Down the Tube: The Diary of My Week in TV Hell : 200 Channels : No Escape

down the tube

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The Diary of My UJeek in TV Hell, 200 Channels. No Escape.

down the tube BILL BROUJN5TEIN

ECW PRESS

Copyright © ECW PRESS, 2001. The publication of Down the Tube has been generously supported by The Canada Council, the Ontario Arts Council, and the Government of Canada through the Book Publishing Industry Development Program. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any process — electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise — without the prior written permission of the copyright owners and ECW PRESS. CANADIAN CATALOGUING IN PUBLICATION DATA

Brownstein, Bill Down the tube: The Diary of my week in TV hell. 200 channels. No escape. ISBN 1-55022-463-8 1. Television - Humor. I. Title. PS8553.R6947D68 2001 C818'.602 C2001-930733-0 PR9199.4.B76D68 2001

Cover and interior design by Guylaine Regimbald — SOLO DESIGN. Typesetting by Yolande Martel. This book is set in Utopia and Russell Square. Printed by AGMV Distributed in Canada by General Distribution Services, 325 Humber College Boulevard, Etobicoke, Ontario M9W 7C3. Distributed in the United States by LPC Group, 1436 West Randolph Street, Chicago, IL 60607, U.S.A. Distributed in Europe by Turnaround Publisher Services, Unit 3, Olympia Trading Estate, Coburg Road, Wood Green, London, N2Z 6T2. Distributed in Australia and New Zealand by Wakefield Press, 17 Rundle Street (Box 2266), Kent Town, South Australia 5071. Published by ECW PRESS Suite 200 2120 Queen Street East Toronto, Ontario M4E 1E2 Canada. ecvi7press.com PRINTED AND BOUND IN CANADA

dedication To Lauren, my loving daughter, to whom I pledged to dedicate this opus in return for bringing me not one, but two beers (Heinekens, actually) that hazy Sunday afternoon when I was mired in weighty research watching the New York Giants tangle with the Atlanta Falcons on the tube — all in the name of science, damn it.

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Contents Introduction

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Monday mONDAY 19

tUESDAY ^

Wednesday 69

Thursday 89

Friday 113

Saturday 135

Sunday 149

Epilogue 167

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INTRODUCTION The trauma still lingers nearly a half-century later. Television was in its infancy. I think I was five at the time. I was selected as a contestant on the old Howdy Doody Show, an innocuous, popular kiddie TV series that had its day in the 1950s. Lights, cameras, cables everywhere. Technicians and assistants buzzing about. A real rush. And I was all set to trailblaze on the tube. But before I was even given the opportunity to crack wise with the host and banter with the other contestants, I was unceremoniously booted off the show. I like to think of the conflict as relating to artistic differences. Whatever. The powers that be took umbrage at my allegedly erotic Plasticene sculpture in the show-andtell portion of the program, wherein contestants displayed their artistic prowess, no matter how arrested. The show's producers claimed I was depicting a couple in the throes of passion, with specific attention drawn to their respective genitalia. I claimed I was simply responding to the challenge of the host to re-create a scene of familial bliss. Whatever. I was presented with a nifty little scooter before getting turfed and then told never to darken the Howdy Doody door stoop again. I was scarred. One of the first victims of television, I like to think. In the ensuing years, I became understandably cautious with the medium. Always skeptical of those calling the shots behind the camera, I would rarely let my guard down.

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Sure, I frequently gorged on sports and news specials, but I naively figured that I wasn't really buying into anyone else's vision. Against my better instincts, I did get hooked on a few sitcoms and dramas. I refer to them as the four S's: Sanders, Seinfeld, Simpsons and Sopranos. Antishows, I liked to think. Shows that dwelt on the the dysfunctional, not the normal. Point was that I tried to give TV the cold shoulder, much the same way TV had done unto me. So I went to movies. I made movies. I skewered movies professionally. I walked. I talked, I wrote. I even read. Things were going along swimmingly. Then something caught my attention. Those in the know were labeling it "reality TV" — and it did have a certain freakish Howdy-Doody-wtih-atouch-oi-Candid-Camera resonance for me. I got wind of shows like America's Funniest Home Videos, wherein caring parents would dispatch wacky images — of an offspring cracking a skull after a fall from a high chair or being chewed by a pooch — all in order to get their fifteen minutes in the spotlight. The situation got out of hand. Wackos were coming out of the woodwork. And these were just the program directors for the major North American TV networks. The madness seemed to culminate in the prime-time scheduling of shows like Survivor. On that hit show, sensitive folk from the American heartland would devour rat innards and beetle larvae and share their innermost thoughts with millions of viewers, all in order to get their fifteen minutes of fame. Then something else came to my attention. A tiny but terrifying factoid: TV is what binds North America more than any other noneating activity. More than ninety-eight percent of North American households have one television set, and about seventy-five percent of those homes have at least two TVs. With all the nuance of a Walker: Texas Ranger chop-block to the groin, it finally dawned on me that too many people were spending an inordinate amount of time

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engrossed in the adventures of allegedly real folks on TV. And, being quasicurious by nature, I wondered just what sort of damage this was wreaking on their heads and other body parts. In the greater interests of civilization, I decided to undergo a crude scientific experiment in order to better comprehend the human condition. I would closet myself in a room for seven days and seven nights and glue myself to the tube to see how unglued I would become. An undertaking this ambitious and arduous would require a comfortable sofa, which could be pulled out into a bed, and access to a two-hundred-channel TV universe, which would allow me to surf at will and explore the worlds of other humans and plant life — by that, I mean TV shock-show host Maury Povich. After a little prodding, my sage publisher acceded to these demands and — all right, I'll admit it — offered me a suitable advance. An undertaking this all-encompassing would also require a mental-health professional to guide one and pull one out, should one venture too far into the domain of Maury Povich. I needed a mental-health professional with a sense of humor. Alas, my sage publisher said I was on my own here. I finally found the perfect candidate: Dr. Sam Burstein, an old college crony who could see both the sport and the science of my mission; someone who could put his concern for mankind ahead of his own material needs (read: free therapy in lieu of abundant cash money); someone who had studied the impact of popular culture on patients, not to mention himself; someone who also held The Simpsons dear. After initially setting his sights on a career as an engineer, Dr. Sam is now a respected clinical psychologist. He could easily make a living shlepping from Oprah to Rosie to Sally Jessy Raphael, dispensing dimestore poppycock about the importance of being kind to your pets and/or progeny. Except that such a life would

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leave him smirking for the wrong reasons. It's not that Dr. Sam doesn't have a healthy sense of humor, but, he says, he possesses enough scruples and self-esteem and respect for his profession to avoid such a TV career. Instead, he focuses his attention on his family practice. Being a thorough mental-health professional, Dr. Sam has decided that I need evaluations before, during, and after my experiment to determine what sort of sick puppy I am or could soon become. I am initially concerned, because, before I've even embarked on this mission my nineteenyear-old daughter, Lauren, has already declared me an obsessive-compulsive remote-control freak who will likely suffer a nervous breakdown. Dr. Sam laughs at my daughter's prognosis. He points out that studies have deduced a causal relationship between excessive TV watching and aggression, as well as depression. I am a little alarmed. He then assesses the situation, and, before subjecting me to a battery of tests to ascertain my baseline state of being, he suggests that I surrender the remote-control gizmo on occasion to guests who pop in to visit during the experiment. He also figures a jflyswatter to combat imaginary critters would be a good tool for me to have. I am a little more alarmed. We'll be doing a series of tests that have "good norms," so that I can be compared to a standardized sample of normal people. "If you deviate from normal people, we may have to abort the mission before liftoff," Dr. Sam cautions. We start with a Depression Test. "We see that the subject is in a very positive frame of mind. I notice that there is a degree of excitement, but nothing that would concern me," he says. So I pass the Depression Test. For now. TV could easily send me on a downward spiral. "Plus, don't forget the effect of isolation, feeling trapped and stuck, as well as sleep deprivation," Dr. Sain notes. "We'll see in a week from

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now if your outlook on life is as cheerful as it appears to be now." Why is this man smiling? Next comes the Magical Ideation Scale, which only sounds like a ride at Disney World. It's actually an indication of just how well grounded the subject is — or, by contrast, just how prone to detachment the subject is. Dr. Sam doesn't anticipate any problems. "Still, people have been in situations where they are in a kind of timeless zone in one space, and their contact with reality often starts to shift. One of the most common experiences is the ICU — intensive care unit — psychosis because you're living somewhere where you don't know if it's day or night. It's timeless. You're in one room, doing the same activity After a while, things start to take on an unrealistic air." I am getting even more alarmed. Dr. Sam tries to reassure me: "It's not that you're going to tip over, it's just a question of seeing whether this experiment loosens the ties, as it were." He laughs. Why is this mental-health professional always laughing? I pass the test, in a manner of speaking. "We see an individual who is not held down in terms of beliefs. He allows his thinking to move into what we call the creative realm — of believing he could learn to read the minds of others, of sometimes having that passing thought that strangers are in love with him. So, no wonder he is feeling so happy." It's because I'm deluded, right? "Let's just say, this represents a capacity for loose thinking," Dr. Sam explains. "Someone not too tied down with tradition. Perhaps that's in sync with having come up with this whole TV-test notion. Still, no concerns at this point that you will become unhinged and start flapping your wings at the window ledge. I'm not calling the cable company to unhook you just yet." Moving right along, we come to the Self-Rating Anxiety Scale, a sort of anxiety test. After quickly assessing the

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results, Dr. Sam pronounces my level of anxiety to be low, lower than the average person on the street, who doesn't have to submit to this sort of cruel and unusual punishment. So mellow am I that Dr. Sam is inclined to search for a pulse, or traces of some mind-altering medication. Little does he realize that I'm in a state of euphoria induced by the fact that I'll be able to watch twelve hours of nonstop NFL games on a Sunday — all for the greater good. A Stress Test that follows indicates my high degree of enthusiasm and energy about the project. Duh. I'm fantasizing about pizza and beer and football. "You're pumped," Dr. Sam says. "Just the way a coach would like his players to be before a big game." Wait a second, here. He's read my mind. Dr. Sam doesn't anticipate that the Aggressivity Test will show much now; it will just establish a base level. But he admits that results of this test could change dramatically during the week. And his thesis is confirmed: "Results indicate that this is a mellow man who would never get sent off to the military. But let's just see what TV can do to him or do to undo him." Similarly, results of the Symbol-Search Test suggest that I possess a calmness and a sense of reflection. My focus is good, and so is my attention to details. This is a test given to air-traffic controllers, who can't afford to lose focus while scoping little blips on a screen. The tricky Digit-Span Test — in which the subject must repeat a series of numbers in order, frontward and then backward — is revealing. It is a test of short-term memory, which pays close heed to attention and concentration. Initial results, according to Dr. Sam, indicate that I'm comfortably above normal. My forward recall is strong, although my backward is less so. Smart money says, though, that a week of TV could cause me to become far less attentive and unable to focus, to experience memory lapses, and to start baying at the moon.

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It's on to the Mazes Test next, to check out cognitive skills and visual-planning abilities. On a broader scale, it's a test to see where one is heading. It senses perseverance. Again, I pass. Dr. Sam is more impressed with the fact that I followed the instructions, specifically about not lifting my pen, than about my times for zipping through the mazes. Before administering the Rorschach Test, Dr. Sam decides it would be prudent to break for half an hour — to catch The Simpsons. This is my kind of mental-health professional. Someone who wants to analyze the ink blobs that are Homer Simpson before analyzing my interpretations of ink blots. Just as well, as it turns out. Dr. Sarn has heard many intriguing interpretations of the Rorschach smudges, but he is pretty darn certain that he's never heard anyone come up with this one: "Two Japanese Kabuki actors in ceremonial garb kneeling reverentially, all the while highfiving one another." Nor, Dr. Sam admits, has he ever come upon such responses as, "Frosty the Snowman meditating," or, "E.T. and his buddies roasting marshmallows and singing campfire songs." So as not to frighten me unduly, a suddenly solemn Dr. Sam mentions that the Rorschach Test "does not measure observable human behavior, but rather is a projective, indirect measure of personality." Yeah, yeah — but let's cut to the chase, here. "Okay," says Dr. Sam. "Results indicate someone who has a highly unique, if not cynical, way of looking at the world, someone who appreciates more the intuitive than the overly analytical approach, someone with good tolerance for stress and strong coping skills." In other words, I'm someone who was born to spend the next week glued to the tube.

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My Week in TV Hell

Monday tUESDAU wEDNESDAY tHURSDAY Friday Saturday

Sunday

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9:00 A.M. Punch clock. Flop out on couch. Check into twohundred-channel TV universe. I'm actually excited. A flick of a digit will deliver me to a fount of incredibly edifying material. The Health channel. The Country Music channel. The Arts and Entertainment channel. It just doesn't stop. The Bravo channel. The History channel. The Learning channel. The Discovery channel. The Family channel. The Food channel. The Comedy channel. The Game Show channel. The Home and Garden channel. The Life channel It's top-drawer cultural programming at my fingertips. News headlines. Sports. Music. Movies. PBS up the ying-yang. Does it get any better than this? The Space channel — without the Vulcan ears. The superstations — Atlanta, L.A., Boston, Chicago, New York. The Vision channel — so I can remain morally erect throughout this week of atonement. The Woman's channel — so I, too, can learn to be a nurturing soul. The Youth channel — so I can understand fertile young minds. This is incredible. The Asian channel. The Italian channel. The Greek channel. So many places to go, so many people to meet. So many channels, so little time. Where to begin? 9:02 A.M, I'm shocked and appalled at myself. Despite the plethora of choices, I let the little boy in me have his way with the clicker and I opt immediately for the Playboy

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channel. Sad, but true. Okay, guilty, Your Honor, but with a half-assed explanation. I just completed another book, Sex Carnival, a whimsical account of the wide world of sex. It took me to, among other sex capitals on the planet, the La La Land Playboy Mansion, where I encountered Hugh Hefner, the man who started the Bunny empire. But, alas, I saw barely any bunnies traipsing through the bushes. Given that this is the first opportunity I've ever had to scope the Hef 's TV network, I am somewhat curious about the raw talent emanating from said empire. Still not biting, eh? Don't blame you a bit. Frankly, I can't believe I'm getting paid to watch Playmates fondle one another. For what it's worth, the featured attraction at present is a series called Strip Search. Hard-hitting investigative reportage. Our intrepid reporter, sporting a bicycle helmet to which is affixed a video camera, has arrived in Portland, Oregon, in search of the foxiest strippers in town. The series is devoted to finding the foxiest strippers in the world. It's a job. I think the state is Oregon. But I can't be certain. It's more a state of mind, or body, or something. All I can see is cleavage arid a woman trying to lick herself. The show's Woody Allen-esque host, he with the helmet cam, informs the audience that Portland has more strip clubs per capita than any other place on the planet. Just to ensure that tourists will flock here, the host informs us that Portland women are as wet as the weather. Host looks a little wet himself, in the front row, gawking like some teen geek at the bountiful babes. So much for cheap thrills. Five minutes later, and I'm already getting bored with the helmet cam and the leering host and the artistically challenged strippers. 9:07 A.M. Since the purpose of this exercise is to get my finger on the pulse of America, I cannot put off my mission any longer. I report to Regis, the new king of American tele-

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vision. Major network category. So famous we don't even have to mention his last name — Philbin. Besides, he is the one and only Regis. For reasons relating to sociology, I have decided it's for the best that I take in as much of what America watches as possible — apart from rasslin' — and that's mainstream network TV. It's pretty much all Regis, all the time in this world. On one network, he hosts Live! With Regis, five mornings a week; on another he tries to give away a million dollars four nights a week on the game show Who Wants to Be a Millionaire by asking this sort of brainbuster: "When was the Battle of 1814?" 9:08 A.M. Unless my ears deceive me, I believe Regis is talking about urine. I'm a little nauseous. I move over to Maury, I'm a lot nauseous. Host Maury Povich gets pleasure from other people's pain. Povich also gets rich from other people's pain. Today's show: "Help! My Teen Girl Is Torturing My Family!" This is, evidently, real life. Povich is browbeating some hapless teen girl who lives to pound out her younger sister. This is not a well teen girl — or so the script goes. She admits to pushing her younger sis out of a fast-moving vehicle. Can Povich top that? You bet. He brings out a fourteen-year-old who says she had sex with a twenty-fouryear-old loser for a cigarette. Girl's mom is in agony on the Povich podium. What kind of world are we living in? 9:11 A,MO That didn't take very long. A mere eleven minutes into this odyssey, and I'm convinced the world is coming to an end. Having serious doubts I can take a week of this. In which white-trash trailer park do they find these dimwits who wish to reveal, and/or make up, all on TV? 9:12 A.M., Men Are from Mars, Women Are from Venus. The TV show, silly. Because Cybill Shepherd has to have something to do during the day. No matter that host Cybill, once

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a siren on both the big (The Last Picture Show) and small (Moonlighting) screens arid still looking kind of hot for fifty, has been having a heck of a time in the relationships department. Apparently, according to one expert witness, there is a difference between men and women. Who knew? According to another panelist, men hate it when women cry during a fight and women hate it when men leave after making the women cry. Already, I feel that millions of my brain cells are dying. A mental-health professional on the panel, a man, insists that women hit below the belt — verbally. 9:14 A.M. It has become obvious that to fill a two-hundredchannel TV universe programmers have to go far and wide and dysfunctional. 9:16 A.M. Hey, I have an idea for reality TV Why don't they closet all the TV network programmers in a room for a week, and the one who comes up with an original idea gets to live. 9:17 A.M. Need to see a familiar, reassuring face. I surf. Oh, look. Mister Rogers. He is moving boxes for no apparent reason. And I'm already thinking about lunch in three hours — forty-five minutes after having had breakfast. This will not be a cakewalk — dumb pun, likely intended. 9:18 A.M. I'm now close to becoming a charter member of the 700 Club on ABC. Sounds cool. What is it? Something to do with canoodling at a high altitude? Wrong. Something to do with winning a lottery? Don't think so. It's a religious club. And I'm outta here. 9:21 A.M. Birthing exercises on the Learning channel. Primal screams. Perhaps you, too, can hear them while reading this.

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An entire family gathers round to watch a writhing, shrieking woman trying to deliver a baby without benefit of medication or a medical professional. Sorry. Bye. Too early in the day for pain other than Povich's. 9:25 A.M. And, speaking of pain, say hey to Jerry Springer. Today's topic: "Confessions of Women Who Have Lovers on the Side." Woman says she slept with friend's hubby, but not because she wanted to hurt her or anything. It's cuz he came on to her. Friend asks if she sleeps with every man who comes on to her. As a matter of fact... yeah. 9:27 A.MO Time for a commercial break. I will endeavor to shield readers from TV commercials, because you have already been subjected to too many in your lives. However, in the interests of humanity, is important for me to make those not familiar with daytime TV aware of the sort of shilling that takes place. To wit: "If you've been hurt in an accident, call 1-800-LAW-3333." 9:28 A.M. "Is there a wedding you would do anything to stop? If so, please call us at 1-800-96-Jerry." No, not a commercial. Programming possibilities for Jerry Springer. Cut to show. Cheatin' hubby comes out to confront wife and lover. Wife chases him down corridor, behind the stage, where, by grace of good fortune, there are cameras and microphones to catch every moment of this melodrama. Could it be that this stuff is staged, too? Say it ain't so, Jerry. Just discovered that pro wrestling is fixed. Don't think I could handle such a revelation this early in the week. But Jerry is a fairly feckless fella. He panders. He patronizes. He exploits. And he had the unmitigated chutzpah to declare, when I interviewed him at the 1999 Just for Laughs festival in Montreal, where he served as host for one gala: "I would never watch my show. I'm not interested in it." (Methinks I

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can empathize.) "I know there are a lot of people who laugh at my TV show, although I'm not particularly sure I'm trying to be funny all the time." The funniest thing about Springer is that he pretty much concurs with what the critics have to say about his TV antics. "I think it's the stupidest show on television," he says, without the slightest trace of irony. "It's a crazy show that basically offers people an escape for an hour from their real lives. But the show is a lot like chewing gum. The world will do fine with it, and the world will do fine without it." Wait a second. That's our job, to skewer Springer and make profound bubblegum analogies. Either he's a brilliant strategist who has learned to disarm his most vicious critics, or he really is the shlemiel who lucked his way into one of the hottest TV talk shows on the planet. Love him or loathe him, Springer is an enigma. He was born in London. His parents, Holocaust survivors, moved the family to New York City when Jerry was five. In 1977, a thirry-three-year-old Springer was elected mayor of Cincinnati by the largest majority in city history. After his term, he became Cincinnati's top-rated TV news anchor and received seven Emmy Awards for his nightly commentaries. He also involved himself in efforts to aid Americans afflicted with muscular dystrophy and faminestricken Africans. But then Springer became bored with conventional news. "The company that owned my TV station also owned the Phil Donahue Show. They knew Phil was getting ready to retire. So they took me to lunch one day and pretty much assigned me to do a talk show. I did what I was told because I was under contract." Simple as that. Springer turned Cinderella and soon had the highestrated daytime TV show in the U.S., where he's got an audience of more than twenty-five million viewers, not to mention the millions more he reaches in forty other

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countries. "Sure, the success surprised me, since I don't have any talent. That's what so stupid. There are thousands of people out there who could probably do this better than me." Perhaps. But this humility business is wearing a little thin. "Really, it's just the outrageousness that attracts people, not me. I think I'm smart and a nice guy, but that's about it." Springer doesn't even get too rankled about charges that his show is rigged. Indeed, he admits that some segments are faked, albeit unbeknownst to him at the time. "Ninety-five percent of the people on the show are real. Their stories are real Their reactions are real. But has there ever been a time when people came on the show, faked a story, and we didn't catch it?" he asks, before quickly answering: "Sure. We even had producers who were making stories up, and we had to get rid of them. It happens. There have been stories that I was absolutely convinced were real, and then I found out a few years later that they weren't. It's like anything else. As any reporter who has ever interviewed politicians knows, you're not always getting the truth." What does make Jerry jump, though, are allegations that he exploits some sad, pathetic people. "The show is purely voluntary. No one gets on our show unless they desperately want to be on it. Unlike tabloid journalism shows that report on people against their wishes, we don't out anybody or anything." Springer is obviously making reference to the late, unl&mented Jenny Jones Show, which just might have succeeded in bringing TV to a new low. No small feat. Jones made headlines in 1995 when she brought a fellow called Jonathan Schmitz on her tabloid talk show and informed him that she would be bringing out another guest, someone who had a secret crush on Schmitz. Little did Schmitz or the TV audience realize that the admirer was not a woman, but one Scott Amedure, who detailed at length his sexual fantasies about Schmitz. Schmitz was

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mortified. Having previously undergone mental counseling, he snapped. Three days after the episode aired, Schmitz hunted Amedure down and killed him. Many argued that Jones and her producers were as guilty as Schmitz, who was convicted of murder in 1999. "I don't want to be part of exploiting people against their wishes," Springer emphatically told me. "Beyond that, my show has no cause. It's not like we're trying to save Bosnia. It's just a silly entertainment show. It's like a basketball game. It might bring great joy in the short term, but it won't solve the world's problems." Nothing shocks Springer. "In my lifetime, I've lived through a Holocaust, the assassination of a president, OJ. Simpson. What's shocking? In time, you get to believe anything." Well, almost anything. One case that turned up on his show did give Springer cause for concern about the human race. "This guy thought he was being stalked by a gay guy and was worried," Springer recalls. "So he simply cut off his own penis, figuring it would stop. Now, I'm thinking to myself, why wouldn't the guy just change his phone number?" The dismembered fellow did admit on air that, in retrospect, he might have overreacted. 9:37 A.M. Self-effacing genius or not, I can only take nine minutes of Springer's show. Which is probably as much as he can handle, too. But has it really come down to this — The Waltons? I wouldn't even watch The Waltons in a threechannel universe in the days of yore. Whoa. Worse, I'm getting off on the exploits of John Boy and sundry farm animals. John Boy is now singing: "You take the high road and I'll take the low road .. ." Sorry, it says nothing in my contract about having to listen to "Loch Lomond" at this hour. Later, John Boy. Much later. 9:41 A.M. I'm watching a sewing show on the Home and Garden channel. And I'm enjoying it. I'm concerned.

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9:44 A.M. Back to Maury. I pinch myself to make certain that I'm actually still watching a segment called "Help! My Teen Girl Is Torturing My Family!" A chunky teen girl comes out and announces that she can smoke, drink, have sex, beat up her sister, and her mother can't do anything to stop her. Audience boos in unison. This is a throwback to the days of the Roman Coliseum, when the smart money was on the lions over the Christians. 9:48 A.M. My supervising mental-health professional, Dr. Sam Burstein, drops by to spend a little quality time with me and Maury. He verifies that I am seeing what I think I'm seeing. I need the affirmation. He catches a commercial for some woman's health product and shakes his head: "Man, how can you endure all these ads?" Are you kidding, sez I, the commercials are the least painful part. Right now, though, we both have to pinch ourselves to make sure we're seeing a promo for The Sexiest Bachelor in America, set to air tonight on Fox. 9:49 A.M. Back to Maury and teens who torture their families. Maury plans to truck the troublesome teens off to a women's prison in New Jersey to teach them a lesson about real torture. Dr. Sam is aghast. "This is what we call trying to scare them straight," he mutters. It's also what is known in the mental-health field as "behavior modification," but Dr. Sam insists that this particular form is completely primitive and unproductive and dismissed by most forwardthinking practitioners. Dr. Sam bristles at the manner in which sheriff tries to play mental-health professional. 9:52 A.M. Dr. Sam has a query: "Does the wasteland of TV really reflect the wasteland of society?" Dr. Sam fesses up that he has concerns for my well-being in light of exposure to Maury and his unwell minions. "I fear your reality will

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be the same as the reality of these teens who torture their families," Dr. Sam says. Great, I respond. Can't wait until tomorrow's episode to see troublesome teens who torture their families behind bars with women who have murdered and dismembered their own families. 10:00 A.M. Power of Attorney. Judge Andrea Napolitano presiding. Model gets shock of her life when she finds herself in bed with some hobbit-like critter. A wee, ponytailed curio, actually. Hobbit is suing model for $1,100. He claims she wrecked his car by not doing an oil change. "Sex and aggression," Dr. Sam moans, "the cornerstones of American morning television." And frontier justice rules. Model's attorney accuses hobbit of sleeping with his client against her will. Hobbit's barrister asks what this has to do with a busted crankshaft. "One really has to suspend oneself from reality to watch this," Dr. Sam suggests. 10:09 A.M. To Tell the Truth. Nice to touch base with old Dallas star Patrick Duffy, now a celebrity panelist. And the real Extreme Playmate — the babe who gets her thrills taming snakes in the great outdoors as well as in the great indoors — is not number one, but number two. She had the panelists stumped. They didn't recognize her without the staples. Their joke, not mine. Next, the celeb panelists are asked to figure out who the real dog psychologist is among the three suspects. Should be a breeze for me. I've got my own psychologist to guide me. Dr. Sam insists it's number two, because he talks trie talk. 10:21 A.M. Back to Power of Attorney. Model is weeping on the witness stand. She gets angry. She says hobbit is only suing her in an effort to control her. Dr. Sam is concerned by rampant dysfunction on the tube, and he's only caught thirty-three minutes, minus commercials.

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10:24 A.M. To Tell the Truth. Dr. Sam correctly identifies the dog psychologist. He is beginning to feel better about himself. "If I couldn't get the doggie shrink right, what kind of psychologist would I be?" This is, apparently, a rhetorical question. All the same, Dr. Sam insists he's never done any animal psychology, though some he has encountered have exhibited animal-like qualities. Dr. Sam doesn't know what to make of the shrink on this show who wrote a book on how to speak pooch. 10:28 A.M. Power of Attorney. Claim denied. Ponytailed hobbit doesn't get $1,100. Hobbit is mighty steamed. Not only did he fail to get his blown car fixed — he will likely never get blown by any life form who has just seen him. 10:32 A.M. Oh, wonderful — it's Divorce Court. Wife claims husband bought house to be across the street from his — count 'em — seven girlfriends. "The dysfunction continues," says Dr. Sam. 10:35 A.M. Claim to fame of one of the contestants on To Tell the Truth: mooning every famous public monument in the U.S. — Mount Rushmore, et al. — and having the pictures, taken by proud hubby, to prove it. Dr. Sam and I are both feeling proud. We picked the right butt. Indeed, the mooner was number two. 10:43 A.M. We've come to the Learning channel for insights on dating. But not for very long. 10:45 A.M. Flash from the past. I Love Lucy. RicWcldckkkkky! Lucccccccccccccy! Ay, caramba! 10:49 A.M. Dr. Sam says he must go to work. I have my doubts. I think the tube has already done him in after a

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mere sixty-one minutes. He's in denial. Promises to visit me again real soon here in solitary. Initial prognosis of patient (me): attention focused; spirits fine. Perspective, people: this is less than two hours into the exercise. 10:58 A.M. Alone again, naturally. More about dating on the Learning channel. But decisions to make. What's next: The Price Is Right or Hollywood Squares'? Decisions, decisions. Yet more commercials for ambulance chasers in search of clients seeking expertise in the courtroom. 11:00 A.M. The Price Is Right. Game show's season premiere. Twenty-ninth season. Bob Barker lives. Either that or they've done wonders in the embalming department. Contestant Amber might not be old enough to drive, but she can walk away with a car, a truck, and a van if she comes close to guessing their respective prices. Methinks this is somewhat excessive. Sadly, Amber doesn't win her own fleet of vehicles — even with help from the exuberant audience. 11:08 A.M. Hollywood Squares. Nice to see all my favorite out-of-work actors and comedians. Say hey to Gilbert Gottfried, Martin Mull — and, thank God that Whoopi Goldberg has found work, too. The good news is that these folks don't die, they go on to game shows. 11:30 A.M. From NBC, the network that gave us Chet Huntley and David Brinkley, comes National Enquirer's Uncovered. Stop the presses: Titanic star Leonardo DiCaprio is doing Marlon Brando impressions. Gettin' tubby. Though not yet Orca, DiCaprio is packing on the pounds. It gets worse. Breaking news: fast-fading talk-show and sitcom star Roseanne gets undressed for Gear magazine. Ewww. And there's so much more. John Goodman is playing a gay man on a new series called Normal, Ohio — and all because

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Roseanne turned him off women, according to the host. Bitchy, bitchy. Plus, Bette Midler is playing herself on her new series: she is driving people crazy. 12:30 R.M. Where does the time go? Family Feud. Old friend Louie Anderson, the stand-up comedian and self-help author, has found work. Question is: what is the worst thing that can happen to a sword swallower? Survey says: not fart, but barf or burp. I'm feeling nauseous again. 12:36 P.M. Yahoo, I've made it to a daytime soap: The Young and the Restless. I've led an incomplete existence to date. I've never seen a daytime soap before. Then again, I had never seen Maury Povich before, either. This has been a groundbreaking day. Time to break out the Absolut and celebrate. Let's see, on this soap we have an attractive lush, a dirty old man, a depressed author. Guilt abounds. This is just like real life, except these guys have better haircuts. Bartender, better make that a double Absolut. 1:02 P.M. Hark, a crying damsel in distress. She's reading a note. Welcome to Days of Our Lives. This soap, too, has been around for eons, which must explain the catchy intro: "Like sands through the hourglass, so are the days of our lives." Wait a minute. These shows are parodies of primetime soap operas — only with worse acting, writing, and sets, and soppier music. 1:12 P.M. I'd rather be jogging. Can't believe that people willingly watch this crud all the days of their lives. 1:20 P.M. Hot-blooded boy tells hot-blooded girl he really likes her, but he is offended because all she really wants him for is sex. She is devastated. You think you know vapid? You don't know vapid until you've done Days of Our Lives. Even Maury is starting to look good.

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1:32 P.M. It is my duty to watch The Bold and the Beautiful, because somebody has to. More deceit. More hurt. More villainy. These plots, these characters, these sets — they're all interchangeable. They could flit from soap to soap and no one would ever notice. Hard as this might be to declare, at least the nighttime soaps have some semblance of depth, decent plotlines, and acceptable acting. 2:01 P.M. The Bold and the Beautiful has meshed seamlessly with As the World Turns. I'm getting numb. I'm getting sleepy. A young man chooses a menial mailroom job over a partnership offer from his fat-cat father. This, we are led to believe, is daytime soap scruples. No, this is stupid. 2:28 P.M. After living through the agony and ecstasy of the soaps, I'm heading over to Martha Stewart land. Martha is doing combing, which has something to do with home decorating, on the Life channel. 2:33 P.M. Back to the soaps. Passions. Oh, hell, it's that obnoxious kid lawyer from AllyMcBeal, and now he's really freaky and possessed by the spirits of evil American pioneers. Help. 2:41 P.M. Random thoughts as I wait in breathless anticipation for Dr. Laura, the pop psychologist who dispenses pat answers to very serious questions with a heavy dose of morality and who seems awfully outdated in this twohundred-channel universe we now inhabit. I want to caulk. Windows, I mean. I want to walk. I want to read. I want to learn about my crankcase. I want to change oil. This, too, will pass, I suppose. 2:45 P.M. Back to the Playboy channel for Naughty Amateur Home Video Hour. Sex-toy competition segment. This is

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special. Why is this channel always out of sync? Like anyone is going to complain as long as the images aren't fuzzy ... e r . . . distorted. Yes, curiosity has gotten the better of me. Or is it outright boredom? 2:53 P.M. Of all the cockamamie soaps out there, Passions is in a class of its own. A relative upstart in the soap market, something akin to Dallas does The Exorcist. What have they done to tiny Timmy's hair? Taken a vacuum cleaner and turned him into a dwarf Don King. Man, if Maury ever gets wind of this... there's an episode in the wings. I'm starting to feel isolated. I haven't seen another human for hours. Or an animal. Not even my dog will subject himself to this fare. Maybe Dr. Laura will help. 3:01 P.M. Dr. Laura can't help me at all. She wants to know if we're all living up to our obligations to protect children from music with naughty lyrics and videos with explicit images. She sends underaged kids off to buy CDs and videos restricted to folks over eighteen. They succeed, mostly because they look like they're twenty-five, not fourteen. Dr. Laura is appalled. Dr. Laura needs help. Dr. Laura says people confuse intimacy with sex. Hmmm. That's wrong, observes Dr. Laura, because boys won't respect you in the morning. Dr. Laura asks if we are obligated to give money to panhandlers. Dr. Laura asks if it's okay for a woman to have a man as a best friend. I ask myself if life will get better when former comic and film star and Madonna-buddyturned-professional-TV-yapper Rosie O'Donnell arrives in forty-two minutes. Or perhaps I'm confusing Rosie with happy hour. And I'm sure Dr. Laura would feel that was wrong. 3:31 P.M. Later, Dr. Laura. Now seeking inspiration from Guiding Light. Can't focus. After being inundated with

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burger ads all day, I crave one. I've been deceived. Guiding Light offers no religious guidance. It's another infernal soap. Much tension as some shiftless fellow is asked to stand in as a godfather at the baptism of the child of a woman with whom he has obviously had intimacy. Note to Dr. Laura: this is to be confused with sex. Hypocrisy, denial. Stop, stop. I can't take it. 3:40 P.M. Words of wisdom from Guiding Light: "Denial is not just a river in Egypt." Right. I believe there's also one in Bulgaria. Surely, the scribblers on this show can come up with a better throwaway line than this. These are alleged professionals, earning countless thousands of dollars a day, and this is the best they can do? I believe my beloved daughter told me this joke when she was in nursery school. This experiment is not going well. 3:48 P.M. No question, the commercials are better than the program. Especially those for Victoria's Secret. Hold that thought. The diarrhea commercial comes on and I want to hurl. 3:53 P.M. They could probably fit commercials between all these pregnant pauses on Guiding Light. The silence is supposed to suggest conflict. Reality is, more likely, that the actors forgot their lines. 4:00 P.M. Can't avoid it. Time for the queen of daytime TV: Oprah. A phenomenon for reasons that escape the critics. It would appear that her greatest gift is to cry with guests and audience members on cue. Regardless, Oprah is so damned influential that she can even get people to read books without pictures. Not even Maury can boast that he has his own book club.

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4:12 P.M. Ahhhhhhhhh! Somebody, help me, please! I'm stuck in a room and I'm being forced to stare at Oprah's innards as she undergoes a full body scan in the interests of science and ratings. Stop! This is cruel and unusual punishment. Oprah has decided to shift her "paradigm" from her hips to her heart. She will no longer worry about dieting and exercise. Yum, we're looking at plaque formation on Oprah's heart. Oprah says this has been a wake-up call. No more potato chips. She will now be focused on her heart. And lungs. And liver. And kidneys. The self-righteousness, the indignation, the maudlin manipulation — these I can take. Oprah's organs . . . sorry. 4:19 P.M. If Oprah's got plaque, what about Rosie? We won't find out now, because Rosie is busy gushing all over Geena Davis, the actress who has left the big screen to do a sitcom on the wee screen. Artistic challenge, no doubt. Not to dimmish the work of some of the fine thespians who perform on television — and they know who they are — but it's a general rule of thumb that many who can't cut it on the big screen or the stage emerge on the tube by default. In Davis's case, it's a good bet that dynamite offers were simply drying up. But Rosie — though, we're pretty much certain she's smart as a whip — seems to have been sentenced to the tube for reasons that don't have to do with her ability. She ain't Julia Roberts, and the movie biz, which at the best of times has difficulty dealing with women in meaningful roles, can be downright callous when it comes to casting babes who haven't popped out of the Victoria's Secret mold. All the same, I'm guessing that Rosie has never seen a movie or TV show she hasn't liked — featuring guests on her show, that is. There is clearly an esprit de corps at play here. Nobody wants to ruffle the feathers of a fellow thesp, because ya never know when the situation

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might be reversed. Oh, yeah — Rosie may not have plaque, but she has some kind of cast on her hand. Don't want to know what that's for. 4:21 P.M. My daughter, Lauren, drops in. She tells me not to talk, to focus instead on the tube. But I want to talk. But you're not supposed to, she says. Who says? I say there's nothing in my contract preventing me from talking while watching Rosie. I believe my life is turning into a sitcom. And not a very good one. 4:22 P.M. Geena is ready to leave Rosie, but not before Rosie tells everyone to watch Geena's new show. Why? Because Geena is nice, says Rosie. And it's supposed to be funny, too, Rosie adds. Thanks Rosie. 4:23 P.M. Back to Oprah's organs. Coming right up: yo-yo dieter who used to smoke. Let's look at her organs. Let's not. 4:30 P.M. Eureka! I find a Simpsons rerun. Hooray! Homer saves the day. Thank you, God. Lauren says she's seen it. She can tell from the intro. No matter. The show's lovable antihero, Homer, is now smashing a television set and screaming at it, "Be more funny!" Couldn't agree with you more, Homer. Look, there's Troy McClure. You might remember him from such telethons as "Out with Gout '88." Homer plans to go to the ballet. Alas, he learns that the ballet is not, as he had imagined, circus bears on tricycles. Bummer. Now this is reality TV. That's what I love about Homer. He's an animated goof who sprang from the mind of series creator Matt Groening, but Homer's infinitely more real than those live props on the soaps. Homer gets his hands stuck inside two vending machines. Bummer. He can't go to the ballet. Inquiring minds might want to speculate whether the same fate befell Rosie.

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4:45 P.M. Rosie welcomes another of her all-time favorite actresses and people. "Judging Amy" Brenneman. Rosie loves her the most — if you don't count her last guest. Rosie has a lot of love to give. Next, Tyne Daly comes on down to schmooze with Rosie. Rosie loves her a lot, too. Who doesn't Rosie love? Perhaps the person who spilled the beans about gun-control lobbyist Rosie employing a guy with a gun to provide security for her kids. Rosie likes Tyne's backpack. Perfect for packing melons and newspapers. Oh yeah, Tyne's grandkids are doing just fine. Just in case you were wondering. 4:49 P.M. Cut back to The Simpsons. Lauren and I are discussing the relative merits of Lebanese and Chinese takeout. Lebanese rules. Feeling a wee bit better now. Thank you, Marge, Homer, and Bart. 5:01 P.M. Euphoria is short-lived. I meet Judge Judith Sheindlin, better known as Judge Judy, host of a hugely popular syndicated court show. Plaintiff accuses the mother of his child for head-butting his truck and denting it. What a world. Judge Judy is a mite miffed by the fact that plaintiff wants damages for his head-butted truck but not for his teeth — also damaged by the defendant. Priorities, I guess. Judge Judy dispenses the following wisdom, no doubt passed down from Solomon: "Sticks and stones may break my bones, but names will never hurt me." All by way of saying that defendant could have ignored taunts of plaintiff. Regardless, I'm feeling way better about the judicial system now. And again they're spouting lines my daughter had already outgrown at seven. 5:09 P.M. Saved by Wonder Years rerun on the Vision channel. This is what passes for religion these days. Little Kevin (played by the cuddly Fred Savage) gets nabbed by his

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mom trying to lift recess passes from the principal's office. To the gallows with you, little Kevin. There must be a moral here, otherwise why would they stick this show on the religion channel? Little Kevin's mom gets fired from job as secretary of school principal. Mommy weeps. Kevin weeps. So sad. And what would the moral be here? Women ought not to work? 5:30 P.M. Can't resist. Know this is wrong and will burn in hell, but must catch the Seinfeld rerun. Old habits die hard. Besides, there could be an important life lesson lurking. And I'm right. We learn that Elaine is the queen of confrontation. George swallows a fly and has a panic attack. 6:37 P.M. Political upheaval in Yugoslavia. Tensions flare in the Middle East. Republican George W. Bush and Democratic VP Al Gore prepare for a debate tomorrow night in the race to become the next president of the U.S.A. Movie at eleven. 7:09 P.M. This just in, courtesy of the good folks at Access Hollywood, the pop-culture TV mag: The average age of a CBS viewer has dropped to forty-nine from fifty-four. Why? Because of the popularity of reality TV series like Survivor and Big Brother. And, because of this tiny, seemingly innocuous factoid, television as we know it has taken a wacky new turn in the new millennium. Each trying to outdo the other, TV producers have been fanning out across the globe to come up with more outrageous concepts for reality programming. Failing that, they'll simply rip off a reality show from some foreign network. As a result, there will be much more of the same. Survivor: The Australian Outback has already been shot. And viewers who thought Survivor was as out there as the genre could get will soon be treated to

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the likes of Temptation Island, wherein unmarried couples are tempted by the flesh of others to test the strength of their relationships. Right. Like the programmers really give a rat's ass about commitment. It's all about ratings, of course. Rabbi Kenneth D. Roseman of Dallas was so outraged when he learned of this show that he fired off a letter to the local Fox affiliate: "The idea that it is sport and amusement to see if one can destroy a relationship for the purpose of securing ratings and profit is just unacceptable." But not everyone subscribes to the moral high ground. "This is an absolutely fascinating development in the history of Western drama," postulates Robert Thompson, director of the Center for the Study of Popular Television at Syracuse University. "It's a great new bit of experimental theater, a fictionally created universe populated by real people without lots of predictability." Right. And, while we're at it, why don't we spring a few serial killers from the jug and see what kind of unpredictable experimental theater they can create? Help! We are going straight to purgatory! 7:23 P.M. Donny Osmond never saw it coming. The cancelation of the talk show he cohosted with sister Marie, that is. Donny tells Access Hollywood that he was devastated. Really devastated. But then Donny reflects and says, "That's why they created the expression 'That's showbiz.'" I never knew that. Thanks, Donny. And, by the way, Donny, many of us did see it corning. 7:27 P.M. Oh, joy. From the people who brought us Survivor comes Destination Mir: 2001, a survivor show set in outer space. The possibilities for this series are as infinite as space itself. What do they do with contestants who get booted from the show? Send them scurrying to the moon? Force them to hang with Star Trek's William Shatner?

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7:32 P.M. More joy. Entertainment Tonight captures exclusive footage of stars Elizabeth Taylor and Debbie Reynolds together again. About a century back, Debbie's loungelizard hubby Eddie Fisher dumped her for Liz, who later dumped him for Richard Burton. Next, another hard-hitting E. T. exclusive: "Women Who Will Strip and Women Who Won't!" 8:01 P.M. New prime-time season begins. In Daddio, a boring bald guy stays at home to take care of three kids while his wife works. Novel concept: mommy is a lawyer; daddio is a goof. Why, look, there's Donny Osmond again. With much free time on his hands due to the cancellation of his talk show, he appears on Daddio as the devilish ex-boss of the goof. Houston, we have a problem. 8:12 P.M. Wisdom from the sitcom King of Queens: morning sex is the best thing; in the world that doesn't have cheese on it. Don't go there, girl. 8:16 P.M. Scary — Donny Osmond is not the worst thing about Daddio. 8:17 P.M. King of Queens, as personified by show's star, Kevin James, is concerned because his queen is only turned on when he does impressions of a Latino. 8:30 P.M. Yes, Dear. More thought-provoking sitcom fare. Two couples with contrasting views on childrearing. Sounds like a laff riot. I give this show a month. 8:33 P.M. Tucker. Two kicls kicking the shit out of each other. A Malcolm in the Middle clone. I give this show a week. 8:39 P.M. Almost forgot. Sexiest Bachelor in America. Stay tuned for swimsuit competition. Fair is fair, I guess. Sexy

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bachelor is asked where he has had the best sex. He says Southern gentlemen don't talk about things like that in public. Audience applauds. Then he says that every place he has sex is the best. Audience applauds louder. Gag. 8:48 P.M. Tucker has a crush on his neighbor. She squirts Tucker with a hose. Love hurts. 9:03 P.M. Deadline. Tale about a crusading New York City tabloid columnist who gets his students to do his dirty legwork for him. Love the concept. Stars old fave Oliver Platt as slightly corpulent columnist with cool bow tie and quirks. It better be good, because Monday night football is just a channel away. Tough enough for Platt to be an awardwinning reporter and teacher, but he must also deal with a divorce. Plus, the lady toils at the same tabloid as he does. Oh well, all in a day's work. Not only does he get his students to do the research, to write, and to chauffeur him around town, but he makes more than $300,000 a year. Much of it goes towards replenishing his supply of Irish whisky. This is not reality TV. 10:02 P.M. Tony Danza, star of Who's the Boss anAd Taxi in another age, is back, this time as a barrister in Family Law. Yeah, I buy that. 10:17 P.M. Third Watch. Cops, firefighters, paramedics — all trying to make the world a swell place. But never saw this one coming: domestic squabbles get in the way of the work. Or is work getting in the way of their domestic squabbles? 10:33 P.M. Tony Danza would have us and the court believe that a woman who kidnaps a child is that child's rightful, and morally wronged, mother. Let her go, damn it. Hearttugging stuff. Poor South American mother has had to sell

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her baby to help defray cost of a heart operation for another child, who then dies. Now she wants her baby back. Rivers of tears flow. 10:56 P.M. This could make anyone start to drink with a vengeance. Back on Third Watch, a man who has been buried alive for a spell is dug out of his grave. He's not amused. Third Watch gang plans to celebrate with some Thai food — because that's what they're in the mood for after digging up a nearly dead dude. 10:57 P.M. Monday Night Football. Kansas taking on Seattle. Saturday Night Live alum Dennis Miller trying to prove to his detractors that he's more than an obtuse funny guy — he's an obtuse funny football guy. To wit: Dennis says mayor of Kansas City gave him key to city. Dennis tried key. Key didn't work. Dennis's sidekicks don't seem to know what to make of Dennis. 11:35 P.M. Say hey to late-night god David Letterman. Guests tonight include Geena Davis. Geena Davis? Wait a second. Well, what's on the tube this week? According to Dave, A&E has a special on Barbra Streisand's last five farewell concert tours. This is about as piquant as satire gets in this world. Babs is sacred,, But so is Dave. Enough with the satire — Geena and Dave start shooting the breeze about archery. Backgrounder: in an effort to get her name back in the news when her movie career seemed to be on the skids — or perhaps she was merely contemplating revenge on her ex, director Renny Harlin — Geena started to do Robin Hood impressions and tried out for the U.S. Olympic archery team. And when that plan went awry, she settled for her own TV sitcom. So, in the great artistic scheme of things: theater, film, archery, and then TV. Hmm.

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12:10 A.MO Letterman's late-night yack-show rival, Jay Leno, has his eyes fixed on other targets. Pamela Anderson, wearing little in the way of conventional clothing, is promoting her latest venture, Pam-TV, and Jay seems riveted. Perhaps on Pam's parts. And perhaps Pam ought to sue doc who did breast reduction. Operation obviously wasn't a success, but who's complaining? Not Jay. 12:14 A.M. Daughter Lauren is impressed that I haven't yet imploded and made a mess all over the new sofa. She has new respect for me. And all it took was fifteen straight hours — and counting — of television. Not even she can take more than a few hours of Felicity or Ally McBeal or MTV's Top-10 countdown of music videos that have less to do with music than sex. Lauren knows more about the tube than your average nineteen-year-old. She has had small roles in several sitcoms and TV movies and knows firsthand about the profundity of TV plotting and the prowess of many TV thesps. She is not impressed. She's much like her dad in that the only TV that can captivate her for an extended period is football. 12:22 A.M. Pamela Anderson says she was turned down for a gig by McDonald's. Jay thinks they must have been nuts. Think of how many whoppers her whoppers could have moved. Sorry, wrong burger chain. So, sue me. 12:29 A.M. True confessions: Tom Cavanagh, star of the much-hyped TV series Ed, tells David Letterman that he once planted trees in northern Ontario, and one dark night after work, he went to a tavern and put a disc on the jukebox and started to sing and dance along to David Lee Roth's "I Ain't Got Nobody" and somehow annoyed a Neanderthal lumberjack who, in turn, beat the living crap out of Cavanagh. Well, look on the bright side, Tom: you will feel

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right at home on television. And, oh yes, not to suggest that nepotism would ever exist on the tube, or anything, but it is Letterman's production company that created Ed. 12:58 A.M. Conan O'Brien, relatively new kid on the latenight talk-show block, tells Alicia Silverstone that she did a fine job in Clueless. Methinks this was no stretch for Silverstone. I'm starting to hfade. 1:09 A.M. My day ends the way it started. Yeah, in prayer. Not exactly. Back on the Playboy channel, a rerun of that hard-hitting piece of investigative repohrtage Strip Search, where the trusty helmet cam scopes mammaries of one of Portland's most bountiful babes. Lots more close-ups of gyrating Portland strippers. Big deal. My eyes can no longer focus. I'm fading fast.

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7:04 A.M. Mornin', world. Rise and shine. It's a brand new Today Show. The big buzz is about the Bush/Gore presidential debate in Boston tonight. Burning question of the morning: What will the temperature in the debating hall be? Huh! 7:27 A.M. News flash: Geena Davis is set to appear on Regis's show. I will have seen Geena more than I have seen many of my own body parts after the week is out. I smell conspiracy. I smell a new TV series that has turkey written all over it. No, wait a second, I smell — of last night's beer and take-out, whatever it was. 7:39 A.M. Artificial sweeteners versus real sweeteners. Stephanie Powers on power workouts for seniors. Stay tuned, says Today's Katie Couric. No worries, Katie. We have nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. Besides, I must confess that Today's Ann Curry is the most sultry, seductive news anchor on the tube — she could be reciting pork-belly futures and I would be transfixed. This could also be a reaction to too much Dan Rather. Today cohost Matt Lauer points out that one Patrick Zelzer has put an ad in a local paper under the "Kidney Wanted" category. The organ is for his sister. Surely, Oprah could do something here. Today Show movie critic Gene Shalit's mustache could now stretch

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from Maine to New Mexico. Let's do it. I'll hold his head down, you guys pull. 8:03 A.M. The Early Show with Bryant Gumbel. I'm feeling far too rested, far too comfortable. I'm upbeat about the prospect of watching twenty hours of television today. Nerves aren't frayed. What's wrong with me? My enthusiasm is short-lived. Producer of Survivor appears on The Early Show to talk about creation of Survivor 2. Hey wait a second. That's not Bryant. Can't fool us. That's Jim Nantz at the desk. Where's Bryant? 8:12 A.M. Sylvester Stallone tells Good Morning America audience how tough it was growing up on the streets with a name like Sylvester. Hey, Sylvester, it could have been worse — you could have been called Tweety Bird. Sly has been making the rounds of the TV talk shows over the last day. Methinks he has a new movie to promote. And you know the old adage: the more the star pushes the picture, the greater the likelihood that the flick is a stiff. For the record, the flick is called Get Carter. What's scary is that Stallone is one of the last people I saw before I closeted myself in front of the tube. He happened to be walking down a Montreal street, smoking a stogie, in the company of a bodyguard. True confessions: Sly once taught at a Swiss girls' school and wrote a bio of Edgar Allen Poe. Yo, Poe! 8:41 A.M. Magic Johnson's mom is doing leg lifts on The Today Show. And knee bends. Sal Pacino, father of Al, follows his workout with towel lifts. Wet-towel lifts, we're guessing. Why? Because they can. 8:44 A.M. Where's Bryant? 8:46 A.M. Rumble in the Jungle on the The Today Show. George Foreman, the former boxer, has now found fame

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grilling meat — not of the human variety—on a barbecue. Why is this man smiling? He's plugging a book he penned about his barbecuing exploits. In TV Land, stars never fade. They do guest appearances on Hollywood Squares or write celebrity cookbooks. 9:02 A.M. Live with Regis. His former cohost and alleged singer and sweatshop owner Kathie Lee Gifford is gone. So why is Regis smiling? He gets to audition a different adoring female sidekick every day this week. Today's sycophant is Stacey a single mother of twins from Hoosier country. Stacey manages to tell Regis a dozen times in a dozen seconds how much she adores him. Regis laps it all up. We wouldn't expect any less from the king of American television. Stacey shows Regis the pedicure she got especially for him. And the great TV strides just keep on coming: Regis has found three finalists for the Ugliest Sofa in America contest. But enough about upholstery — come on down, Geena Davis. Tell Regis something you didn't tell Rosie or Letterman. I guess that's why they call them actors. At least she changes her clothes from one appearance to the next. No archery chitchat. Regis reminds Geena of the allegedly revealing gown she wore to the millennium edition of the Emmy Awards. Can't keep a good archer down for long. Stacey asks Geena about trying out for the U.S. Olympic archery team. Geena did well. She came in twenty-fourth out of a field of thirty-two. Hey, it's a start. There's probably a method to her madness. I think I'll take up trampoline jumping and try to bounce my way to Olympic gold. 9:34 A.M. Roger Lodge, host of Blind Date, visits Men Are from Mars, Women Are from Venus and gives Cybill Shepherd the skinny on dating. These people all speak in the sort of platitudes designed to elicit the perfect response from the audience. Like, "Chivalry is not dead"; "Women like it

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when men are courteous"; "Treat women as if they were special individuals" (as opposed to what?); "Be generous. Be sweet. Be loving." ('Scuse me, I'm about to be sick) "Are you looking for Mr. Right but winding up with Mr. I Don't Think So?" asks Myreah, one of Cybill's gender experts. It's becoming apparent that people have very little to say, but that doesn't seem to deter programmers in their efforts to fill the two-hundred-channel TV universe. That's why the TV gods invented Oprah, Rosie, Regis, Maury and Jerry. 9:39 A.M. A deep revelation: as I watch a promo clip for this afternoon's Seinfeld rerun, I realize that this show — which prides itself on being about nothing — does an absolutely splendid job of parodying the TV medium. Watching Cybill and guests babbling about nothing is boring. But making fun of people babbling about nothing can be great art. Excuse me while I digress for a moment, but prior to undertaking this one-week odyssey, I had an opportunity to speak to Larry David, the cocreator of Seinfeld. The man who inspired the show's cantankerous character George Costanza, David has picked up where he left off a few years back. He has created, produced, written, and put himself in front of the camera in Curb Your Enthusiasm, a wonderfully silly and acerbic HBO series about absolutely nothing that will certainly fill the gap for all the Seinfeld junkies left in the lurch since that show went off the air in 1999. Or, to paraphrase my dear departed grandmother, so what's not to like? In much the same way Seinfeld was able to mine laughs effortlessly from the foibles of its principals, David's new TV series can take the most innocuous situation and turn it into an angst-filled crisis worthy of the Wood-man, Woody Allen. In the season's opening episode, for example, a simple case of David's corduroy pants bunching up in the crotch sets off a chain of events culminating with his wife's best

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friend believing she has aroused him. Natch, the more David tries to talk his way out of the dilemma, the more dire and hysterical it becomes. Make no mistake, however. Curb Your Enthusiasm is definitely not mainstream network TV Whereas Seinfeld had to be sanitized to appease the censors at the Peacock Network, David doesn't have to deal with censors armed with pruning shears at the edgier HBO. Seinfeld might be the jumping-off point for this series, but Curb Your Enthusiasm is much more in the candid and caustic tradition of such cable-TV classics as The Larry Sanders Show and Sex and the City. (Where are all these shows in my hours of need?) David, a Brooklyn native and a vet of the Big Apple stand-up comedy scene, is thrilled when people tell him that his new show allows them to visit a new series of neuroses. It looks like all those years he spent in the comedy trenches have made David aware of what works and what doesn't. And there's not a whole bunch of TV comedy out there that is working. David loves the freedom of cable TV: "That was certainly one reason why I wanted to do the series with HBO. But also I just didn't really want the burden of doing another network show. I wanted to get into a territory where I hadn't been before. I must add, and these words don't come out of my mouth very often, that I had a wonderful time. Even saying that now feels so strange coming from me." But David is more circumspect when it comes to explaining why people should be so consumed with the minutiae of his existence: "Boy, ya got me there." He pauses. "I've never really been able to analyze — for lack of a better word — work. Frankly, I don't know what the appeal is. I think that perhaps I bring out a dark side that we all seem to have and that I'm able, somehow, to express it in a humorous way." Well, that comic expression has accounted for a net worth of one hundred million dollars from Seinfeld alone,

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according to those in the trade. Seinfeld is going even stronger in worldwide syndication now than when the series was in its prime. Nice work, if you can get it. All of which means, of course, that David did not feel compelled to undertake more work to pay the rent. "Maybe because I was doing fewer shows. Maybe because I didn't have to deal with anyone. It was just a very relaxed environment. And there is no such thing as censorship here. They let me do whatever I want." Does this sort of cable freedom sound the death knell for network television? "Well, it does seem that what they're doing on network TV is getting kind of stale," says David, who has rejected overtures from the networks. "My sort of spontaneous approach would also be a big risk for the networks, and I don't think it would pay off for them in the ratings." Actually, that might be true. The cost per episode for Curb Your Enthusiasm is $430,000, which is much less than half of what the budget was for an episode of Seinfeld almost a decade back. Then again, if it were all so simple, others would have duplicated the formula; but no one has been able to send TV viewers into the same neurotic trajectory, into another stream of (un)consciousness. David insists there is a simple method to his madness: "I wake up in the morning and my mind tends to drift to a worst-possible-case scenario, and those scenarios are very often funny. I go to bad consequences of little, tiny actions having adverse repercussions." It's all so glorious and so elementary, yet few writers can figure out how to do it. "And for that I'm very happy," David says. "I never really know what I'm doing, but I just hope I can keep it up." Us, too, buddy. 9:40 A.M. Where was I? Oh, gosh, back to daytime TV reality with a thud: Wendy, a guest on CybiU's show, confesses that she hit rock bottom when she found herself in a bar, at 2 A.M., kissing nutbar hoopster Dennis Rodman. No argu-

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ment there. Wendy has now devised "The Boyfriend Test" to determine if potential mates are emotionally mature. Wendy asks: "Has he introduced you to his friends? Is he sharing his stuff?" (What, like his toothbrush?) "Sharing is good," Wendy says. And if he likes quilting, he's a catch. No, Wendy, he's probably a knob. Roger Lodge tells Wendy: "This is not 'The Boyfriend Test/ This is 'The Do You Have the Guy Wrapped Around Your Finger Test.'" But hold on. Cybill has some laundry to air. She recently got dumped by her boyfriend, and she probably wishes she had done "The Boyfriend Test." Methinks this show is therapy for Cybill. Meanwhile, Wendy's next test question is, "What kind of relationship does he have with his mother?" I believe there is no right answer to this one. 9:46 A.M. Oy, it's Maury. "Help! My Teen Girl Is Torturing My Family! Part 2" If you'll recall, Maury sent some teen girls to the jug to teach them a lesson. And it's worked, Maury says. Girl who had sex for a cigarette reconsiders. Now she brings roses to Mommy, just like Pavlov's pooch. And she clutches a teddy bear. And she kisses her little sister — the same one she wanted to maim. In fact, all the teen girls who were torturing their families come out clutching teddy bears, and they kiss their sisters. Amazing — a few hours in the slammer and they've all been rehabilitated. Ah, Maury saves the world. Girl even gives Maury a rose, a small token of her appreciation. Makes me want to gag. 9:55 A.M. Places to meet a mate, according to the experts on CybilTs Mars/Venus episode: hardware stores and funerals. 9:56 A.MO Plug for this evening's Entertainment Tonight. Topic: hard times, with guest Cybill Shepherd. Not only did Cybill get dumped, not only did her sitcom get canceled last year... but she also almost died. And now she's on

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Mars, or Venus. When there's no news to be had, those fawning E.T. folks generate their own. 9:57 A.M. More promos: Rosie O'Donnell will have barbecue king George Foreman and king of American TV Regis on her show this afternoon. There appear to be only six celebs in North America: George Foreman, Regis, Rosie, Geena Davis, and Sly Stallone. 10:30 A.M. The Today Show. No fair. How come they have to work longer than the other morning-show hosts? Katie, Matt, lovely Ann, and huggable weatherman Al Roker — who'd best never go out to sea without a Greenpeace contingent to guard him, lest the whalers get him in their sights and harpoon him — are now doing a split shift. After their 7:00 to 9:00 A.M. slot, they return for another hour of merriment from 10:00 to 11:00. Presumably, they're spending that hour engrossed in Regis's show and picking up a few fashion pointers. Hope they're getting paid overtime. 10:35 A.M. To Tell the Truth. Celeb panelists have to guess who was celeb doctor Patch Adams's real clown nurse. Hard to tell — they're all wearing red rubber noses. Comedian Paula Poundstone, panelist on To Tell the Truth, says she's so darned tired of being lied to. 10:43 A.M. Mental-health professional informs Today Show audience that it's not healthy when your kid's schedule is so darned hectic that he has no time for his homework. Really? Mental-health professional also says that spontaneity is good. Being in touch with one's family is good. Balance is good. Who knew? 10:56 A.M. It's only fitting that a former pro wrestler stumps everyone on To Tell the Truth.

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11:00 A.M. Just when I think I'm aware of all the "issues" talk shows, I happen upon The View. Baba Wawa (aka Barbara Walters) had this brainwave about a show featuring women with different points of view — but not that different. But Baba's not here today. She's probably tracking down Dennis Rodman for an exclusive interview. No worries, though, because her cohosts reflect the melting pot, within reason: African American, Asian American, Babe American... 11:08 A.M. Surprise: more trailer trash on Jerry Springer; mates fighting with each other. They yell, they scream, they mug for the camera. They are incensed to learn that they are being cheated on by their mates. If it's consistency you covet, go to Springer. It's the same plotline every day, with only the slightest twist. Today, it's mistresses confronting wives, as opposed to yesterday's show with wives confronting mistresses. Subtle stuff. 11:17 A.M. I'm watching Tokyo stock-market quotes in Japanese on the Asian channel. At least, I think that's what I'm watching. 11:42 A.M. Who gets all the poop? National Enquirer's Uncovered, of course. Doggies must have references to live in certain New York City high-rises — they have to prove that they really did graduate from charm school. Evidently, some pooches must go on Prozac to be admitted. Others must go on diets, like professional boxers; there is a weight limit in some buildings. Small wonder the dogs of New York are depressed. Where is our canine shrink when we need him? 12:04 P.M. And, speaking of dogs, a couple of pooches in Corpus Christie, Texas don't get along. One strangles the

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other, and, we're only guessing here, the master of the dead dog calls the cops. How do we know? It's the featured tale on Cops, reality TV with a bite. Wouldn't you know it? The aggressor was a pit bull. As a special lunchtime treat, the camera zooms in on the strangled corpse. Yum. I'm outta here. 1:37 P.M. I've OD'd on reality TV: Cops, Arrest and Trial, the aptly titled Real TV, and Clueless. Sorry, the last one only feels like reality-TV — it's just art doing a damn fine job of imitating life, California-style. But the fact remains: reality TV has nothing remotely to do with the reality that most of the world lives, otherwise there would be entire TV series devoted to slobs swilling beer, belching, passing wind, and occasionally brushing their teeth. Oops, they already did that show. It was called Roseanne. 1:38 P.M. Golden oldie Ed Sullivan offers escape, of sorts. Ed introduces us to one of the hot, hip groups of the day, The Fifth Dimension, and their hot, hip new single, "Working on a Groovy Thing." 1:40 P.M. Over to the History channel for insight into the good old days. Wilch hunting with U.S. Senator Joe McCarthy. Citizen Cohn, a dramatic rendering of the strange life and times of McCarthy point man Roy Cohn. Actor James Woods does an awfully convincing job of portraying the ruthless Roy. Getting hooked on Citizen Cohn. What I'm doing is not fair. I'm ducking the daytime soaps and sitcoms and talk shows. I could easily survive this marathon by selecting quality flicks, docs, and the occasional dramatic series to watch — but that would be wrong. And, as soon I've finished watching Woods do weasel impressions, I pledge to return to the mind-numbing drivel.

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3:02 P.M. General Hospital My sister-in-law swears that this is the soap to top all soaps. Big stars have sprung from its suds. Like Ricky Martin. I'm really trying to make sense of General Hospital, but I'm lost. I must have been administered an anesthetic. There appears to be a trial taking place. Much righteous indignation. My sister-in-law is right: the actors are better. But the writing isn't. And the issues are the same as those on the other soaps — safe sex, extramarital sex, illicit sex, underage sex, deviant sex, gay sex. Some say the soaps set sexual trends for society. Sorry From what I've seen, sex on the soaps seems to mirror the fantasies and proclivities of their creators. And, no matter how risque General Hospital tries to be, I'm still struggling to stay conscious. I have no idea what's going on beyond the underlying sex themes. Everyone seems so anxious. They all have dilemmas. And, just like their counterparts on the other soaps, they all have really good hair. Look on the bright side, I reassure myself, after this, the Bush/Gore debate should be a piece of cake. 3:43 P.M. Have finally gotten a glimpse of the hospital on General Hospital. I was beginning to worry. "Vodka almost killed you. Are you going to give vodka another shot?" I'd kind of like to. But I don't think it's such a swell idea for the guy on the ventilator. These words are uttered to him by a rather worried, raven-haired beauty at his bedside. Wild guess: the boy has a substance-abuse problem in addition to sex woes. 4:01 P.M. It's the Rosie show. And she's got Regis, who will likely repay Rosie by having her on his show tomorrow. Just in case we've forgotten any of his barbecue recipes, George Foreman, master of the grill, is back. Medical update: Rosie's hand is still in a cast.

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4:03 P.M. It's the Sally show. Today's topic: Who's the daddy? 4:04 P.M. It's the Oprah show. Today's topic: Jealousy. Men who get jealous when their wives talk to other men. Women who get jealous when their husbands talk to other women, or even look at them. A mental-health professional explains to Oprah and her audience that it's all about control. And low self-esteem. 4:11 P.M. Rosie gushes over Joshua Jackson of Dawson's Creek. She's a big fan. Who doesn't Rosie like? 4:16 P.M. Jealous guy begs wife for another chance on Oprah. Close to tears, he pledges never to be jealous again. She's in tears. "I will get right with you. Will you get right with me?" The two whisper to one another. The audience lets out a collective sigh. "It's a losing situation," beleaguered wife tells hubby. But she's willing to work at it. And he's willing to work at it. Awww. 4:19 P.M. It's Regis on Rosie. Or is it Rosie on Regis'? The lines are getting blurred. Question: When does Regis have time to shit or shave? Turns out that Rosie won half a million dollars on a celeb version of Regis's Who Wants to Be a Millionaire. Now we know why she loves the man. Both Rosie and Regis acknowledge that they hang out with schlock-pop composer Marvin Hamlisch. Everything is falling into place now. Rosie and Regis are plugging Barbra Streisand's Absolutely Final, Final Concert Tour. Why are these people so popular? Because if they tell each other they're popular often enough, then eventually others will believe them. Regis tells Rosie there will be a special athlete's version of Who Wants to Be a Millionaire. Rosie has her doubts that athletes have the necessary smarts — not like actors or talk-show hosts, eh Rosie?

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4:28 P.M. It's like a bottomless pit. Low self-esteem, that is. This is the verdict on Oprah. Beautiful young blonde has a pathological fear of her football-player hubby running off with the first floozie who winks at him. "If you can't trust yourself, you can't trust others," mental-health professional says. Oprah displays appropriate concern. 4:30 P.M. This is getting mighty confusing. During a break on Sally Jessy Raphael, we watch a promo for tomorrow's Live with Regis, featuring old buddy Joshua Jackson of Dawson's Creek. 4:32 P.M. Sally oversees paternity tests of guys denying that the babies of their wives/girlfriends are the products of their seed. But not for long. Tony doesn't believe the baby is his, because the mother is white and so is the offspring. Tony is steamed that the mother has brought him on television to confront him. The audience screams: "Take the test! Take the test! Take the test!" 4:36 P.M. George Foreman is grilling chickenburgers for Rosie. He wears a boxing glove. George must be stuffed by now. He's been barbecuing and snacking all day long. Ease up there, big fella. You'll never fit into a ring again. 4:39 P.M. I leave George and Rosie for The Simpsons. It was difficult, but I managed. The arch-evil Mr. Burns conscripts Senor Spielbergo to make movie guaranteed to win the Springfield Film Festival. But Mr. Burns could have some tough competition. Moe the bartender stars in the epic Mo' Better Booze. 4:52 P.M. Surprise, surprise. On Sally, Tony finds out he is the rightful father of the baby in question.

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4:53 P.M. Simpsons rummy Barney Gumble's painful slide into alcoholic despair captures top honors at the Springfield Film Festival. I know, I know — there I go again, skipping away from Oprah, Rosie, and Sally and pampering myself with The Simpsons. 5:00 P.M. Not only that — I've found another Simpsons rerun on another channel, and I'm going to watch that one, too. Homer runs for sanitation commissioner. And I'm surviving, it seems. Supper — East Indian fare, Lauren and I have agreed — is about an hour away. Homer croons "The Garbageman Can" to the tune of "The Candyman Can." Catchy. Sammy Davis Jr. would have been impressed. As sanitation commish, Homer has made Springfield the Trash Pile of America. The solution to the excess garbage problem: move Springfield five miles down the road and start afresh. The writers and creators are geniuses — or maybe it's all relative. 5:42 P.M. Vintage Seinfeld episode: Jerry begrudges folks who had ponies as kids. He has to eat his words when he learns that the ninety-eight-year-old woman he's seated next to at a dinner had a pony when she was growing up. The ninety-eight year old dies. Cause of death: Jerry's pony slight. Meanwhile, George fears he'll never have sex again. Jerry gets caught in pickle play during a softball game. It's always something. Larry David and the Seinfeld gang are also geniuses. 6:00 P.M. Time for a martini, just like Ivy on Passions. I had feared that my life was turning into a sitcom. It's worse. I think it's turning into a soap. Ahhh! 6:14 P.M. Reality kicks in again with the news. Strife in Yugoslavia, the Middle East. Gruesome images. And they ain't coming from Hollywood.

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7:23 P.M. Ask your doctor what Lipitor can do for you . . . keep you focused through Access Hollywood'? 7:25 P.M. Tween brainiacs battle it out on the junior version of Jeopardy, the most intellectual of all the game shows. Sorry, Whoopi. 7:31 P.M. On Entertainment Tonight, Anna Nicole Smith claims she's no golddigger. Well, she won't be if she doesn't pocket the half a billion she was hoping to score from her rich dead hubby's estate. Katie Couric will discuss sex with her teen daughter on Today. Cybill Shepherd is looking for Mr. Right again. 8:00 P.M. Who Wants to Be a Millionaire. Why? Because I need my Regis fix at least four times a day. 8:07 P.M. Shaggy-headed teen gets busted for pot possession on That '70s Show. He's innocent, damn it. He took the fall for his chick. 8:15 P.M. You, too, could have won a hundred bucks on Millionaire if you had known that "diddly-squat" means little or nothing. For two hundred bucks, what is the term for "two single beds connected one above the other"? That's right, genius — "bunk beds." 8:17 P.M. My friends Paul and Sally, fearing for my sanity, have come to share the essence of Regis with me. I arrive at the jarring realization that I haven't seen or conversed with another human — other than Lauren, of course — in hours. Miraculously, I discover that my social skills are still intact. "Help yourselves to beer," I grunt, without getting up, much less taking my eyes off the TV screen. Paul and Sally seem concerned, but they are sensitive to my plight and

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don't attempt to trigger deep conversation about the relative merits of Maury or Rosie or Regis. 8:19 P.M. Paul and Sally, here for all of two minutes, have quickly bored of Regis and want to watch the Playboy channel. Featured attraction is Forbidden Highway, about two guys who cross the Mob and hook up with Lady Luck. For two hundred dollars, guess which character is sporting the skimpy lingerie? 8:23 P.M. Famed chef Emeril flambees on the Food channel. Turns out that Emeril was on the celeb version of Who Wants to Be a Millionaire. What six degrees of separation? We're looking at one — two, max. I'm hypnotized by images of bananas caramelizing in brown sugar and butter under Emeril's hand. "Darn," says Paul. "I've seen this episode before." Paul's nol kidding. I'm worried about Paul. Emeril says he likes rum. "Do you1?" Why not. He adds some alcohol to his banana concoction. Emeril has yet to utter his trademark scream: "Bam!" Damn. 8:37 P.M. We're watching an East Indian gangster flick on the Asian channel. "It's so 70s," says Paul. 8:39 P.M. Chinese cooking show on the Fairchild channel. Cantonese-speaking chef whips up steak and onions in a wok. 8:41 P.M. Paul is pumped. Finds Game Show channel and an early Family Feud episode with a seemingly soused Richard Dawson. "Name a tairget you can hit with a snowball," Dawson asks contestants. Kid contestant scares the bejesus out of Dawson when he pounds the bell to give his answer. 8:51 P.M. Paul has a confession: he doesn't like any TV show made after 1985, except for The Simpsons.

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8:55 P.M. Family on Feud gets real giddy after winning the princely sum of $287. Life was cheap in the '80s. 8:57 P.M. Regis asks Millionaire contestant, "What animal is known for making a quacking sound?" Guy wins a hundred bucks for guessing "duck." But he must use up one of his lifelines and ask for the audience's help for the twohundred-dollar question. If someone invites you to "trip the light fantastic," you are most likely being asked to: a) watch fireworks; b) walk on hot coals; c) dance; or d) knock over a lamp? And the answer is ... walk on hot coals. Kidding. 9:00 P.M. Time for the big Bush/Gore presidential debate from Boston. Paul says he'll bail if I make him watch it. Let's catch an old Larry Sanders Show on the Comedy channel. 9:11 P.M. Not even Larry Sanders can keep Paul and Sally seated. Larry is unmoved by the passing of sidekick Hank's pop, but does allow Hank time at the end of the show to do a eulogy. Hank ends up saying nothing. Dead air. Fearing for their sanity, Paul and Sally split. 9:27 P.M. Bush/Gore debate . . . zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz. 9:51 P.M. Bill Maher and Politically Incorrect crew hang with Hef at the Playboy mansion. "Quasi-lesbianism is chic," says tuxedo-clad Maher. Consensus among Maher, Hef, and comedian Richard Lewis is that men like to watch women in the throes of passion more than women like to watch amorous men. "Watching men go at it is like watching wrestling," says Hef, who's wearing his trademark smoking jacket. According to Lewis, best thing about having sex with lesbians is that they don't care how you are: "Let's get it over with and order Chinese."

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10:02 P.M. Bush/Gore debate. Okay, guys, the operations were obviously a success — the charisma bypasses took. 10:07 P.M. When all else fails, there's the king of the world. No, I'm not talking about Regis. It's James Cameron, director of the movie Titanic, who has deigned to produce the prime-time TV series Dark Angel. It's the fetching tale of a genetically enhanced superhuman — not Cameron — who hides from the military in postapocalypse San Francisco. Blade Runner meets The X-Files. In this episode, our superhuman, Max, is conscripted by a cyberjournalist. Max, for the record, is no man. She is the "dark angel," played by Jessica Alba. And we're getting jiggy on Jessica Alba. She is one kick-ass babe. 10:53 P.M. Bush/Gore debate. Dubya has two words for you: "fuzzy math." Big Al has one: "lockbox." Say what? Wait a second! One of these guys is going to be the leader of the so-called Free World, and neither is terribly convincing. They're tripping over cliches. One of them has a command of the language and the world that's as acute as that of a guest dysfunctional on Springer; he's actually been described as a few fries short of a Happy Meal. The other is about as self-satisfied as Regis and has likely never even lined up for a Happy Meal. Problem is that the stakes are a whole lot larger than a TV show here. Suddenly, I sober up, and I wasn't even drunk. 11:29 P.M. I become even more sober with the realization that reality is more than two dogs feuding on what passes for reality TV How 'bout bombs bursting? News is still really grim in Yugoslavia and the Middle East. 11:43 P.M. Don't know what David Letterman is on about, but he makes me laugh. And I really need a laugh right now.

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11:48 P.M. Jay Leno is making me laugh. I'm officially delirious. 12:04 A.M. Paul Shaffer, Letterman's chrome-domed bandleader, emits another of his grunts. This means he finds a Letterman barb amusing. Either that or he has gas. 12:37 A.M. Why, look who's back and refreshed. It's George Foreman, grill guy, ready to cook up a storm for Conan O'Brien. Shilling his cookbook on every talk show has to be as demanding as going ten rounds with AM. 12:57 A.M. Talk-show host Craig Kilborn goes one-on-one with Kirsten Dunst, who stars in a movie about cheerleaders. She sounds like her name. Not Kirsten. She says she didn't do her own stunts because she's an actress, not a cheerleader — and those batons can be quite tricky. Duh. 12:59 A.M. Conan asks George Foreman how he knows what products to endorse. Simple, says George — it all depends on how much money they pay him. Clearly, he hasn't taken too many shots to the head. 1:03 A.M. My personal mental-health professional, Dr. Sam Burstein, pays a surprise visit. Either he's bored or he's looking for barbecuing insights from George. He's decided to administer the tricky Digit-Span Short-Term memory test when I am at my most zonked. Must repeat series of numbers forwards and then backwards. 1:07 A.M. My mental-health professional is stunned. I've scored better in a numbed, sleep-deprived, TV-battered state than I did in a relaxed state before I started my odyssey. He finds me to be sharp and focused. Dr. Sam doesn't know what to make of the results. Perhaps we're both experiencing a psychotic episode.

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1:16 A.M. Anarchy rules in the late, late night, and we love it. My mental-health professional and I get a major hoot out of Mike Grayson, an alleged sportswriter who looks like he just decamped from his dumpster. He takes a seat next to Craig Kilborn. Sporting three-day stubble and a lit cigarette, Grayson declares that pretty much everything sucks: life, the New York Yankees, baseball, the Olympics. He then proceeds to do a heartfelt rendering of an antique Peter and Gordon tune, "World Without Love." Craig joins in. This is scary, yet amusing. Also scary is the fact that I'm getting smarter with each passing TV moment — or so says Dr. Sam. 1:34 A.M. They wait for most normals to go to bed before they trot out the ads for the adult talk lines. And the mentalists. And the spiritualists. And the tarot-card readers. 1:37 A.M. Dr. Sam bails,. There is a limit to what even the most ambitious mental-health professional will endure. 1:54 A.M. Talk shows with hosts and guests I've never seen or heard of before. Big drop-off in talent once Conan and Craig slip into slumberland. 2:12 A.M. I've been tripping out on network test patterns. No more tarot tonight. "Night, Regis, Rosie.

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7:11 A.M. This just in: Gore wins debate, according to pollsters. Who stayed awake? And will this debate do anything to change voter intentions? Inquiring minds on The Today Show must know. Gore's nonverbal gestures come across as arrogant. Bush comes across fuzzier than the Gore math he decries. The election is but two months away, and nobody gives a rat's ass — except for the TV pundits, because that's their job. And it's funny yet frightening how no one seems terribly excited about these guys. Personally, my vote goes to Martin Sheen. He acts the part of a thinking president. He's cool. Okay, so he only plays the part of a president on the prime-time smash The West Wing. But sometimes art does a far better job of imitating life than vice versa, and sometimes artists do a far better job of imitating presidents — if you catch our drift, Dubya. Oh, yes, The West Wing season premiere is on this evening, and NBC, the peacock network, pushes the show every chance it gets. Even White House staffers are stuck on the show. 7:25 A.M. Echinacea or euthanasia? Do my ears deceive me at this ungodly hour, or is this a topic for immediate discussion on The Today Show? Yikes. 8:17 A.M., Yikes, I'm a grown-up. No, not a sudden epiphany by Bryant Gumbel on The Early Show, the rival to The Today

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Show, which used to feature Bryant. In fact, Bryant's not here today, either. Where the heck is Bryant? Presidential debates, season premieres, football — this is his season. So, the task is left to CBS football analyst Jim Nantz; he fills in and interviews Martha Quinn, author of Yikes, I'm a Grown-Up. Martha — no relation to Stewart — says many of today's women would rather paint the walls than hit the malls. That's because, yikes, they're grown-ups. Yikes, I'm outta here. 8:44 A.M. Katie's getting a fall makeover on The Today Show. And, as if you didn't already know, shoulder pads are back. 8:50 A.M. Jim Nantz is getting a crash course on rearranging his house. Where to stuff those magazines and sweaters? You know, it's the sort of stuff they shmooze about in the Green Bay Packers locker-room. And, honey, wall-to-wall carpets are so out. Really. And while we're on the subject, closed bookcases are so in — they don't collect dust, silly. Is this what we call a slow news day? An indication of just how boring the Bush/Gore debate was? The Early Show producers figure they can generate more audience interest in a piece about wall-to-wall carpeting. 8:54 A.M. Today Show counters with its hot story of the day: car sharing is all the rage in parts of America where most of us will never wander. In other parts, it's business as usual and road rage rules. Clearly, producers are busily combing the heartland for any kind of dross. And these are the Mensas of early-morning TV Can hardly wait to see what sort of surprises lurk on Regis, Maury, Jerry, et al. 9:05 A.M. Live with Regis. Because I can't go more than six hours without catching the king. I'm hooked. On the plus side, Regis is cheaper than Prozac. Regis's sycophant

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cohost this morning is a sixty-nine-year-old live wire called Josephine. She sings. She mugs for the camera. And she fell off a moving train a few months ago. If someone had pushed her, she would, of course, have been gobbled up by the producers of Maury. But, since she accidentally slipped, this is a feel-good tale that belongs with Regis. During her banter Josephine also tells Regis that she got hit by a car. Josephine has overcome cancer, as well. Regis seems to enjoy playing to the cheap seats of America. But Regis can be deep if need be. To show off his political savvy, he says that George Dubya Bush looks like Johnny Carson. Now if only he were half as smart or as intentionally funny as Johnny, Dubya might make an acceptable prez. This is me, not Regis, offering the crack insight. 9:11 A.M. Let's see if we've got this right: women are from Pluto, men are from Uranus. Or Jupiter. No, Cybill says, the babes are from Venus and the fellas are from Mars. Gotcha. It's her show, you see, so she can call it what she likes. Okay. Oh, yes, today's topic: relationships. Just like yesterday, and the day before that, and on and o n . . . Someone's musing about women dreaming up the perfect man. He's imaginary. Get it? As much as we'd love Cybill to have some stability, there appears to be a limit as to how long she can milk this cow. Nope, can't see Cybill hanging in there for much longer. 9:33 A.M. Here's a novel twist: Jerry Springer finds a woman who is upset because her boyfriend is fooling around with her best friend, who is not her mother or her sister or a goat. And a coworker is trying to blackmail one of them. 9:35 A.M. Not one to be outdone, Maury Povieh has found some women who look like men and men who look like

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women and men and women who don't look like any known species. One woman or man challenges audience to prove or disprove that she or he isn't one hundred percent woman. I'm confused. Now someone called Bobby — with bigger boobs than Pamela Anderson ever had — tells Maury he's a dude. But there's only one way to prove this, and not even Povich would stand for someone stripping off his undies to show his... er... to make his point. Well, maybe just a little, to lift sagging ratings. China and Beverly: are they sisters or brothers? Well, Maury, I'll hazard a wild guess here. Since everyone else claiming to be a babe has been a boy, I'll venture to say that China and Beverly are boys, too. And sure enough... 9:42 A.M. Regis is doing a makeover on the Mindy doll. It's a living. On Maury oijeny, Jake the slithering snake could be anything. On Regis, it's just another fun-filled serpent kiddie toy for the holidays. 9:43 A.M. Mickey Dolenz, ex-Monkee, tells all to Cybill about planets and relationships and his four daughters. Methinks Mickey is finally on the "Last Train to Clarksville." 9:47 A.M. Youthful Dawson's Creek star Joshua Jackson is hard-pressed to tell Regis stuff he didn't tell Rosie yesterday. There's a limit to how many different spins he can put on Dawson's Creek or, for that matter, his life. 10:02 A.M. Today Show gang respond to Letterman responding to the new extra hour they work. In lieu of real news, they perpetuate their own news, reacting to chatter of fellow celebs. But, say what you will, they're working three hours a morning, a split shift to boot, and Bryant only does one — when we can find him. So where is Bryant, anyway?

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10:58 A.M. Just finished a double bill of To Tell the Truth and I'm experiencing little pain. Paula Poundstone, the laid-back comedian who has surfaced as a panelist: you light up my life. In the morning, anyway. On the other hand, I'm feeling guilty for watching too much Truth at the expense of Divorce Court or Zoboomafoo or Beezoo's Attic or Billy the Cat (no relation) or, of course, It's Itsy Bitsy Time. Tough. Besides, Paula needs me. And I must confess that John O'Hurley, the Truth host who played the irrepressible Mr. Peterman on Seinfeld, is a hoot, too. 11:01 AOM. Time to check in on Hollywood Squares to see how my favorite unemployable actors are doing in their respective squares. This show passes for a pension fund for some in Hollywood. Still, I fear, particularly, for Gilbert Gottfried, the sad-sack comedian and occasional film star. He is not hinged, and spending too much time in his square could have calamitous repercussions for him. Martin Mull, another wacked comedian who has surfaced on the show, can probably handle cubicles better. AndWhoopi Goldberg is definitely in her element, in the middle square. It's her show. She's the producer and star panelist. It's her residuals. So what if she never gets another film or awardsshow hosting gig again. 11:06 A.M. Yahoooooooooooooo! It's The View. And Baba Wawa is back. Baba's cobabes are conducting a poll to see who won the Bush/Gore debate. Easy, babes. It was Ralph Nader. Just by not being there, he wins. Baba adds these words of wisdom: "It doesn't matter what you know. What matters is, are you pleasant?" Really, Baba. But I'm betting that even ousted Ugandan dictator Idi Amin might have been pleasant on occasion. Baba Wawa says that her daughter knows more about sex than she does. And, Baba, your point would be what?

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11:09 A.M. Baba's revelations about sex send me scurrying to the Playboy channel for outrageous conversations with porno stars Julie Ashton and Tiffany on the morning chat show Nightcalls. So they're a little fuzzy on the time and and title of their morning gig, but this is truly one of the most titillating talk shows available. Where else will you find hosts fondling one another and peeling off their skimpy attire, while fielding phone calls from folks whose hormones are equally jangled? Regis, are you listening? 11:11 A.M. My friend Fred, noted host of a respected business show on the tube, is on the conch. He's calling to see how I'm faring on the third day of my TV marathon, more out of amusement than concern. He figures that ratings would go through the roof on all talk shows if the hosts were buck naked. He lists some of the hosts he would like to see in this state. Baba Wawa and Dr. Laura aren't on Fred's list. Neither are Maury, Sally Jessy, or Rosie. Cybill Shepherd, though, can hold on to her job. Although Fred prefers the History channel and eschews just about everything else on the tube, he says that such a concept could lure him back to mainstream television — particularly if the cohosts started to spank one another on the air. Don't tell anybody I've said this, Fred tells me. Fear not, Fred, your secret is safe with me. 11:22 A.M. Back to the Ffef fiefdom. Guy phones Nightcalls to say he's wearing his girlfriend's undies. He asks host babes Julie and Tiffany if that's wrong. Does he deserve a flogging? No, it's not wrong, they tell him. But, yes, he does merit a swatting, and they volunteer their services. 11:24 A.M. Baba and her cobabes are quizzing actor Gabriel Byrne about his new sitcom, Madigan Men. Baba is sure it

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will be great, because why else would they schedule it right before her on 20/20? 11:26 A.M. Back to Nightcalls for more ritual spankings. Julie and Tiffany urge their horny male caller to climax on the air. Another super concept for a TV show: Who Wants to Win a Million Sperm Cells? 11:31 A.M. Stop the presses: Jack Maxwell, the endearingly snide host of National Enquirer's Uncovered, tells the world that Calista "Ally McBeal" Flockhart is a coupon clipper. She likes to save a few bucks at the store. This is the best they can come up with. Surely, there's a farm animal or a trendy disease or something lurking in her closet. No stopping Jack now: "Houston: we have a drug problem!" That would be Whitney, and Jack speculates that the spaced-out singer could do time in the slammer for possession. On the other hand, Pee Wee Herman got caught buttering his own pop corn in an adult movie theater and all he got was community service. So, don't be holding your breath about Whitney doing hard time. More news: Jack says Dolly Parton is doing IMAX, the only screen large enough to accommodate all of Parton's movable parts. Next, a. National Enquirer Uncovered parody of Who Wants to Be a Millionaire: "What is algebra? A fungus, a small mammal, a branch, or — I'm not sure. I'm a liberal arts major." Then Maxwell leaps into the fray with this chestnut: "What ever happened to the journalistic credo 'check it out'?" Now would this particular show decrying journalistic ethics hail from CBS, NBC, ABC, PBS, or even the Playboy channel? Nah, this show would be National Enquirer's Uncovered. What's that they say about folks residing in glass houses? National Enquirer leading the campaign for scruples in the media? Puh-leeeze! Talk about chutzpah. Yet the plot does thicken.

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1:14 P.M. Real-TV. Boat rams jet ski in a protest against some whalers. Human trapped three days in concrete. And they have the footage to prove it. More reality: extreme biker leaps off bridges arid buildings but gets bonked by a bus on the street. And the moral of the story would be? 1:34 P.M. Can no longer avoid her... say hey to Ricki Lake. Today's probing question: "Is bald beautiful?" On a babe, that is. One guest says yes. Other says no. That makes it a draw, Ricki deduces. A young woman announces, "I'm bald. I'm beautiful. I'm the best-looking thing on this planet." Ummm. No, you're not. Audience is booing the bald babe. Audience is cruel, but does have a little taste. How did these guests and audience members manage to slip out of the grasp of Maury, Jerry, and Sally? Are there enough to go around? Best friend of bald babe doesn't like the look because it makes her look gay. "You a ho!" best friend screams. "You get the boys! You get the girls! You a ho!" Talk about pandering. Why are the people on these shows so darned fat? Never mind what the best friend says. Lament, a guy, thinks the bald babe is "srnokin'." 1:41 P.M. Do you want to stop your daughter from marrying a much older man? If so, call Sally Jessy Raphael. She cares. Really. She also wants you to spill all on TV 1:42 P.M. Phone Ricki if you've been cheating with your squeeze's relatives or best friends. For she, too, can provide you with an outlet on TV These people are so caring. And now back to regularly scheduled programming: Ricki's friend Fury finds a full-haired girl on the street who will shave it all off just to be seen on TV With Ricki. 2:02 P.M. It's bad. No, it's putrid. Why, it must be Passions. Ally McBeal dwarf with the Don King coif is doing posses-

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sion chant. They're burning imaginary witches on Passions. This is like Macbeth on bad acid. 2:29 P.M. Naked workout in pool on Playboy channel. Works for me. And it works for him, clearly. 3:00 P.M. I'm going to give General Hospital another chance. The smiles remain the same. The vodka-swilling dude on life support remains the same. Mired in that afternoon wasteland. Good news is that Simpsons and Seinfeld reruns are two hours away. Bad news is that Rosie and Oprah and Sally aAre only one hour away. And General Hospital's designated dude on life support pledges to turn his life around, to undergo detox. But, first, one last drink — in his hospital bed, no less. I finally learn that his name is A.J. But it might not matter any longer. He's having a seizure after a fight with his parents. But he can't be killed, can he? He has a contract to lounge around on life support for the next five years. 3:09 P.M. Issues abound on Dr. Laura. Like, when are they going to pull the plug on this sucker? Smart money says Laura gets canceled by week's end. My luck, Laura hangs in with me during my odyssey and then she gets the chop. But one final flurry of issues: Your daughter has run afoul of the law. Do you a) turn her over to a mental-health professional; b) support her; c) let the cops take her and plaster her likeness all over Maury; or d) throw her off a fastmoving train — just like Josephine on Regis. In fairness to Dr. Laura, the last is the result of my own personal ravings and in no way reflects the sentiments of the compassionate host. All the same, I don't stick around long enough for the answer. And, in all seriosity, does anyone actually tune in to this bilge looking for answers? What's scary is that too many tune in to the likes of Dr. Laura for solutions to life's burning issues, and all they get are platitudes.

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3:15 P.M. The Spanish soap opera on the Odyssey channel is making about as much sense as Passions or Dr. Laura. And I have no clue what any of the addled principals are saying. The basic elements are the same: deception and good hair at all costs. 3:38 P.M. Soap update: A.J. has just reemerged from his latest, vodka-induced coma, and he's looking pretty good, I might add. But wouldn't ya just know it? A.J. wants more vodka. And this time I really thought he was going to change. This is unbelievable. I'm beginning to think that A.J. has been in suspended life support the last twenty years, much like this soap, and, while we're at it, much like mainstream TV. 4:00 P.M. Hardest part of my day. In marathon terms, they call it the wall. In TV terms, this wall is made up of Oprah, Rosie, and Sally Jessy Raphael. The wall is capable of bringing down even the sturdiest soul with a steady diet of disease, dysfunction, over-the-hill celebs, and the host's contrived, self-important intercourse with the audience. But, if you can make it over the wall, it's almost clear sailing from there on in: Simpsons, Seinfeld, news, prime-time trash, and, finally, late-night delights with Dave, Conan, and Craig. God gave us the wall to test us, but I'm guessing even God ain't watching. 4:01 P.M. Rosie's got Sly and Travis Tritt — no, not a disease but a country singer. I'm guessing here, but I'll go out on a limb: Sally's got a dysfunctional and Oprah's got a disease, real or imagined. 4:05 P.M. Rosie shares warm and fuzzy family moments with us: her wee daughter power barfed all over Rosie's bed last night. Pizza, burger... anyone? Thanks so much for sharing that with us, Rosie.

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4:06 P.M. The best job in TV has got to be the sycophant sidekick who gets paid to guffaw at the host's observations on life. We can thank Ed McMahon, Johnny Carson's resident sycophant sidekick for decades, for this legacy. Rosie has a dandy one, too. 4:07 P.M. Rosie shows off new splint on her hand. So, how did Rosie wind up on the injured list? By doing extensive research — checking out the mag Entertainment Weekly — we have learned that Rosie sliced her digit while cutting the price tag off a fishing pole. Hey, it wasn't a grenade, but it's a start, and it makes for lots of lively conversation. 4:11 P.M. Oprah has bagged mental-health professional Sal Severe, author of the soon-to-be-bestseller How to Behave So Your Children Will Tool In spite of his name, Severe doesn't appear to be. My kindly mental-health professional, Dr. Sam, would gag. 4:12 P.M. Tough enough that she's been deprived of a digit, but Rosie now appears to be losing her voice. She is not, however, losing her enthusiasm for guest Sly Stallone. He, in turn, has not ceased shilling his new flick Get Carter. If only the film's distributor had the same enthusiasm as Rosie or Sly, then they might be arranging preview screenings of the movie for critics. The fact that they're not suggests the flick is a major stiff. (Hindsight will indicate that this is an accurate assessment; the film will earn relative pocket change during its brief run in theaters.) So, Sly shlepps from talk show to talk show to reach Americans directly and to tell them to support him. These people must really think Americans are even bigger morons than previously assumed. 4:27 P.M. Should I dump my mate or my blind date? This is the crisis du jour on the Sally show. Never at a loss for

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something catchy, the caring Sally has arranged for some unhappy humans to go on blind dates with folks who really appreciate them. Now it's crunch time. Who do they dump? Dum-de-dum-dum. "Did you do something to get revenge on a mate and they have no idea? If so, call 1-80093-SALLY." Driven to probe the human condition and/or fill up air time, Sally sends out another plea. I'm beginning to get depressed about the human condition and/or Sally. Where is my mental-health professional? Where is my martini? If Dr. Laura, followed by Rosie, followed by Oprah, followed by Sally, doesn't mess your mind, nothing will. 4:39 P.M. Note to publisher: Of one thing we can be certain. I'll never be invited on to the Oprah, Rosie, or Sally shows to plug this opus. Sorry. 4:40 P.M. Sal Severe tells Oprah that kids can manipulate. Beware. Sal says kids fight. Wowsers! 4:45 P.M. You'll never guess: Rosie really loves Travis Tritt, too. And guess what? Travis Tritt really loves his kids.

5:00 P.M. Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. Again. In a moment of weakness arid desperation, I have turned to the infidel Homer for solace. I know I promised to worship at someone else's shrine. Maybe even Martha Stewart's. But the way I see it, Father, God gave us The Simpsons because he also gave us Sally Jessy Raphael. And Maury Povich. And Oprah. And Jerry Springer. And Ricki Lake. And Dr. Laura. It's called evening things out. Okay. Anyway, animated dysfunction turns out to be far more palatable than the real thing. It also beats turning to heroin. Animated dysfunction can also be rich with messages. To wit: Homer works out because he has humiliated son Bart for the last time with his humongous beer belly.

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5:11 P.M. Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned again. During a commercial break, I segued from a Simpsons rerun to a Seinfeld rerun. But I sense this will all make me a better and stronger person in the end. It will also allow me to complete this bold TV experiment in one piece and not attempt to do Superman impressions from the window ledge. 5:25 P.M. A good thing happened on The Simpsons. Homer scaled the highest mountain peak around. Against daunting odds. Has he earned the respect of his family? Get real. Homie, I can relate to your feat. I made it over the wall today. 5:49 PoM. Seinfeld performs a public service. George asks Jerry to name any spot in the city and George will tell him its best public toilet. Talk about a social conscience. 6:23 P.M. More strife in Yugoslavia. More strife in the Middle East. More pillaging and pestilence elsewhere. The news ain't good. That's why there's TV. To remind us just how bad things can get. 6:54 P.M. Here comes the barbecued chicken. Here comes my old friend Farge, delivering the aforementioned chicken. Farge is an authority on TV. He watches plenty. He says it pretty much sucks. He'd rather be delivering chicken than catching Maury. Farge says Maury has been doing the wildchild show for the last three years. "My teenager needs to be locked up. Every day. Over and over again. The same crap," Farge moans. I've only seen Maury for the last three days, but, sadly, the spectacle has already left its mark. Farge adds that white trash litters the tube. And, I rant, it's the same six celebrity guests running from talk show to talk show. I ask Farge if he would like to watch some TV with me. He wants a really big tip just for having to listen to my

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tirade. To watch TV with rne will really cost. Farge can't wait to escape my prison. 7:32 P.M. Entertainment Tonight has the exclusive news: Michael Douglas will walk down the aisle with Catherine Zeta-Jones in New York, not Europe. Don't forget: you heard it here first. Okay? Another E.T. exclusive: Cher is dyslexic. And the E. T. exclusives just keep on coming: Geraldo Rivera isn't running for public office. Bum-mer. Survivor extraordinare Richard Hatch — naked again. And E.T. has really exclusive shots of Julia Roberts milking horses in Mongolia. I'm sick. 7:58 P.M. Come on down, Vanna White. Still hiding behind the wheel of fortune. Either that, or a very well-conditioned facsimile. 8:02 P.M. It's as trashy and sassy as Dallas, they say. It's Titans. So this explains why we saw Yasrnine Bleeth and Casper Van Dien — not a ghost but a "Starship Trooper" — on different late, late, late shows the night before. They play the young and the restless on Titans. Yo, say hey to old Dallas babe Victoria Principal. She's now playing a mom. A jilted one, to boot. Where does the time go? Principal is given the heave by her hubby, who has taken up with Yasmine, who is also the squeeze of Casper Van Whosit. Ten minutes in, and the battle lines are drawn. Out come the daggers. And if you think Casper Van Whosit is happy guess again. His father is diddling his babe, for gosh darn sakes. Two months ago, Yasmine and Casper Van Whosit were lovers in Hawaii — now she's marrying his dad. It's unconscionable, I tell you. Another martini, please. lust like daytime soaps, except Titans has better sets and its stars have even better hair, if at all possible. But don't feel so bad for Casper Van Whosit. He has another babe who will do

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anything, and I mean anything, to satisfy all his basic needs, and I mean basic. Which is more than what we can say for Casper Van Whosit's pop. No one is satisfying all his basic needs. He's about to march down the aisle to holy matrimony, and Yasmine has yet to siphon his python. The horror. Just to make sure there's never a dull moment at this hacienda, Casper Van Whosit is going to leave his nifty fighter-pilot job and come back home to work with his father — the one who's yet to be boinked by his bride. Can it get any more lurid? Casper Van Whosit turns out to be the daddy of Yasmine's yet-to-be-born child. That was easy, considering his pop has yet to be popped by Yasmine. And Casper Van Whosit strafed her in Hawaii, as we recall. Trash. Trash. 9:01 P.M. Speaking of cliff-hangers. The moment we've all been waiting for: the season's premiere of The West Wing. Context: in the last millennium, the big question of primetime TV was, Who shot J.R.? The big question now is, Who shot President Marty Sheen and/or members of his entourage? As attentive viewers will recall, bullets flew in the night, and President Marty and his minions scrambled for cover. Did someone buy it? Not bloody likely that they'd iced the fuckin' president when the show is the hottest thing on the tube, scooping up a trunk full of Emmy Awards in its first season and winning a host of critical accolades. Not bloody likely that any of the other characters bought it, either. After all, the series is too young for its stars to start salary disputes. But wait! Aaaargh! President Marty is bleeding. Drive him to emergency. Cadillac limo does 180-degree turn. Cool. President Marty has minor wound. Natch. But his wisecrackin' press attache, Josh, has serious wounds. Will he survive? Bet on it. Josh is popular. Okay, so it's a bit predictable, but the show ranks, without question, among the best-written, acted, and directed prime-time dramas

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on the tube this week. Not like there's a whack of competition in this department. New Law & Order and The Sopranos episodes aren't yet airing. And — oh, yes — President Marty, even lying injured in a hospital bed, is more exciting than Bush or Gore. He also has more integrity. More compassion. Let's draft the dude, I say. It obviously takes an actor to become U.S. president. Wait a second... they tried that already. So, upon reflection . . . 11:39 P.M. Letterman has Bush and Gore in his sights and fires at will. The pickings are almost too easy. Dave is also convinced that Marty Sheen is the man for the job. Dave next takes shots at Country Music Awards: some performers wearing belt buckles bigger than toasters and others getting caught with their Travises in someone else's Tritt. And now for the moment some of us have been waiting for: Farrah Fawcett returns to the scene of the crime — on the chair next to Dave. Letterman fans will recall the dustup reported by the media the last time these two met on the show. Some say Farrah was downright loopy and addled by medication and/or drink. There is apprehension in the air. Dave and Farrah try to dismiss the hoopla, saying it was overblown. Regardless, Dave is as uncomfortable as a man who's about to have a root canal, and Farrah looks like she'd prefer to have a root canal than shmooze. Farrah tells Dave that her dog had to be put down. Dave seems overcome, pulls out tissue to blot tears. Dave shows video clip of Robert Altman, director of Farrah's new flick, Dr. T'and the Women, calling Dave an asshole for causing Farrah grief on her fateful visit a few years back. Farrah is speechless, which is not necessarily a bad thing. 12:27 A.M. Spinal Tap unwinds on Leno. We can all use the chuckles after Farrah.

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12:32 A.M. Loretta Lynn unwinds on Letterman. Perfectly surreal evening: Farrah and Loretta and Letterman. Why, there's a country song in here somewhere. 12:40 A.M. Conan says would-be Republican veepee Dick Cheney wants to replace Dubya with Martin Sheen. I think we have a consensus. 12:47 A.M. Say it ain't so. Not Sly again — this time on Craig Kilborn's late-night extravaganza. Of course, it could be worse. Conan has Joshua Jackson, whom we've seen no fewer than seventy-two times over the last twenty-four hours. 12:53 A.M. How does Sly do it? He moves from coast to coast in no time flat. How bad must Get Carter be? 12:57 A.M. Wait.. . Joshua is about to say something profound to Conan. Damn. Missed it. 1:01 A.M. Where's Bryant? I'm getting delirious again. 1:23 A.M. Whatever happened to the good old nights when Johnny Carson would truck out women bearing simians and iguanas that would attach themselves to Johnny's head — and sometimes even take a leak on it? Now it's all the same old, same old. Boring stars with turkey flicks or TV shows to push. 1:37 A.M. Someone — I don't know who — comes on some show — I don't know which — to say that walking is really good for you. Especially if you're pregnant. Perhaps I'm dreaming all of this. Perhaps I'm pregnant. Perhaps I'd better catch a few minutes of shut-eye before I begin the next broadcast day.

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2:58 A.M. Wake up in cold sweat. Dreamed I was in Hawaii on the set of Titans with Sly Stallone, Joshua Jackson, Loretta Lynn, Regis, Rosie, and Paul Shaffer. 4:32 A.M. Lauren rushes into room. Swears she heard me screaming, "Where's Bryant?" She pleads with me to get some rest. Just noticed, that my trusty black Labrador retriever, Angus, hasn't come anywhere near me in the last three days. Hmmm.

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6:34 A.M. Good morning, world. I believe I hear someone on ABC World News say that a taco just got a hundreddollar tax credit. Life is so darned unpredictable. I pinch myself. I am not hallucinating. Or maybe they said that a toddler received a tax refund in the mail. What day is this, anyway? Where am I? Why am I watching television at this hour? Who am I? Coffee. Need coffee. 6:50 A.M. Ahhhh, coffee. Now I know who I am, where I am, and what I'm doing. Just not sure why I am. Maybe Bryant can help. Where's Bryant? I'm getting worried for both of us. 6:52 A.M. CNN reports that a person's ability to drive a motor vehicle diminishes with age. So how 'bout making roads wider? Sheesh. Next thing they'll be telling us is that smoking is bad. I'm thinking right about now that a person's ability to watch television diminishes, rapidly with age. 7:26 A.M. Nix kills kids' head lice and their eggs. Aaaargh. I'm up now, but don't much feel like eating eggs — or anything else, for that matter. 8:00 A.M. Like a bird on a wire, or something deep, I return to The Early Show, hoping and praying this will be the day. Alas, he's not there. It's Jim Nantz again. Nice guy, I'm sure.

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