guys did everything, though, and it's hard to imagine someday a young talk show host assembling such a collection on one stage. Lettermen, Leno, Springer, Winfrey, all telling wry stories about their adventures. Maybe. But it makes me wistful to think how unlikely it is, or how pointless if will be if it does occur.

Google searches suggest this show was lost. Maybe it's in the Museum of TV and Radio somewhere. Maybe not. It shows the clear line between the pre-Internet television shows, and overly documented ones since (certain episodes of Buffy, say). Things that came before the Internet lack definition, like events before photography.

It makes me personally wistful for that big old Betamax with its remote tethered to the machine with a thick cable. It makes me miss laughing, enjoying and analyzing a show with my mom -- something we still do once in a while, thanks to the telephone and TiVos, but not as often as I'd like, and not for as many more decades as I'd like.

It does make me long for a slower, drier (but funnier), more insightful kind of TV talk that disappeared with the rise of McLaughlin Group rip-offs, O'Reilly, and others.

It makes me wish I hadn't drunk all of that orange liquor at dinner. It makes me wish I had some madeline cookies. Those cookies are good.

I installed a second TiVo yesterday. Well, actually the DirecTV guy did. Now we can TiVo four different channels at once, if we wanted to. And we will.

John Edwards is right. The are two Americas. I'm glad I'm in the good one.

Does Alias "fawking STINK!" as the oddly named Wm.™ Steven Humphrey suggests?

No, but it's teetering a bit more than I'd like these days. First off, there's ABC's treatment of the show, which is airing only once during February sweeps.

Second, and more troubling, is the show's erratic, hiccuping plot structure this season. I've always been a big fan of the show's wacky 90-degree plot twists, and I still am. But right now, it feels as if the show is busy trying to place plot elements in the right locations so that it can build to the season finale. The result is a mid-season mess, with characters shooting off in unlikely directions.

I'm very forgiving of Alias, because there's always another fun twist around the corner. But the show needs to tread very carefully, because it's always been more about style and fun than about plot. If its plot machinations transmogrify it into a leaden, unenjoyable grinding of story gears, it will indeed "fawking STINK!"

Or, in other words, it's time for series creator J.J. Abrams to make another one of those inspired 90-degree turns.

The new voice of Mister Ed? George Jefferson.

According to Zap2it, Fox's remake of the (awful) '60s sitcom is "being updated to have a more 'urban' sensibility." Sherilyn Fenn will play Mrs. Post, the wife of Wilbur.

Why do they even pay TV executives anymore? The American Idol voters could pick a better idea than this one.

LOS ANGELES (Reuters) -- CBS television issued a new round of apologies, this time for any offense taken at the American Indian-motif Grammy Awards performance by the hip-hop group OutKast that some Native Americans have condemned as racist.

A little more than two weeks ago, CBS came under fire from the FCC for the breast-baring Super Bowl halftime performance by Janet Jackson on the Viacom Inc.-owned network.

Stung by this spate of ongoing embarrassments, CBS President Les Moonves and Viacom Chairman Sumner Redstone appeared at a press conference in New York Monday to pre-emptively apologize for other recent and future gaffes that have occurred on CBS and other Viacom-owned properties.

The duo kicked off the press conference by apologizing for the violent storylines and graphic adult themes appearing on the top-rated CSI this year. "We realize families may feel as though it's unsafe for children to watch," Moonves conceded. "But you have to understand the CSI producers are plumb out of ideas. So you can see why we've been using sex and violence as a crutch."

As for CSI Miami, Moonves offered no apologies for that show's content "other than David Caruso." And Redstone apologized for the upcoming CSI: New York spinoff. "You would think an industry whose well-being rests entirely on its creative prowess could do better than just repeating the same show over and over again," Redstone said. "But you'd be wrong."

Moonves spent several minutes apologizing profusely for the CBS comedy Yes, Dear. "We figured something this unfunny would be a six-episodes-and-out thing," Moonves said. "Then again, nobody's holding a gun to your head and making you watch, are they?"

Moonves then read from a prepared text, apologizing to anyone offended by the following: having Jon Cryer host The People's Choice Awards; wasting the talents of Andre Braugher on Hack; reviving Aresenio Hall's career; the hairdo of "that chick on Cold Case;" most of the network's sitcoms, Judging Amy; and "whenever Dan Rather says something creepy and unsettling."

"Also, we'd like to apologize for Survivor," Moonves said. "Not that it's a bad show, but that it's spawned so many rotten imitators."

"Like Big Brother," chirped Redstone. "Oh... that's one of ours. Crap."

Turning their attention to Viacom's cable music channels, Moonves and Redstone apologized on behalf of VH-1 for bringing the 1980s back. "The deficit... the unrepentant greed... the terrible hair... I don't know what we were thinking," Redstone muttered.

"And Jessica Simpson," added Moonves, referring to the star of the reality series Newlyweds: Nick & Jessica. "We thought it would be a laugh, putting this dimwitted woman on camera and having her say stupid things. Now it seems all of us are stuck with her."

"This has backfired worse than The Osbournes," Redstone agreed, on the verge of tears.

Both executives spent a half-hour of the two-hour press event apologizing for The Real World, in particular "unleashing 14 years worth of self-entitled drama queens onto the cultural landscape," Moonves said. To make amends, Viacom plans to round up all Real World alumni and have them live on a 50-acre compound in North Dakota.

"Needless to say, cameras won't be allowed within a 50-mile radius," Moonves said.

Pressed by reporters as to whether the reality show cast members will be allowed to breed, Moonves said, "We don't want to resort to eugenics just yet, but we are in touch with Bob Barker's people about the merits of spaying and neutering."

Additional contributions to this article by: Philip Michaels, Lisa Schmeiser.

I guess I understand the point Adidas is trying to make with that commercial where Layla Ali, through the courtesy of CGI, looks like she's boxing with her father. I mean, the message -- Nothing Is Impossible! Sisters are doing it for themselves! Grrl Power! Work the body, Layla... weaken his legs! -- ain't exactly Dostoevsky in its complexity.

But I think it's important for both Adidas and ad creator 180/TBWA Amerstdam -- whose creative director Dean Maryon is quoted in the above-linked New York Post article as saying "She's kind of glad that she's managed to tag her father, and then there's an acknowledgment at the end, kind of a proud father. So there's a happy ending" -- that their commercial is one solid haymaker away from going from an innovative way to sell sneakers to a public service announcement on the perils of elder abuse.

"Hi, I'm Muhammad Ali, Olympic Gold medalist and three-time heavyweight champion of the world, reminding you to buy Adidas shoes. If you don't my daughter won't stop hitting me."

(Special bonus non-TV related material: There's a print ad in the current issue of ESPN the Magazine, featuring the galaxy of star athletes endorsing Adidas, including the Louisville Lip and his dad-punching daughter, Layla. Also featured is Roger Clemens who, because of the vagaries of Major League Baseball licensing, appears in his Yankee uniform but with all the logos Photoshopped out of the picture. The effect is that The Rocket looks like he pitches for some sort of prison baseball team.

Baseball fans familiar with both Clemens and the Yankees will find that imagery highly fitting.)

Canada. What a beautiful, civilized, polite, pleasant nation... for me to poop on.

This might surprise readers out there who have come to see me as a witty and sophisticated man about town, but back in my salad days, I wasn't all that popular with the ladies.

You know something? We're going to get along a lot better, you and I, once you learn to fake shock and incredulity more convincingly.

But it's true. From the time I took my sixth-grade girlfriend out to see "The Rescuers" in 1984 until 1999, when I cooked a delicious fish dinner for the woman who would become my wife, I found myself remarkably date-free on Valentine's Day. And while that might save you a fortune in chocolate boxes, floral arrangements and fancy prix fixe meals, it really doesn't do much for your self esteem. And it preconditions you to hate the 14th of February the way you might also hate the gates of Hell.

For years, every Valentine's Day, I would race home before the sun could set -- like some sort of Bizarro Vampire -- and the streets became thronged with couples pitching gooey, ostentatious woo. I spent the evening locked away from society's cruel and judging eyes, cursing the name of whatever greeting-card-company executive first concocted this rotten holiday.

But sometime in the early-90s, I decided to hell with spending every Valentine's Day sealed off in some obscure dungeon. Surely, there were other dateless losers out there in the world -- and fortunately, most of them were my friends. So on one fine St. Valentine's Day, we gathered at my apartment, where we drank bourbon and smoked cigars and played cards while watching movies with decidedly un-Valentine's Day-themed sentiments. Movies like "Gallipoli" and "The Bridge on the River Kwai" and "The Great Escape." (A great movie for a number of reasons, not the least of which is watching Richard Attenborough get mowed-down by a Nazi machine gun -- oddly satisfying if you ever had to sit through "A Chorus Line: The Movie.")

For many years thereafter, I celebrated Valentine's Day the same way -- drinks! smokes! cards! And today... today, I'm a functioning alcoholic who audibly wheezes every time I have to walk up a flight of stairs. Also, I owe substantial sums of money to assorted card players throughout the greater Los Angeles area. So please give generously at PayPal. Very generously.

But most importantly, I no longer shrivel up into a vibrating ball of hate at the mere thought of Valentine's Day. Oh, I still hate it, but not more than I hate anything else in this world, including, but not limited to, crowds, pop music, transcontinental airline flights, and myself.

So if you find yourself staring at an evening of solitude and recriminations on Saturday, I suggest you follow the Philip Michaels approach -- pour yourself a nice, stiff drink, light up a Davidoff No. 2, and make an appointment with your old pal television. While others might abandon you for romantic carriage rides and long walks along the seashore, TV remains faithfully at your side, spewing out enough mindless and/or violent pap to divert you from your crippling loneliness. Or, if you're one of those masochistic types, TV serves up enough contrived romance and heart-tugging malarkey to have you stewing in your own misery well before midnight.

Oh, TV! As versatile as a utility infielder! As flexible and yielding as a Quebecois acrobat! Fie on those who sneer at you!

Here's a list of TV programming guaranteed to see you through another Valentine's Day. As for me, I'll be out with my wife, having one of those candlelit dinners and pitching gooey, ostentatious woo. But I'll be watching with you in spirit.

I can't tell if A Charlie Brown Valentine (8 p.m., ABC) is the animated special I remember watching in my misspent youth or if it's a sure-to-be-terrible remake. All's I want to know is, when is ABC going to bring back the Charlie Brown specials about moto-cross and Arbor Day?

You want to know why Fox is brilliant? It could have just run back-to-back episodes of Cops like it has every Saturday since the dawn of time. Instead, it's giving viewers Cops: Love Hurts (8 p.m.), featuring two glorious hours of domestic disturbance calls. God bless you, Rupert Murdoch!

NBC celebrates the holiday by giving its viewers a Valentine -- moving the godawful Whoopi (8:30 p.m.) to a Saturday night timeslot when few people are likely to stumble across it. You also get back to back episodes of Law & Order (8:59 p.m.) and Law & Order: Special Victim's Unit (9:59 p.m.), since nothing captures the spirit of Valentine's Day like a show about lurid sex crimes. (The USA Network agrees, choosing to broadcast four consecutive episodes of SVU (8 p.m. to 11 p.m.), right after tiresome romantic comedies like She's All That (3 p.m.) and Never Been Kissed (5 p.m.).) Speaking of pabulum, WE serves up that old sappy standby, Four Weddings and a Funeral (5 p.m.), just in time for you to hate the sight of Hugh Grant and Andie McDowell all over again.

Meanwhile, WGN eschews Valentine's Day entirely in favor of pair of movies -- Ghosts of Mississippi (4:30 p.m. PT) and Mississippi Burning (8:30 p.m. PT) -- that depict the Civil Rights Movement as seen through the eyes of heroic white people.

Nothing mends a broken-heart like non-stop sports action. TNT is broadcasting NBA All-Star Saturday (5:30 p.m. PT), featuring the beyond-tired Slam Dunk contest. ESPN features a pair of college basketball games -- Ohio State at Wisconsin (4 p.m. PT) and Memphis at Marquette (6 p.m. PT) -- while ESPN2 presents the 2004 North American International Auto Show (8 p.m. PT). If it includes all of North America, isn't it, by definition, international?

Who better than SpikeTV -- the self-proclaimed first network for men -- to tell us what the male mind wants to see on Valentine's Day. SpikeTV's answer: Ride With FunkMaster Flex (7 p.m. - 8 p.m.), Most Extreme Elimination (8 p.m. - 9 p.m.), and Slamball ( 9 p.m. - 10 p.m.). Oh, I'm sorry -- the correct response is "porn."

There's probably not a better-executed 1980s romantic comedy than Say Anything... (8 p.m, FX). So best to just avoid it this weekend. Instead, for a glimpse at the life of a true romantic, why not spend an evening examining the many loves of Arthur Fonzarelli with TVLand's Happy Days marathon (4 p.m. to 8 p.m). Thoughtfully, TVLand is including the three-episode arc in which Pinky Tuscadero is nearly felled in a demolition derby, prompting Fonzie to propose marriage.

If you've ever dreamed of watching nothing but old Love Connection reruns from 6 a.m. to 1 a.m., then The Game Show Network has finally answered your prayer.

There's no purer love than mobster love, as depicted in Bugsy (5:15 p.m., AMC). There's no love more terrifying than adulterous love, as in Fatal Attraction (8 p.m., Bravo). And there's no love more unintentionally comical than the love between Jennifer Tilly and a doll in Bride of Chucky (5 p.m., SciFi Channel).

It's a day of Oscar-nominated/winning romantic comedies on Turner Classic Movies, with The Philadelphia Story (1 p.m PT), Moonstruck (3 p.m. PT), Tootsie (5 p.m. PT), As Good As It Gets (7 p.m PT) and The Goodbye Girl (9:30 p.m. PT).

Let's get this straight right now -- any special entitled Shortest Celebrity Marriages (6 p.m., VH-1) that does not begin and end with Britney Spears' recent nuptials doesn't know the meaning of the words "shortest celebrity marriage." If only Britney had watched I Married MC Hammer (7 p.m., VH-1), a special on making celebrity marriages work.

Take your mind off all the romance you're not having by watching celebrities do it on 101 Juiciest Hollywood Hookups (3 p.m. - 8 p.m., E!). (I don't names 'em, by the way; I just reports 'em.)

You knew MTV wasn't going to let this day pass without showing either Newlyweds: Nick & Jessica (7 p.m. - 8 p.m.) or Til Death Do Us Part: Carmen and Dave (9 p.m. - 10 p.m.), didn't you?

Sex and violence: After The St. Valentine's Day Massacre (8 p.m.) -- a documentary on the famous mob hit -- The History Channel offers up back-to-back installments of The History of Sex (10 p.m. - midnight).

If you turn on the Food Network any time after 2 p.m., you will be treated to programming on that most Valentine's Day of foods, chocolate, including episodes of Emeril Live ( 3 p.m.), Oliver's Twist (6:30 p.m), and FoodNation with Bobby Flay (7 p.m.) Once MC Kaga's men are duking it out in Valentines Pear Battle on Iron Chef (10 p.m.), you are out of luck, chocolate-wise.

Have yourself a good cry for reasons other than the fact that you're likely to die alone -- Field of Dreams (7 p.m., TBS) can depress you about your unresolved relationship with your father. Or, if you'd prefer to watch the governor of California kill things, there's always Total Recall (9 p.m., TBS). And speaking of folks blowing things up, please enjoy Aliens (5 p.m, Encore) and Tremors (7:30 p.m., Encore)

I may have spent 15 consecutive Valentine's Days without a date. But at least I never spent them watching Hack (9 p.m., CBS) or The District (10 p.m., CBS). Make sure that after this Valentine's Day, you can say the same.

The New York Daily News reports on complaints by the family of a murder victim whose death six months ago was fictionalized for last night's Law & Order.

"They should have talked to me," his mother said. "This is bringing back all the memories." A colleague said, "This is still raw in people's memories," and tried to persuade NBC not to run the episode.

By the way, I had a really embarrassing moment in elementary school that I always think about when a particular episode of Three's Company airs. Uh, can we get that one out of syndication? Because my feelings are hurt just knowing that its log-line synopsis is somewhere on my TiVo.

So the Newsweek cover this week is, "Who Really Killed Jesus?"

Because when we find the guy that did it... Deicide's a hanging offense 'round Jerusalem, son.

In any event, our understanding is that it was God, in Palestine, with the Free Will of Man. Or the Lead Pipe.

Next week, on CSI: Nazareth, Simon Peter declares that it will take a miracle to solve the mystery of the empty tomb; Mary Magdalene and Thomas exchange views on transubstantiation; Lazarus looks into an assjacking in Samaria. Simon Peter: Peter Berg; Mary Magdalene: Rena Sofer; Thomas: Tim Meadows; Lazarus: Jason Biggs. Centurion Brassius: George Dzunda. Guest starring Michael Shalhoub as Zacchias and Dylan McDermott as Leper #2.

Assjacking!

Remember the first episode of CSI, when they killed the new kid? They could do that to Lazarus every week on CSI: Nazareth.

Next week, on Gethsemane Park, four foul-mouthed little disciples get into satirical scrapes. One of them ends up screaming, "Oh, my God! He killed Lazarus! You bastard!" And the other shouts, "Dude! Do you not remember who you hang out with?" Pilate: Isaac Hayes.

In any event, somebody had to kill Jesus. It's not much of a religion if he doesn't die. And 'Jesus Passed Away Quietly In His Sleep For Your Sins' doesn't have much of a ring to it.

No matter whether your opinion of the Sci-Fi revival of Battlestar Galactica was positive, negative, or indifferent, one fact remains: It's coming back as a 13-episode series on Sci-Fi, written by Ron Moore, the Star Trek: TNG vet who also wrote the four-hour Sci-Fi remake.

Get in line for your Boxey haircut now.

So Justin Timberlake is apparently a member of polite society, what with showing up in a big-boy suit and acting all sober and apologetic so it wouldn't seem wildly inappropriate when he won his Grammys later. He's to be congratulated for compressing an entire decade's worth of Behind the Music-worthy, hubris-fueled-fuckup-and-redemption into a week.

However, why is he the one getting off so lightly in this whole bra-vesty? True, it wasn't his pierced nipple on national TV -- but you know, Janet Jackson didn't undress herself. She had help, and that so-called "wardrobe malfunction" wasn't a result of Janet velcro'ing the missing red lace cup to her bustier, but rather, it happened when Justin got a little grabby. We may have seen Janet Jackson's bare breast, but he is the one who bared it.

This has gone conveniently unremarked-upon all week. People have howled about Jackson's shameless exposure, but they're giving Timberlake a free pass on this one. That's ridiculous. It's also unsurprising: apparently, having breasts in America gives you the power to offend people, whereas ripping someone else's clothing to expose those breasts ... does not. The entire Superbowl halftime show was a tumescent testament to testosterone, from Nelly's prostate self-exam to Kid Rock's recitation of the traits he finds valuable in a woman (hint: sparkling conversational skills aren't mentioned) to every XY performer emphasizing lyrically that women + clothes = wrong. And then, some woman does end up losing her top, with help, and she's suddenly the symbol of everything that's wrong with MTV nation? If you actually listened to any of the performers' lyrics, you might be forgiven for thinking that her stripping at Timberlake's hands was actually the logical finish to the show.

Yet it's been a week and everyone's already resorted to the "She brought this on herself" defense. CBS is already on that train -- its Grammy spin is that Jackson refused to come to the show and apologize for the hundredth damn time, implying that if she had, maybe people would stop being so outraged. MTV is hardly going to point out the hypocritical contrast between everyone's relatively unquestioning acceptance of the show's lyrical subject matter and their hysterical outrage over the literal culmination of the lyrics. Instead, it's all about Justin making contrite while that brazen Janet Jackson and her breasts go into hiding. Because sure, Justin's already weathered his Behind the Music arc, but Janet's still a few humiliating lows and a commercial break away from redemption.

Mary-Ellis Bunim died last month. Her name may not ring an immediate bell, but trust me -- you are no doubt very familiar with her body of work. Bunim, along with her producing partner Jonathan Murray, created The Real World, which has alternately entertained and annoyed America since 1992. Other credits include Road Rules, assorted combinations of The Real World and Road Rules and, most recently, The Simple Life, or, as it's known in some parts, Seven More Episodes of Paris Hilton Than America Needed to See.

The obituaries for Bunim contained the requisite plaudits from colleagues and collaborators. MTV Networks Group president Judy McGrath took time out from apologizing for MTV's Halftime Salute to Nipples to eulogize, "Mary-Ellis opened our eyes and our hearts to a whole new way of looking at young adult programming." Fox entertainment president Gail Berman hailed her as "an extraordinary talent who pioneered an entire genre of television." Fan sites were suitably reverent and mournful. Even sites known more for their snark than their sentimentality had a few kind words to say.

It's human nature to want to be generous with our praise when someone passes away. Maybe it's because we're all going to be stung by loss sooner or later, and we want to offer the same comfort to the grieving that we would want for ourselves. Or maybe, by remembering the just-deceased fondly, we're hoping for the same courtesy when it's our time. Whatever the reason, I have a hard time offering up anything but the most rudimentary of condolences for Mary-Ellis Bunim for the simple reason that I didn't know the woman. I like to think she was a good person and a fine mother and a respected member of her community. In the end, though, I'd only be guessing, same as most of you. I can only judge the work she left behind.

And, unfortunately, the work she left behind was singularly awful.

I don't mean awful in WB sitcom sense, where someone's ambition usually exceeds their talent level. Mary-Ellis Bunim was anything but untalented. No, her work was awful not because she was in over her head, but because she knew all too well what she was doing -- putting together shows that pandered to viewers' worst instincts and paving the way for dozens of copycat programs, some of which she also produced, to do the same.

A lot of ink could be spilled chronicling all of The Real World's many faults. It's a very unchallenging show. It doesn't engage its viewers or force them to think about what's happening on the screen or ask them to do anything but sit passively on the couch, watching other people bloviate about their lives. Even worse, The Real World has the occasional nerve to try and dress up its contrivances as an anthropological study of how the kids today are interacting. And it delivers an annual influx of C-List pseudo-celebrities who stubbornly linger on the stage long after their 15 minutes are up.

Then again, a lot of shows are guilty of those wrongs. What sets The Real World apart, what makes it the king of its particular garbage heap, is the thing that makes the program so damn watchable in the first place -- the conflicts and contretemps between the ever-changing cast of housemates.

Bunim recognized this. "Producers don't necessarily recognize why they put people together," she told Mediaweek for an interview quoted in her Los Angeles Times obituary. "They don't understand it's for the purpose of conflict."

Trouble is, as the years have worn on, The Real World has had to ratchet up that conflict. And increasingly, the producers have populated their homes with people who should be working out their assorted issues miles away from the nearest camera. Instead, they're thrown together in a house, usually well stocked with alcohol, and instructed to hold nothing back -- all while Bunim is in the control room pressing the Record button.

There's a scene in "The Wild Bunch" -- right at the beginning of the movie, just in case you're looking for a good DVD rental tonight -- in which a bunch of kids are gathered around a hole in the ground. The kids have thrown a couple of scorpions into the hole, where a mess of fire ants just happen to be waiting. The fire ants swarm over the scorpions, who flail about helpless while the children giggle maniacally -- at least until they get bored with the whole scene, drop some flaming straw on the scorpions and ants, and move on presumably to cause some more mayhem elsewhere.

The only difference between those kids at the start of "The Wild Bunch" and Mary-Ellis Bunim is that Mary-Ellis Bunim figured out a way to drop a bunch of scorpions into a hole filled with fire ants and get paid for it. Nothing wrong with that, I suppose, though it does pretty much preclude you from membership in The Good Guy Club.

Some shows exist because their creators have a story to tell and a unique gift for bring characters to life. Other programs are more simple diversions, with no larger purpose other than to entertain. Mary-Ellis Bunim's work was neither of these things. The Real World, Love Cruise, The Simple Life -- these programs made it to the airwaves simply because we like to see our train wrecks televised, from a distance, and involving other people. For the past dozen years, everything Mary-Ellis Bunim has put on the air has lowered the bar just a little further. And television is the worse of because of it.

If that's an asshole thing to say about the recently deceased, then so be it. There are worse things in life than being an asshole.

In my book, being involved in the production of The Real World would be one of them.

Behold the (non) Miracle of corporate synergy!

I am ridiculously excited about seeing the new hockey flick Miracle, in part because the food at the movie theatre will probably be cheaper than the food at actual hockey arenas, and in part because I am curious to see how an already-stunning real life story can be made any more fabulous by Disney. However, I am the kind of filmgoer who is nerdy enough to want supplemental reading and viewing material. If there's a comic-book movie, I usually re-read the books in anticipation; if there's a book, I usually try to read it first. This is why I saw Last of the Mohicans four years after everyone else: it took me that long to get through the book. Mark Twain knew of what he wrote.

In the case of Miracle, you'd think checking out the event that caps the movie -- i.e. an Olympic hockey game -- would be no sweat. The Miracle on Ice occasionally airs on ESPN Classic. ESPN Classic, like all ESPN properties, is part of Disney's vast media empire. What better way to drive sports fans to the movie than to show the Miracle on Ice repeatedly all weekend? What better way to capture new viewers coming home from the movie all excited about hockey than to give them the chance to find ESPN Classic on the cable box, turn to it, and shriek, "There's the game!" What better way to perk up the traffic figures on any ESPN.com property than to pull out a special section on the Miracle of Ice and its aftermath?

Except that ESPN apparently went for the baffling minimalist approach instead. There's an ad on the ESPN website redirecting you to the official movie site, but there's nothing on ESPN.com that would pique the interest of the would-be filmgoer, or satisfy the curiosity of the viewer fresh from the cinema. I understand that they have to devote time to the NBA or else they'll be forced to sacrifice Trey Wingo or something, so what about their other channels? ESPN-2 is looking at the Pro Bo -zzzzzzzzzzzz. Sorry. I drifted off there. And a look at ESNP Classic's schedule shows that they aired the game once on Thursday night (when I couldn't TiVo it, owing to other obligations) The channel evidently has better things to do this weekend than show the Miracle on Ice again -- like show The Karate Kid twice in a row.

It's times like these, I really wonder if I should actually worry about media monopolization and corporate synergy, because it seems like the companies best positioned to stride across the entertainment landscape like Colossus are tripping over their own feet. I expect media consumers not to benefit from cross-media synergy most of the time: most TV networks and production companies have completely dropped the ball when it comes to using the Web to enhance their TV shows, and they really have no motivation to change their ways now since fans have demonstrated that they'll happily pick up that ball for free.

But in this instance, when a company really could have benefitted from using one medium (TV) to promote another (film), they elected to do nothing. There are no miracles at Disney, at least not when it comes to capitalizing on the potential to broadening the appeal Miracle could have had to TV viewers.

Only one TV show has ever inspired me to read Henry David Thoreau's Walden.

I guess that's why NBC's Ed has a special place in my couch-potato heart. Not necessarily because Walden was all that good -- no matter how skillfully you describe it, a guy sitting in the woods is still a guy sitting in the woods -- but because it was the type of TV show that would encourage you to go out and read a book in the first place. Right down to its premise, Ed was always about the joy of trying something new, or learning to re-appreciate what you've always taken for granted.

NBC's profoundly hateful promotions department ("This week: A father must choose. A daughter finds new love. And a writer pushed to the brink smashes his TV set with a blunt object") is billing Friday's Ed as the final episode -- the long, long, loooooong-awaited wedding of bowling alley lawyer Edward J. Stevens and his wishy-washy paramour, Carol Vessey. If not for Ed's surprise renewal last season, after what could have been a perfect series finale, I'd have no doubt that this will indeed be our last collective trip to the small town of Stuckeyville.

As it is, I still give Ed long odds at a fifth season, considering it's reaching the finish line this year with only 17 episodes. So I'm assuming for once that the Peacock network is telling the truth, and taking this opportunity to give Ed the valedictory it deserves. However forced its whimsy, however manipulative its storylines, it consistently displayed a depth of empathy for its characters that few TV shows have matched.

Of all the things I'll miss about Ed, I think Ed (Tom Cavanaugh) and Carol (Julie Bowen) actually rank right at the bottom. Sure, their first-season courtship was endearingly sweet -- who doesn't like to root for the wide-eyed underdog to win the girl of his dreams? Producers Rob Burnett and Jon Beckerman's near-fatal mistake was to drag out this will-they-or-won't-they plot long past the point of sanity. They started inventing ridiculously contrived reasons to keep Ed and Carol uncoupled, including inexplicably shackling Carol to a bitter, alcoholic jerk for a season and a half. And when they couldn't even sustain that flimsy premise, they just had Ed and Carol act like passive-agressive lunatics. ("I don't love you! So I'm going to break up your wedding!" "I don't love you either! So I'm going to get insanely jealous every time you go on a date with another woman!")

The producers finally seemed to realize the depth of their madness halfway through Season 3, and spun some of the series' better stories in their hasty efforts to repair the damage. But Burnett and Beckerman still remained a little too dependent on the will-they-won't-they thing even into Season 4. Thus we were treated to The Adventures of Carol Vessey: World's Least Decisive Woman. With an ever-wavering resolve worthy of Hamlet, she yo-yo'd back and forth between writing and teaching, New York and Stuckeyville, wedding or elopement, often in the course of a single episode. I started wishing Ed would just throw up his hands and move to Arizona.

So, yes, mazel tov to Ed and Carol, get married, stay married, and for the love of God, don't either of you so much as look at another possible object of affection for the rest of your whole damn lives. Let's focus instead on the show's real secret weapon, the element that kept Ed afloat through the stormy waters of romantic stupidity: the supporting cast.

They're funny. They're really, really funny. All of 'em. When things between Ed and Carol took on all the orderly logic of Picasso's Guernica, the supporting characters were always there to drag the show kicking and screaming back toward some measure of sanity. (Or entertainment, at least.)

Among the brightest stars in the Stuckeyville constellation:

The bowling alley folks. Michael Ian Black's Phil Stubbs, the dimwitted schemer behind the shoe counter, never quite wore out his welcome -- somehow, his endless string of scams remained goofily entertaining. He got to be an actual full-blooded human being for maybe 30 seconds in all four years of the show, but damned if he didn't make those 30 seconds convincing. Meanwhile, the scene-stealing Rachel Cronin brought abiding sweetness to bug-eyed Shirley, always off in her own odd little Shirleyverse.

As Eli Cartwright Goggins III, Darryl Mitchell could have been a cheap stereotype -- he's The Guy In A Wheelchair and The Wisecracking Black Man! Instead, he was fearless and funny, creating one of TV's richest portrayals of life with paralysis. In one episode, we simply watched Eli get dressed for work, struggling at great length just to put his pants on. It wasn't played for cheap sympathy -- it was there so we'd understand the determination, and the loneliness, behind Eli's brash confidence.

Dr. Jerome. Marvin Chatinover played the deadpan Bugs Bunny to Dr. Mike Burton's (Josh Randall) hapless Daffy Duck, a venom-spewing bundle of bile disguised as a kindly old physician. Chatinover's gift for conveying such elaborate, florid contempt ("I'm not a veterinarian, Dr. Burton, and as such I am not capable of treating any sort of baboon infection you might pass on to our patients") in such an unruffled manner never failed to entertain.

The younger generation. Seriously, does the WB not know where to find the caliber of young actors that Ed featured, or are they just not really looking that hard? Ginnifer Goodwin hasn't been on the show for more than a year, and I'm still hopelessly smitten with her note-perfect portrayal of wise, lovely supernerd Diane Snyder. (She can currently be seen stealing all of Julia Roberts' good reviews in Mona Lisa Smile.) As her boyfriend Mark, Michael Genadry made the thankless role of "the fat kid" downright debonair. When both actor and character got life-saving gastric bypass surgery, Genadry took the overwrought after-school-special material and gave it real heart.

And last but not least, there's Justin Long as Warren Cheswick. He was every cringe-inducing memory of the stupid things we did and said in high school, turned up to 11. (Or perhaps I'm just speaking for myself here...) I often found Warren hard to watch, but not because of Long's performance. He attacked the role fearlessly, and could always find honesty beneath the shrill, spastic caricature.

Here's a thought for NBC: let Ed and Carol get married, pack them off to New York or Neptune or whatever, and call the show Stuckeyville. Let Eli and Phil, Warren and Mark, Shirley and Dr. Jerome and all the other wonderful oddballs take center stage. I'd tune in. We need more TV shows with this much compassion for the regular joes of the world, in all their imperfection. We need more TV shows that encourage us to get up off the couch and go read a really good book. (Which, uh, may involve sitting right back down on the couch, in all fairness.)

Once Ed goes off the air, I won't remember the excruciatingly long death march that was Ed and Carol's courtship. I won't remember the cutesy ten-dollar bets, or Carol's terminal indecision, or Ed's increasingly Tourette's-like stammering. And, with enough time and therapy, I probably won't remember the dear-God-hide-the-children appearances by Kelly Ripa and her terrible gaping maw.

But I will remember Warren Cheswick in a tent, atop a snow-covered mountain, reading Thoreau. "I went into the woods because I wished to live deliberately..."

I really don't understand the Nipple Seen 'Round the World entirely. I think half the people talking about this (myself included) are excited to see the nipple of someone from a caste not known for exposing themselves (and further, for the exposure to be of such an ornamental and, let's face it, weird S&M piercing). And apparently half the people are offended. I don't understand my end: Why do we have this celebrity caste system where getting naked is lower on the ladder than not getting naked? And from the other end: Why be offended by someone's breast? Jesus Christ saw Mary's tits.

I remember reading about this Brazilian celebrity. I forget her name now. But in Brazil she's a children's show host and an adult film actress, or something close. They don't see a contradiction there.

Not that I want to model my society on Brazil, what with the dictatorships and genocide of the natives and all. Nevertheless, I admire their care-free attitude towards boobies.

AP sez: "The chief federal regulator of broadcasting said Monday he was outraged by the Super Bowl halftime show in which Justin Timberlake tore off part of Janet Jackson's costume, exposing her breast, and said he was ordering an immediate investigation."

Are we as a nation really this upset over almost seeing one entire boobie? Are we supposed to take this that seriously? Why is a woman's breast so offensive, anyway? At this point in America, our public officials are claiming that, essentially, no one between the ages of about four and eighteen should see boobies (since four and younger probably accompany their moms into the bathroom and the bath, and may even be nursing). What exactly is so sacrosanct about a) those fourteen years and b) the fucking Superbowl that we should keep the tits away? Are we really that strapped for things to get angry about?

I'm a little weirded out, just as anyone might be, to find that Michael's youngest sister is into nipple torture. But, honestly, does it matter? Breasts are shown all over European TV all the time, and it's not like they're out fucking in the streets and raping children. Last I checked, in fact, western Europe's birthrate was below replacement, so if anything, the effect of nudity on TV is the opposite of sex. Maybe we could call it powelling, after the Federal Communications Commission chief: Sitting in front of the TV hoping to see titties.

Please look at UPN's new idea for a reality show, specifically the part that says:

One-hour weekly series will follow a group of men who are transformed into women by their wives or girlfriends. The men will live together in a house and be forced to live as women 24 hours a day, seven days a week.

And try to explain to me how that differs from "Switch!" (Jimmy Smits).

Goddamnit, I better open up my mailbox and find a great big check from UPN right soon, or I'm going to have to take me a chunk out of Les Moonves' scalp.

I would just like to note for the record that my arrest outside a girls' high school locker room was solely the result of a wardrobe malfunction.

On Super Bowl Sunday, we handed over the main page of TeeVee to continuing coverage of the Super Bowl via Station Break weblog entries. For those who want the entire blow-by blow, it's only a click away. For those who want a little more reflection -- the reflection that only half an hour after the game is over can bring -- you've got this piece.

Before the game, we decided it was nice that CBS has ditched those oversized microphone headsets that make the pregame show panelists look like drive-thru attendants at your local fast-food restaurant. ("Coming up: an up-close-and-personal look at the New England Patriots Tom Brady... thank you and drive through to the first window.") But Jim Nantz looked like they've implanted his headset into his right cheek.

Meanwhile, Dick Enberg made a "football Frankenstein" by assembling the best body parts of individual NFL players while wearing a doctor's coat and laughing maniacally -- so cliché and so degrading for Enberg. And so typical for Super Bowl pre-game shows.

But then CBS actually devoted a few minutes of the Super Bowl Today pre-game show to a sketch from Comedy Central's (Viacom synergy!) Crank Yankers featuring Jimmy Kimmel (unsynergistic confusion!) placing a crank call to the Giants' Michael Strahan, offering him a lucrative endorsement deal for a product targeted at "fatties like you, Michael." As synergy goes, it wasn't bad. It was funny. Which is more than we could say for poor Dick Enberg.

But our minds reeled considering the spirited discussions pregame performers Toby Keith and Willie Nelson must have been having in the green room.

Nelson: Yeah, I'm a Dennis Kucinich supporter myself.

Keith: Go back to Commieland, you un-American hippie.

THE BAD ADS

Up until that flurry of scoring at the end of the first half, we were going to say that the only thing more limp and listless than the Panthers' offense was the quality of the ads for this year's Super Bowl. Then again, nothing is as limp and listless as this year's Super Bowl ads.

Bland movie ads. That lackluster Pepsi-Apple effort. Bud Light's continuing fascination with anuses. (Guess that explains the beer's taste.) These are the sorts of things you would expect from a preseason Jaguars-Saints came, not for the showcase event of the year.

It took all of one ad for us to get our first crotch-trauma ad of the game, in an advertisement for Bud Light. (Dog bite on crotch, if you're scoring at home.) Following it up was another Bud Light ad featuring horse flatulence. Offensive? No. But also not funny, and that's a crime. And then there was the Budweiser ad featuring a hideously shrill woman yelling at an off-duty referee. Anheuser-Bush, turn in your ad agency's credentials.

Beyond lousy beer ads, another theme of this year's Super Bowl was impotence. (Does lousy beer cause impotence? You be the judge!) Apparently NFL fans have some serious penis problems. In any event, we're not sure quite what the Levitra Challenge is, but if the commercials are anything to go by, it apparently involves going to your doctor's office and throwing footballs through a tire. Miss the tire, and we think maybe your penis falls off. Also, Mike Ditka thinks all of baseball is impotent. ("Baseball needs Levitra!" cries Iron Mike.) Don't show your face around a Cubs game ever again.

And we don't know what Cialis is, but anything that encourages old people to sit outside naked scares the crap out of us. And that disclaimer! "Erections lasting longer than four hours, though rare, require immediate medical attention." One mention of naughty candy-stripers, and we've got our first pornographic ad!

Which is apparently what Canadians got during the game, according to TeeVee contributor Doug Sheppard, who wrote: "So, Canada has different ads than the U.S. broadcast of the Super Bowl. How different? This year, very different... The blonde says 'Wow, I love your lip gloss.' The brunette says, 'Here, I'll put some on for you.' The three guys watch the hot girl-on-girl makeout action in the middle of the dance floor. And the world gets out the red marker and notes on its calendar that February 1, 2004, was the day that onscreen hot girl-on-girl makeout action officially became a way to sell Labatt Blue."

Sometimes, it saddens us how America has lost its way. All our mighty American beer companies give us is flatulent horses and creepy talking chimps.

By the way, who do you suppose was the most intelligent person on the set of that Pizza Hut commercial, Jessica Simpson or the sock puppets? And we don't want to give away the ending to that new "Alamo" movie, but here's our advice: don't get too attached to any of the American characters.

THE GOOD ADS

Boy, they were few and far between.

The ad of the day was the ad for the NFL Network, featuring numerous NFL luminaries singing "Tomorrow," from Annie. Really funny, although we're suckers for show tunes.

We liked the FedEx ad featuring the nasty alien creature poorly posing as an office drone.

We enjoyed the Staples ad featuring a godfather-like office supplies guy, who ends up being menaced by a guy from The Sopranos.

Um. Hmm. We liked the chicken wings we had. That counts for something, right?

THE ANNOUNCERS

Nothing happened for the first 27 minutes of the game. Nothing, that is, except lies from Phil Simms and Greg Gumbel.

"It's not exciting, but it's a lot of fun to watch," said one. Not really a ringing endorsement of the Super Bowl's entertainment value. And it's never a good sign when the announcers are going to the ol' "This is like a boxing match, with the fighters jockeying for position" metaphor.

"Greg, it's an ugly football game," said Simms. And the CBS ad sales team winced!

But, then, Phil Simms also had some words for CBS's entertainment programs, namely Survivor: All Stars. "The minute one of those guys starts taking off his clothes, I say vote him out of there. I'm not looking at those nasty bodies." Squeaky wheel wants the grease, Phil.

THE HALFTIME SHOW

How to top this year's halftime show? Two words: Donkey show.

You know, it's not every day that the NFL puts out a press release during the Super Bowl, decrying the halftime show. But that's what happened this year. "We were extremely disappointed by elements of the MTV-produced Halftime show," said NFL Executive Vice President Joe Browne. "They were totally inconsistent with assurances our office was given about the show. It's unlikely that MTV will produce another Super Bowl halftime."

Think maybe Jessica Simpson's "Choose to Party!" line -- thereby invalidating everything previously said about encouraging people to participate in our democratic process -- had something to do with it?

We understand we're not the heppest hep-cats in the room, but could somebody please explain to us what exactly a bunch of cheerleaders surrounding P. Diddy and chanting "Oh, Diddy you're so fine" has to do with exercising your right to vote? Unless there's some Ban-P.-Diddy-from-the-Halftime-Show ballot initiative that we don't know about.

And if we're Jessica Simpson -- the supposed top-secret super-surprise addition to the halftime show -- we'd be upset that the show's other surprise guest, Janet Jackson's boob, got more camera time than we did.

During the show, Nelly informed us that it was getting "Hot in Herre," which we're pretty sure is a song that's a couple years old. Kid Rock came out and did both "Bawitdaba" and "Cowboy." And in the absence of a better idea, P. Diddy did Toni Basil's "Mickey." And Janet Jackson did "Rhythm Nation."

This is how the NFL gets the young, hip viewers? By putting on a halftime show composed of the hits of yesteryear? The hippest part of the show was the marching band.

This is how the NFL statement should have read: "We at the NFL thought the singers would perform a song that was recorded within the last year. Also, we specifically asked Janet Jackson to show both boobs, not just one. And who fucking invited Justin Timberlake? Not Paul Tagliabue, that's for goodamn sure."

THE GAME

Down to the wire. Back-and-forth scoring. A last-second Vinateri field goal, just like two years ago. Just as Phil predicted, it's a Super Bowl for the Ages.