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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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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And now he knows to keep his books in an enclosed case if he wants to avoid tedious dusting. So where on this fair earth is Bryant? My concern is natural. Bryant came from nowhere — okay, TV sports — to land the plum hosting position on The Today Show. An almost unheard of leap, particularly for an African American on a major TV network. Then he took a risk by leaping to The Early Show, which has always lagged behind The Today Show in ratings. And now there's buzz about his divorce woes. 8:04 A.M. Jackie Chan is set to kickbox on Good Morning America. That's one way to stay sharp at this hour. Getting a boot to the head, that is. Hey, wait a second. Didn't we just see Jackie do some fancy footwork on another show a few hours back? The lines are beginning to blur again. 8:33 A.M. CBS football analyst Jerry Glanville 'fesses up to fellow football analyst Jim Nantz that he was inducted into the Country Music Hall of Fame. And not for living in the back of his pickup truck. Glanville, a former NFL coach, puts on a purple tie for no apparent reason. Nantz tries to strangle him for no apparent reason. My, oh my — morning television is so rich. Jerry and Jim talk about the provocative issue of football players taunting other football players — such as, opposing team players place the ball on the home team's center field emblem after the opposing team has just scored a touchdown. Have they no decency? Once again, football strikes at the very heart of American existence. 8:38 A.M. Let's hear it for Andrea Thompson. The Today Show reports that she gave up a starring gig on NYPD Blue to take a job as a TV reporter in New Mexico. Give this woman a saliva test while we're at it. Andrea spent twenty years in Hollywood waiting for her big break. Before that, she spent

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years learning Shakespeare and shlepping up five floors to her New York City walk-up. Was it all worth it? Just to get pricked by some cactus? Well, sort of. Andrea broke a story about an obese toddler, which resulted in the bust of the baby's parents. Of course, not all the reviews have been glowing. Simmering colleagues have accused Andrea of using her Hollywood connections to jump the queue. 8:46 A.M. Paul Simon lives. He's also up earlier than he would like to be in order to play a few tunes for the fans in front of The Today Show broadcast studio. "Bridge over Troubled Waters" indeed. Are times tough for the Garfunkleless Paulie? Maybe not. Wild guess: Paul has a new disc to promote. Right I am. Ten bucks to the Jewish guy sprawled out on the sofa like a stunned slug. 9:04 A.M. Live with Regis. What can I say? I'm hooked. And the conspiracy continues. On with Regis today, in addition to the mandatory cohost/sycophant, is none other than Sly Stallone. It's beyond pathetic at this point. How bad can Get Carter be that Sly is reduced to performing such talk-show penance? Answer, according to a spy who caught the film at a secret industry screening: baaaaad. Actually, the best job going has to be that of Sly's travel agent — the thespian has bounced back and forth between the coasts like some punch-drunk yo-yo over the last three days. Nothing personal, Rocky. Sly seems live-ish with Regis. Or they could be wax dummies from Madame Tussaud's joint. Certainly, their banter doesn't indicate a life form any higher than that. But we can say this for Sly: he brings up another past job on every show he visits. He has cut women's hair, with their permission, at a beauty salon. He was a theater usher. And he cleaned out the lions' cages at a circus, because he never could back away from a challenge. Regis tells Sly that he was born to play Rocky — as opposed to what, Freud?

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Sly tells Regis how much he loves his wife and kids. The audience cheers wildly. Then again, the audience might also cheer wildly if they saw Sly get eaten by a lion. But no more fawning over Sly. Now it's time to fawn over the ubiquitous Pamela Anderson, promoting either the Pam-TV Web site, or her new IV show V.I.P., or a kinky video, or a new guy. Breast reduction, you say? Could have fooled us. Regis's sidekick for the day, Rhonda, makes big boner. Asks Pamela what she thinks of her leather pants. "Are they working for me?" Rhonda asks. Pam doesn't think so — she would prefer Rhonda in Pleather — fake leather. Pamela, you see, is against the wanton destruction of cows in order that people like Rhonda can strut about in leather. Does Rhonda ever feel silly now. No way does Regis give her a full-time sycophant function after this faux pas. Regis tells Pam she's more than just another pretty face with a fabulous body. She's smart. Ah, Regis. He always knows just what to say. Pammy comes clean: she went to Shakespeare camp last summer. Volleyball and Macbeth. That's special. Regis announces that Jackie Chan will kick up a storm on his show tomorrow. That ought to be fresh and stimulating. Haven't seen him in, what... seventeen minutes. 10:01 A.M. Back for the third hour of The Today Show. Paul Simon still serenading after all these hours. Hey, there could be a song here. Deep question: What do Matt, Katie, Ann, and Al do between 9:00 and 10:00? Take dumps? Watch Regis* Or both? Another deep question: Wouldn't it be easier for all involved if Regis went 10:00 to 11:00, and the Today group did 9:00 to 10:00. I'm confused. 10:05 A.M. Have mastered the technique of performing morning ablutions while watching TV I feel like I've accomplished something. Add this to eating and drinking while watching TV Why, it's like doing the bloody triathlon. Point

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is, one never has to leave one's television. Millions and millions of numbed viewers have been aware of this for eons. 10:14 A.M. President of deaf college stumps the contestants and the audience on To Tell the Truth. And, speaking of truth, I've been a baaad little boy. I've avoided Maury and Jerry the last couple of days. On the plus side, I now realize there's precious little point in shaving or getting dressed anymore. It's not like I'm going anywhere. And my dog, Angus, doesn't care. He won't come anywhere near me. Is it because I haven't been giving him any pizza crusts? Must order pizza. Mmmm... pizzzzza. Help, I've become Homer Simpson! 10:25 A.M. Looks like a beautiful day outside. In New York. Of course, I can only go by what I'm seeing through the Today Show broadcast-studio window. Katie Couric reminds Paul Simon that he wrote the lyrics for "Red Rubber Ball" a millennium back. Paul looks like he doesn't wish to be reminded. Paul has done many wild and crazy things in his day, but he's probably never done a four-hour gig that started at 7:00 in the morning. Katie et al. are telling Paul that his new disc can't miss — it's brilliant. Can you feel the love? 11:13 A.M. Checking into Hollywood Squares just to make certain that my old buddy Gilbert Gottfried passed a pleasant evening in his cubicle. Hope someone remembered to water him. Brooklyn-born Gilbert can be testy if not watered. "I was having lunch with Charles Manson the other day. He asked, Is it hot here, or am I crazy?'" — Gottfried relayed this to me not long ago, in an interview we did at the Just for Laughs comedy festival, where he frequently cracks wise. Unwell though he might be, Gottfried has been known to get downright philosophical about deep

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issues, such as the possibility of a nuclear holocaust: "You think it's hard getting a cab now in New York?" On the other hand, he had hoped for more: "The only way you know you've had a career is to wind up on a show like Love Boat." We're guessing Hollywood Squares will do instead of Love Boat. Burning question: When Gilbert and his celeb panelist cronies pass on, do they get buried in their squares? Or does the circle really get the square? 11:30 A.M. I'm a little concerned that National Enquirer's Uncovered has become as regular a part of my routine as dental hygiene — such as it is. Where else would I learn that Bryant Gumbel has to keep the names of his cohosts on file because he forgets them? Small wonder. He's never there. But count on Enquirer's Jack Maxwell — he's ready to diss at a moment's notice. 11:49 A.M. Now this is almost poetic. Breaking news during National Enquirer's Uncovered. The program is interrupted to bring us news of revolution in Yugoslavia. People storm a government building in Belgrade. They want the brutish Slobodan Milosevic out, and the Serbian dictator is nowhere to be found. 11:56 A.M. Cut to CNN. When revolution erupts anywhere in this galaxy, CNN is there. They've already got Clinton responding to the situation in Yugoslavia. He's not sorry to see Milosevic go. Just wrhen it looked like CNN was in the doldrums with no O.J. to pursue along the freeways of L.A. and a presidential campaign with all the fizz of day-old cola, Slobodan comes along to save the ratings day. 12:01 P.M. But enough with this reality. We need the real reality of Fox's Cops. Today, the men in blue are taming snakes as well as bad guys — in vivid Technicolor. Forget

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revolution in Yugoslavia. Tipsy man clutching a forty-ouncer of hootch accidentally knocks off rearview mirror of someone's car. Now, this is a job for Cops. 12:12 P.M. A word from our sponsors: "Beano gets rid of gas." More words from our sponsors: "Nothing beats Detrol when it comes to treating an overactive bladder. Possible side effects include dry mouth." We now return you to war... 12:13 P.M. War is not good for business. Well, some businesses, maybe. Is strife in Yugoslavia having an impact on the market? Perhaps, the experts say. Power lunch on the CNBC finance show. Electronic ticker tape coming at me in eighteen different directions. Dow Jones is down. Nasdaq is down. Dot.coms are biting the big one. It's the end of the world. And I've got indigestion even before I've had anything to eat. Where's the bloody Beano? 12:17 P.M. CNN's Wolf Blitzer — the man you want to see when all heck is bustin' loose somewhere on the planet — leaps into the fray to report that protesters are storming the Parliament buildings in Belgrade. He declares victory for Milosevic's opposition. Milan Panic, former Yugoslav prime minister, forecasts civil war unless the U.S. and Russia figure out a way to get Milosevic out of the country. CNN reports that protesters have taken over Yugoslavia's national TV network in Belgrade. Situation is getting calmer. Good for world peace. But less good for CNN ratings. Fear not, CNN, a Middle East crisis looms. As always. 12:43 P.M. So you want war? Real nasty, bloodcurdling battles in the trenches? Well, ever eager to satisfy the whims of Americans, the Fox TV gang has just announced a novel concept for a game show: divorce. The network is seeking

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six couples who have recently filed for divorce to participate in a no-holds-barred contest that will offer winners big cash money—$100,000 is the grand prize. A two-hour special of I Want a Divorce is slated for broadcast. We wouldn't expect anything less from the network that brought us the ill-fated Who Wants to Marry a Multimillionaire? But, fear not, the producer of the divorce game show has pledged this one will be lighthearted and without rancor. Swell, but how will the people who bring us Court TV or Divorce Court respond? This could cut into their ratings and livelihoods. A world without lawyers? Too frightening to ponder. And now we return you to the other war... 12:47 P.M. No sooner does CNN claim some sort of stability in Belgrade than word comes that the Middle East is on the verge of becoming a tinderbox again. As if anyone who isn't attuned to developments there doesn't know all hell is about to break loose and that CNN will be there in a flash, because bombs and grenades beat the heck out of the alternative, which is a U.S. presidential race that is about as sexy as Jerry Springer. 1:10 P.M. Coming up on Real- TV next week: a crossdresser who gets busted by the cops for having an expired driver's license. Does not compute. War and a crossdresser with an expired driver's license both constitute harsh reality to some. It is safe to say at this juncture that of all the TV networks, Fox is best poised to deal with the end of civilization. But no time for sobering social commentary now: Real-TV has exclusive images of an out-of-control speedboat turning over dozens of times and smashing into all manner of objects somewhere on a waterway near St. Louis. According to the announcer, the boat reached speeds of 170 miles an hour, while bouncing off stuff. Doesn't look good for the boat's driver, Divers jump in to look for him.

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But, fret not, the driver is okay — ready to bash buoys another day, just as soon as he gets out of traction. Not content to show this horrific crash just once, Real- TV gives us — count 'em — seven different takes on the mishap, including slow-mo, for your dining and dancing pleasure. "You shoot it. We'll show it. Call 1-888-REAL-TV" Nice to know that in these troubling times someone cares. Cut to a reallive hostage situation. Good news, though — the hostage takers surrender. And everybody else appears to live happily ever after, psychological scars notwithstanding. The Real-TV thrills just keep on coming: dog gets neck stuck in abandoned sink. Kinda just cracks you up, don't it Jethro? 1:20 P.M. CNN reports that British prime minister Tony Blair supports the Yugoslavian opposition party, which appears to have taken over. Talk of easing trade sanctions and normalizing diplomatic relations. 1:22 P.M. So what sayeth Ricki Lake? Not a bunch, but a gaggle of pimps and prostitutes are defending their professions. Cut back to hound, whose head hangs in shame in junkyard sink on Fox. 1:23 P.M. "Are you a teen that's angry because your mom and sister can dress like tramps and you can't? Call 1-800GO-RICKI Surprise! I'm sleeping with your man. Call 1-800GO-RICKI." 1:34 P.M. CNN reports that there is calm on the streets of Belgrade. For now. But if the situation changes they'll be there. We know. 1:42 P.M. They've interrupted Greek-language programming on the Odyssey channel to bring viewers up to date on the situation in Yugoslavia.

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1:43 P.M. They're into flower arranging on the Fairchild channel. 1:44 P.M. On the Playboy channel, porno stars claim their work is more demanding than most realize. 2:01 P.M. CNN recaps developments of the day in Yugoslavia. 2:50 P.M. A day without Passions is like... a day without Passions. I've chosen Passions as penance for my sins. I now believe the score has been settled. Regis and Ricki are tough. Passions is painful. Four days into this soap and I still have no clue who's fucking whom or why. 3:04 P.M. Let the suffering continue unabated. Let's go to General Hospital. When we last left the gang, A.J. was on life support in detox undergoing seizures and promising to mend his ways if someone would just give him a shot or ten of vodka. Well, nothing has changed today. Like we expected otherwise. 3:05 P.M. Lauren drops by to confirm my suspicions about the soaps. They are lame, but it gives people who have even lamer lives something to do. And, another thing — don't feel bad if you don't understand what's happening. It's always been thus. Lauren notes that what passes for great acting on General Hospital is eating an apple while reciting your lines. Ah, from the mouths of children. 3:14 P.M. Fear of disease has sent me scurrying to the Health channel. But will this show help: Ask the Vet with the Pooky brothers? The Pooky brothers are dogs, not vets. Just for the record.

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3:20 P.M. Turn to the Star channel — yup, we've got 'em all. Profile of alleged actress Dixie Carter, star of the defunct series Designing Women, whose greatest claim to infamy might have been making her debut in a Broadway show that was canceled during intermission. Dixie oozes femininity. Dixie knows who she is. Well, I hope so. 3:29 P.M. You go, girl. Literally. Dr. Laura doing a segment on runaway girls. Lauren, looking at me and the tube with real disdain, goes, too. 3:34 P.M. Crisis at General Hospital. Zander has gone missing. Who the hell is Zander? I'm trying to give this show a fair shot. But if they continue to drop names like "Zander" out of the blue, I will become short. Shorter. 3:41 P.M. Word has obviously filtered through the crisis hotline. My old pal Pete has joined me. Pete has made award-winning movies and TV dramas. Pete has directed a government film and TV agency. He has written treatises on the TV medium. Now Pete is producing a sitcom — which shall remain nameless — for the Fox Family channel. It's a living. But Pete is not sure he's quite ready for General Hospital. 3:45 P.M. It's Celebrity Homes on the Home and Garden channel. We're about to learn where Helen Hunt and Toby McGuire find the hippest home furnishings. We can hardly contain our enthusiasm. 4:00 P.M. I tell my old pal Pete that this is the toughest part of my TV day: the wall. After surfing through that wasteland of trash talk shows and reality TV and soaps, then the mightiest challenge of the day beckons: Rosie, Oprah, and Sally. Pete doesn't think he's up for the assignment. Pete, I

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say, you've only been here nineteen minutes. Spend a few more minutes on my sofa and you'll learn about suffering and degradation and Sly's latest flick and Pamela's breast reduction and girls who want to be boys and sleep with their sisters. Pete thinks I've lost it. 4:01 P.M. CBS's Dan Rather cuts into Rosie. You can tell it's serious. Dan is down to his suspenders. In typically somber tones, Dan reassures America that the situation is under control in Yugoslavia. Thanks, Dan. However, if anything changes, we can all sleep better knowing that Dan will be on top of things. 4:04 P.M. Pete wants to know who the hell Colin Hanks is. Well, if it's the Rosie show, we can be sure that Colin is related to a star, likely Tom Hanks, and has a project that he wants to push. Pete asks how I can be so certain. Trust me, I say. Also, Rosie will have Farrah, fresh from her appearance with Letterman last night. Can you feel the excitement? Well, Pete can't. He wants to know why Rosie's hand is in a cast. I tell him about the fishing pole. He's not sure what's more frightening: Rosie's cast, or my knowing the cause of her injury. 4:05 P.M. Olympians on Oprah: the running Harrison twins, Calvin and Ah/in. Rosie must have known. She has a diver. A member of the U.S. Olympic diving team, that is. Why do these Olympians keep hauling their medals from show to show? Pete has pledged to keep track of the number of times a Harrison twin thanks the Lord for making him fleet of foot and allowing hinti to realize his destiny. But first we have to figure out who's CaMn and who's Alvin. Regardless, Calvin and Alvin pulled a Jim Carrey when they were kids: they had to live in their family's car. No wonder they're fast.

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4:07 P.M. We're now checking in with Sally, just to see what kind of Olympians might be gracing her show today. No such luck. It's "Secrets of Fat Teens Telling All" Some kid tells all to Sally about her secret sex life, and she's not even a teen. She's twelve. Sally tells kid's mom that her daughter is a hooker. Sally scares girl's mom from the set. But, by grace of good fortune, they happen to have a camera and a microphone backstage just in case a mom who learns that her twelve year old might be a hooker should try to flee. "Be prepared for anything" is the mantra of daytime-TV producers. Not that Sally would deliberately stretch the truth, but my old pal Pete has doubts about the accuracy of these developments. He feels it might be a tad contrived. Nor is it entirely live. He's sure he just saw an edit in the action. Pete used to think that he had seen everything. After seeing Sally, he believes he was being optimistic. 4:09 P.M. Back to Rosie to see if any more young women are coming clean with their moms about their sexploits. But Rosie appears to be smearing herbs on her face for reasons we don't wish to know. 4:11 peM, More heart-tugging drama on Oprah: parents from the boonies chuck everything in order to help their kids pursue showbiz careers in the Big Apple. They are so supportive: they home school their young 'uns; they take them to auditions; and they keep their fingers crossed. Fortunately, the kids have achieved extraordinary success to date — one has even become a member of the Oliver road company, while another tours with Les Miz. The parents sacrificed everything, but now it looks like they might all be rich. And the moral of the story: Where is Brooke Shields's mom when we need insights about the joys of being a stage parent?

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4:14 P.M. Farrah's fifteen minutes aren't over yet. She shmoozes with Rosie. Pete can't get over how they talk to one another like twits. How did they ever get to where they are, he wants to know. 4:19 P.M. Back to Oprah. More tales to induce tears. Oprah talks about a couple who have adopted forty kids. "Extraordinary," she says. The audience breaks into applause. 4:20 P.M. Back to Sally. More tears. More parental angst. A mom finds out that her daughter is hanging out with ignorant people. Another mom learns that her sweet son is an unrepentant skinhead racist. A Black gay man confronts the skinhead. Audience boos skinhead. Mother is in tears. Sldnhead seems unfazed. Too bad Maury Povich can't break him down. 4:23 P.M. Rosie finds someone in her employ who worships at the altar of Farrah Fawcett. She even has a tattoo of Farrah on an undisclosed body part. Farrah is into art, too. She sculpts. 4:24 P.M. Pete's leaving. After a mere forty-three minutes, he's had it. He's bored to tears and just a little disgusted with his fellow humans. "Numbing, numbing," is all that Pete can mutter as he's exiting. The wall has gotten the best of Pete, like so many before him. He couldn't even make it halfway through this hour of hell. "I'd rather be doing my tax returns," he booms. 4:26 P.M. Pete returns, but only to retrieve his wallet, which he left behind. He's back out in a jiff, as soon as he hears Oprah threaten to bring on five sisters who live together, work together, and love together. Minds out of the gutter — this is Oprah, not Springer.

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4:33 P.MO Wish Pete had hung in. Could have told him with certainty that Colin Hanks is the son of Tom Hanks. Nor does Pete get to witness guests of Rosie throwing balls at targets and winning CDs, or BLTs, or something. 4:36 P.M. Not finished with Farrah yet. E. T. prorno promises the skinny on the behind-the-scenes drama of Farrah's reunion visit with Letterman last night. 4:38 P.M. I'm cheating. I haven't visited Sally in almost eighteen minutes or Oprah in twelve. I'm hanging in with Rosie. I could tell you that my remote-flicking finger has fallen asleep. But that would be a lie. And it would be wrong. Rosie is simply the least difficult to take of the trio. Run with that one, Rosie. 5:01 P.M. Made it over the wall again. Without stimulants. I'm proud of myself. 5:22 P.M. To celebrate my victory over the wall, I pour myself a shot of eighteen-year-old single-malt scotch and light up a disgustingly large, but delicious, stogie. Homer Simpson would approve. In fact, Homer has just burped onscreen, leading me to believe there is solidarity afoot and that I am communicating with a cartoon character — in a rerun, no less. Good thing my mental-health professional isn't here. 6:21 P.M. In addition to coverage of the revolution in Yugoslavia, we get one news reporter's suggestion that reality TV has gone too far. In the immortal words of Glaus von Billow, he has no idea. According to this expert witness, reality TV will eventually cease to fascinate viewers: "But it represents the nadir of how bad things can get."

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7:02 P.M. You'll never guess who's on Access Hollywood. A Twinkle to those who said Sly Stallone. 7:33 P.M. Whatever happened to bionic man Lee Majors, my pal Paul wants to know. Paul's just dropped in to visit. Farrah has surfaced on E. T. to tell everyone what happened last night on the Letterman show. All of this comes out of her 1997 visit to Letterman, when she and Dave had a dustup. No one seems to recall why it happened or what it entailed, although sources say Farrah was fried. 7:34 P.M. My pal Bobby Shabazz has joined us. He brings beer and hot Italian submarine sandwiches. Is that friendship, or what? Nonetheless, if you think I'm off-kilter, what about Bob? I think there's a movie here. In fact, there was a movie by that very name, featuring my favorite comic madman, Bill Murray. Television can stimulate the mind — just as long as you don't watch it, Bob opines. I warned you that he was different. 7:39 P.M. I've surrendered the remote-control clicker for the first time in four days and change. I think this indicates a willingness to share. Either that or I have given up. Paul takes charge and turns to the tween-set version of Jeopardy. 7:51 P.M. We have a choice: an All in the Family rerun or Regis's Who Wants to Be a Millionaire. I don't have the remote, but I state that I will suffer hot flashes and then a cold sweat if I don't get my double-daily fix of Regis. Bob has an interesting theory about Regis's sex life. But, in the interests of fair play and avoiding a whopping lawsuit, I won't digress into the realm of animal husbandry. 7:56 P.M. Back to tween-set Jeopardy. "An early version of this was called the 'velocipede.'" A centipede, Bob guesses.

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Ehhh. Bobby has gone ballistic. Little Aksahi, ten, has just won $11,700 for knowing, among other fascinating facts, that a velocipede is a bicycle. 8:02 P.M. Regis's contestant is going for $125,000. Bob insists that Regis does unsavory things in his spare time. This is not that kind of book, I tell Bob. Meanwhile, contestant has won $250,000. "For $500,000, what is the name of the poem Robert Frost read at JFK's inauguration?" Contestant hems and haws. Decides not to answer question, choosing instead to go home with $250,000. "Chickenshit," Bob bellows at departing contestant. 8:07 P.M. Flash from the past: All in the Family. Bob wants to know if the apparently hirsute Meathead (Rob Reiner) was actually bald back then, as he is today. Bob is too deep for Paul and me. But then this revelation from the show: Archie was the original Meathead — he had been so dubbed by cronies at work. Who knew? 8:14 P.M. Paul demonstrates his dexterity with the clicker. He cuts between AH in the Family and Who Wants to Be A Millionaire without missing a one-liner from the former or a question from the latter. Bob blows a question. He thought the Life Saver that emits blue sparks was peppermint, but it's wint-o-green. He would have lost two thousand dollars. 8:39 P.M. We're waiting for the fashion police to bust everyone on the Family Feud rerun. 8:56 P.M. The boys have cracked. Bob notes that they're not the only ones — so has the actress on the Playboy channel. Duly noted, says Paul.

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8:59 P.M. We appear to be watching an East Indian version of the Beverly Hillbillies on the Asian channel. Bob thinks the chicken is pregnant. We look at Bob. There is no chicken on the screen. Bob says that when he referred to a pregnant chicken, he meant it as a metaphor. For what, he's not certain. 9:03 P.M. We're watching The Simpsons on the Toon channel. This marks the third — or fourth — time today that I've stooped to the level of Homer. We figure that one could probably watch The Simpsons seven times a day, if so bent. A man could survive watching only The Simpsons. Just look at me, Bob says. We do, and it becomes apparent that man cannot live on The Simpsons alone. Not even Bob. 9:04 P.M. Paul, master of the remote, laments that there are two hundred channels and nothing worth clicking on. Recalls that Bruce Springsteen once sang, "fifty-seven channels and nothin' on." So much for progress, says Bob. 9:11 P.M. Geraldo Rivera on the phone with General Alexander Haig on CNBC. Bob is not impressed. Thought that one of them was no longer with us and that the other had been banished from the tube. 9:13 P.M. It's come down to this: the Wrestling channel. We're plumbing TV's depths, and we've been reduced to rasslin'. It's the WWF Smackdown. Fatman is in one corner. Bob believes pro wrestling is fixed. Paul tells him to keep it a secret. If word leaks out, there's no telling what kind of repercussions there could be. 9:19 P.M. We move to much higher ground: Drew Carey reprising Groucho Marx: Whose Line Is it Anyway? Anything beats Fatman.

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9:35 P.M. We're desperate. We're watching Ted Danson trying to pretend he's a curmudgeonly doctor who smokes and cusses on Becker. Now, here's the kicker: Ted Danson played a bartender on Cheers who didn't drink or smoke. Now he plays a doctor who just can't get enough of his vices. We're starting to see a pattern develop. Paul reminds me that Ted Danson once played a newspaper columnist between gigs on another show whose title and content escape us. After one minute, the verdict is unanimous: Becker bites. 9:52 P.M. Bob has an announcement: TV is passe. Talking is all the rage. Thanks, Bob. 10:05 P.M. Recap of Yugoslavian protesters taking over their Parliament buildings and TV station. Feels like such old news. In fact, it's less than twelve hours old. Amazing how TV can make the most burning issues of the day seem so dated in just a few hours. Scarier still, it's amazing how TV can so detach viewers from life's harsh realities, and by that I ain't referring to a pooch who got his head stuck in some sink. 10:09 P.M. They're getting drowsy. Paul is fading. Bob is no longer babbling in tongues. They can't take it any longer. They've lasted less than three hours, yet they have still surpassed the times set by my mental-health professional and my old pal Pete. Paul surrenders the remote control. Takes one last swig of beer and wishes me plenty of luck. He says he'd rather be hanging wallpaper — and he isn't much wild about hanging wallpaper. 11:18 P.M. Yet more images of the day's events in Yugoslavia. There isn't an angle I haven't seen. I know some of the protesters and all of the commentators by name.

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11:35 P.M. It's Letterman. Question, Dave: I don't know how to put this, but it's been bugging me the last four nights. When you come out to do your monologue in your doublebreasted suit, you never button the outside button. Inquiring minds want to know why. Thanks for letting me get that off my chest. Dave suggests that in New York they have their own version of The Fugitive. She's running for the Senate. That would be Hillary, we're guessing. Dave is now completely unbuttoned. I'm sure he's doing this to drive me batty. Where is my mental-health professional when I need him? Dave's musical sidekick, Paul Shaffer, the man who lives to grunt at Dave's snarky asides, is sick again. He's missed the last few nights. We're concerned. Well, not that concerned. He's replaced by the incomparable Warren Zevon, one of the true spacemen of rock and roll. Dave's got Kevin Spacey on his show. Jay's got Jeff Bridges. Surprise: they're both pushing new flicks. But Dave being Dave, he doesn't let Kev talk about his movie. They talk scooters — the nonmotorized type — and Kev doesn't mind at all. Dave says he has lots of guests on his show and he rarely pays attention to anything they say. But he does pay attention to Kev, who says something profound, which has, unfortunately, escaped me. 12:06 A.M. Someone told Jay that her mother wept while watching Jeff's new movie, The Contender. It's about a woman who wishes to become U.S. vice president. Alas, the woman has a past, and it pertains to porno. Jeff plays the prez, and he is, natch, beyond reproach. Jeff reveals that the prospective veepee was allegedly involved in a gang bang. Jay says, "Please don't use such flowery language — get to the point." Jeff giggles. So do I. Enough movie talk. Jay invites Jeff to hit baseballs. The lengths these talk-show hosts have to go to make a difference — unbelievable.

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12:10 A.M. Kev tells Dave about his adventures with the hordes of humans and beasts and polar icecaps in Greenland. Kev even has the pictures to prove he was there, in a kayak. 12:37 A.M, Clinton's press secretary, Joe Lockhart, is hitting baseballs with Jay. Or the drugs have kicked in on me again. What's the deal with the balls? Is there some heavy macho thing at play here? 12:42 A.M« Conan is jumping for joy. He's got Jackie Chan. Conan seems awfully excited. 12:45 A.M. Either Conan or Craig Kilborn — I'm not sure which, as a result of the hallucinations — is playing computer games. He displays photos of Lara Flynn Boyle and Bruce Willis and shows the audience what sort of child they would create together. In this case, something out of Star Trek. And if Helen Hunt and Kevin Spacey had a child, the computer figures it would resemble E.T. 12:58 A.M. I've come to my senses as Conan sticks his finger into the hole in Jackie Chan's head. Ewww. That was Jackie's idea. To illustrate the damage his head has taken in his chop-socky epics over the years. And yet this finger probing beats the heck out of the programming on daytime TV. 1:00 A.M. Major revelation: if you have to watch TV, wake up in the middle of the afternoon and don't start until you hit The Simpsons. You'll thank me later. 1:18 A.M. Craig Kilborn brings on the smoldering Michelle Rodriguez, the young woman with no acting or boxing experience who's dazzling moviegoers in Girlfight. She

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plays a convincing pugilist. And she has attitude. So much for time wasted in acting or boxing schools. Michelle is not caught up in image. Saunters onto set in cowboy hat, jeans, and moon boots. Michelle will either be a big star or burn. She plays parlor games with Craig. She doesn't hold back. This is refreshing after being subjected to the homogenized banter of celebs who litter the airwaves during the day. 1:37 A.M. Too much excitement for one night. 'Night Craig. 'Night Michelle. Tomorrow is another day. And, maybe, just maybe, there will be a Bryant sighting. A guy's got to believe, right?

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7:22 A.M. News anchor Ted Koppel, who I believe was one of the last humans I saw somewhere last evening while surfing, is the first human I see this morning. He looks fresh. The hair never moves. I've got it. He's really a figurine on loan from Madame Tussaud's. But this wax sculpture is actually pushing a book. It matters not which morning show this is. 7:26 A.M. Share in the good vibes of the music of the 70s, some announcer is screeching. "Smooth '70s." Maybe it's an ad. Maybe it's program content. Maybe I'm dreaming again. No — no one could dream up those bell-bottoms. Help! Send coffee. Please. Neil Sedaka at this hour. Henry Gross singing an ode to his dog or girl or someone — "Shannon." It's not fair. "We had joy / We had fun / We had seasons in the sun." The Poppy Family — this is too cruel. Why? Why? 7:30 A.M. Good Morning America rips the lid off the latest extreme sports craze: street luge, in which alleged adults rip their knees and butts to shreds soaring faster than the speed of sound half an inch above the pavement. Host Diane Sawyer keeps smacking into garbage cans on her street luge. Don't quit the day job, Di.

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7:35 A.M. And now it can be told: Katie Couric used to bring Ted Koppel coffee in another life. While you're at it, Katie, I'll have mine with cream and one sugar. Do wax figurines really need a caffeine fix? I'm concerned. 7:36 A.M. Good Morning America continues with its streetluge exclusive. Yes, America — men and women, of their own free will, choose to lie on their backs and zoom around town. "It's like your best day skiing. It's like your best day surfing," gushes one grown-up street luger. Actually, it's like you're going to break your bloody back. These folks hit speeds of one hundred miles an hour. Can you say, "diaper rash"? Actually, they call it "road rash." These people are not well. 7:49 A.M. Today Show announces that forty-seven percent of Americans get their news about politics and the presidential campaign from late-night talk-show comedians. Moral of the story: be nice to Conan. 8:18 A.M. Nix kills lice and their eggs — and my appetite on yet another day. 8:59 A.M. Dr. Laura has had enough. Promo for her show suggests Laura has had it with kids who talk back, or something. What? You expected Laura to sound off against poverty? No, sir — not when puberty is rearing its acned head. 9:01 A.M. Regis has found yet another adoring guest cohost. This one's a looker — Emily from Mesa, Arizona. She could pass for Darva Conger. Regis is beaming. The only person getting less sleep than me these days has got to be Jackie Chan. He was also up late last night kickboxing. But, seriously, when it comes to sleep deprivation, the king is Regis.

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Forget about his forty-seven TV shows a week. He's also pushing a line of clothes for Van Heusen. Imaginative dudes: black ties to go with matching black shirts, blue ties to go with matching blue shirts, brown ties to go with matching brown shirts. 9:15 A.M. As we've learned, men are from Mars, which leads us to the Cybill Shepherd topic du jour: "What's it like living with a man who demands sex twenty-four hours a day, no ifs, ands, or buts?" Wish I could offer some socially redeeming rejoinder here, but I am baffled. Again. Before we can get the answer to that burning question, one of Cybill's guests suggests that the real problem with relationships is... head lice and their eggs. No, silly—it's that men don't listen. So, save yourselves thousands in shrink bills and take heed. Turns out that Cybill's other guest isn't really living with a man who wants sex twenty-four hours a day That was just a come-on to keep us from clicking out. No, the guy only wants sex three times a day. Problem is that the woman only wants sex three times a life. And the more he asks, the more uninterested she gets. So, how does this couple deal with their plight? Simple. Each allows the other to go outside the bonds of holy matrimony to get shtupped. Now I'm confused. I thought she didn't want sex at all. Oh, she just didn't want it with her hubby. Makes sense. 9:25 AM, All I know for sure as I enter my fifth day of TV seclusion is that scouts are scouring America for sexual dysfunction because there are thousands of shows to fill. My suggestion to all of you who are looking for your fifteen minutes of fame: become a transgendered albino midget lesbian wrestler who has sexual congress with a grandmother or a goat. Or maybe a grilled-cheese sandwich. Yeah, that's the ticket.

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9:29 A.M. Four minutes later, and Maury Povich is making me look like a genius. Today's topic: "I was goofy and geeky, but now I'm super hot." Girl comes on down in cheerleader's bikini getup with lots of tinsel and gold lame. Says she was once called names like "giraffe" and "fleabag" and "chicken." "But look at me now," she says with a smile. Girl, I'm looking, and you resemble trailer-park trash. Now it's redemption time for the classmate who taunted the giraffe in the tacky tinsel bikini. That classmate is called Laura Leigh — some girl on these shows is always called Laura Leigh. The giraffe in the tacky tinsel bikini tells Laura Leigh that she destroyed her self-esteem. It's actually pretty hysterical when you look at the giraffe now: she looks like a tramp. 9:33 A.M. More redemption on Maury. Girls who were geeky feel so much better about themselves after getting breast implants. Of course, in two weeks, they'll return to Maury in a mess about their loss of self-esteem and seek his professional guidance, whereupon Maury will tell them what kind of geeks they really are, and they will cry and their mommies will cry and the audience will cry. I hope I'm on a golf course by then. 9:42 A.M. Perhaps owing to the limited attention span of morning-show guests and hosts, more time is taken up with commercial breaks than actual programming. Take my word for it. Nix kills head lice and their eggs — but not Maury. Or Jerry. Or Sally Jessy. Or Dr. Laura. 9:43 A.M. Jackie Chan ambles onto Live with Regis. He is exhausted. What's worse: the shmoozing or the chop-socky? 9:44 A.M. In his ongoing efforts to save the world, Jerry Springer brings out a woman who wants to tell another

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woman not to sleep with her boyfriend, otherwise shell gut her like a fish. Okay? I've come to appreciate the backstage cameras and microphones, always in place to pick up an irate guest confronted by the girlfriend of the guy or goat she's been sleeping with. Wish it could have been like this when I was making documentaries. But no. Back then, every time someone had something to say, the camera wasn't there or it had run out of film or the sound mike was on the fritz or the soundman was on the fritz. Now, that's real reality TV. And yet folks think Springer and the rest of his ilk are so real. But enough of my rant. Turns out that the cheating girl on Springer has been the other's best friend since elementary school — which I'm assuming is where their education stopped — and the godmother of the wronged girl's daughter. Man, is this ever murky. Now, they're set for the mandatory backstage brawl, which will soon be broken up by Springer's beefy security guards — who likely double as guests on slow days. Not that this needs mentioning, but the two girls are of your basic bigboned, big-assed variety. And they do attempt to kill one another. One breaks the other's glasses. Springer picks up the specs like he's waiting for a tip or some heartfelt thanks. He seems so moved. Can you feel his concern? Word is that Jerry is planning to run for political office again, that he's getting bored with the dysfunctional trailer-park theatrics. Well, Jerry, you're not nearly as bored as we are. The boyfriend of the wronged girl comes onstage to tell Springer and the world that he really likes his girlfriend. But not necessarily enough to stop him from sleeping with the other girl, the godmother of his daughter. 9:48 A.M. More geeks get transformed to tramps under the watchful eye of Maury. One confides to Maury that she used to get mistaken for a boy, but not anymore. Now guys are probably throwing spare change in her coffee cup.

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9:52 A.M. Thespian Tim Daly is so darned excited. Why? World peace? Yeah, right. No, he tells Regis that he has a new show to promote, The Fugitive, based on the vintage TV series of yore, which, in turn, spawned two movies, which, in turn, have spawned this. This is what they call "recycling" in Hollywood. Oh, yes, and here's a surprise in a business where nepotism is rarely an issue: Tim Daly is related to Tyne Daly, whom we saw earlier in the week promoting her new show or movie or line of herbal cosmetics. 9:53 A.M. And now a message from our sponsor: Nix kills head lice and their eggs. Is it just me? Or is this the only ad on early-morning TV? On the plus side, the Nix ads are helping to keep me trim. [ no longer eat within three hours of a Nix commercial. 10:01 A.M. Matt, Katie, Al, and ever-foxy newslady Ann are all pretty pleased with themselves. They've lived to tell the tale of working an entire week of extended hours. Split shift, to boot. Exhausted, sure, but they will soldier on. Oh, yeah, and where's Bryant? Someone call America's Most Wanted, please. But hold on here. I can't believe it. Farrah has rowed up to the Today Show shoreline. Just a hunch, but we're betting she's going to talk about her return to the Letterman show. 10:03 A.M. Meanwhile, in non-Farrah developments, Yugoslavians appear to be rejoicing that Slobodan Milosevic appears to have been ousted — either that, or the fact that they can't see Farrah on TV CNN also reports that an earthquake has hit Japan. Stay tuned. 10:05 A.M. Farrah is in the hot seat with Matt Lauer. She likes him. He likes her. Farrah denies rumors that she was on

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drugs during that infamous visit to Letterman a couple of years back. She says she can behave outrageously without benefit of medication. And she claims that she misidentified Letterman's New York City backdrop on purpose. Everything was overblown — just like Farrah's hair. But enough about catharsis with Letterman. Let's get down to more hard-hitting issues, like why Farrah didn't want to do the Charlie's Angels movie. 10:23 A.M. My pal Paul calls to tell me he can't believe how excremental television has become. But, he says, he did find the hot Italian sausage subs tasty, although he had to pay dearly for them this morning on the can. Thanks for sharing that, Paul. I'm still feeling the effects of the last ad for Nix — which, as you know, kills lice and their eggs and bacon. 10:44 A.M. Feeling like a zombie: twenty hours of TV a day, sleep deprivation, way too much coffee, junk food. I miss the great outdoors. The only outdoors I see is during Al Roker's trek outside the NBC studios in New York. I pledge to pot geraniums when I'm released from my TV prison. On second thought... 10:45 A.M. You know what's really starting to freak me out are ail these commercials for wonder drugs followed by warnings of possible side effects, which are far more frightening than the actual diseases they're trying to ward off. In my stupor, this brings back memories of a comedian crony, a former unrepentant smoker, who had a unique way of selecting his cigarettes. Taste meant nothing to him. Nor did tar and nicotine levels. Sexy marketing strategies and slick packaging left him unmoved. No, he chose his butts by the warnings printed on the pack. He would invariably

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flabbergast clerks by demanding a deck of "low birth weights" — his favorite warning. He was also fond of "fetus damage" packs. Our carefree bachelor would, of course, steer clear of warnings directed at him — those indicating that cigarettes cause cancer or heart disease. Andy Rooney, resident curmudgeon on 60 Minutes, once recalled that a particular cold pill actually listed sneezing as a potential side effect. It seemed rather odd to Rooney, who was considering taking the pill 1 o stifle his sneezing. TV viewers are now inundated with commercials about miracle antidotes for everything from allergies to baldness, erectile dysfunction to premenstrual tension. For thirty seconds, life seems so damned swell to those afflicted with the aforementioned that they can envision a day when they will skip merrily through fields of pollen and pounce on their mates without fear of launching a nasal goober or going limp. Then come the warnings. While these idyllic scenes are still fresh in viewers' minds, the announcer lists possible side effects: abdominal pain, bleeding, ear buzzing, irregular heartbeat, convulsions, constipation, nausea, diarrhea, drowsiness, dizziness, dry mouth, and, quite possibly, dry rot. Thanks all the same, sez you, I'd rather be bald, celibate, and coughing. My friendly pharmacist, Eric, understands why people might find these warnings amusing. He recalls a customer who initially got a chuckle out of a warning for "extended erections" on his antidepressant medication. "But for those who have experienced this side effect, it is no laughing matter," Eric reports. "In fact, it's supposed to be quite painful." Eric goes on to explain that there is a method to this warning madness. It has to do with a nonmedical malady: an aversion to attorneys. Pharmaceutical companies are rightly afraid of being sued if they don't alert folks to the possible side effects of their potions. Thanks for listening to my tirade. We now return to regularly scheduled programming.

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10:47 A.M. Woman who lied to hubby about being pregnant is being sued for four hundred bucks on Divorce Court. 10:48 A.M. As I skip merrily from Divorce Court to The Today Show to To Tell the Truth, I take pleasure in reporting that this zombie's finger reflexes are now more awesome than they've ever been. If they were to hold an Indy 500 for remote-control clicking, I'd be up there on the winner's podium. I don't mean to brag, but these digits of mine are motoring. I am fast. And possibly insane. 10:49 A.M. Moron on Divorce Court moved out of his home after learning that his wife was preggers. He's suing for the four hundred he had to pay to live elsewhere. Judge agrees with my assessment. Calls the fellow a fool. 11:02 A=M. Baba Wawa and her gang of girls sip coffee and talk politics on The View. Gals decide they want to see politicians with a sense of humor. That's funny. I want to see early-morning talk-show hosts with a sense of humor. The View babes decree that it's time for Katie Couric to have sex again, whether she wants it or not. She's been a widow for two years. But here's a thought, ladies: why don't we check with Katie first? The View babes move on to broader issues: when does a divorced mom bring her dates home for sleep overs? Farrah Fawcett makes more rounds. She's gabbing with Baba Wawa now. Baba tells Farrah she was terrific with Letterman, handled herself real well. It's been confirmed: Farrah Fawcett has set the new land-speed record for network TV appearances in a week. One is horrified to imagine what would happen if Farrah ever ran for political office or published a book. 12:01 P.M. CNN reports on "The Day after the Revolution in Yugoslavia." People rejoice. Spottings of Slobodan are

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even rarer than those of Bryant Gumbel. CNN also reports that the Middle East is set to explode, with clashes between Palestinians and Israeli settlers in the West Bank. 12:08 P.M. Time for reed reality TV on Cops. Officers stop two babes in a car. The driver claims the car belongs to her boyfriend, whose name escapes her at present. No fair, the questions are too hard. Meanwhile, Sherlock suspects the vehicle is stolen. Just one of those hunches, he says. Sherlock then asks the babes if there are any narcotics in the vehicle. (Sure, officer, open the trunk and you'll find a few kilos of uncut heroin.) Actually, the girls tell him that there are no drugs in the car. Sherlock is still suspicious. Something to do with the eyes of one of the girls. They're pink and rolling around uncontrollably. Then Sherlock asks if there are any weapons in the car. (Does an Uzi count, officer?) The babes say there are no weapons. Still, the officers are suspicious. They ask the babes to get out of the car. Uh-huh, what's this? One of the officers points to something under the passenger seat. Oh, those aren't weapons, officer, they're crack pipes. Oh. Justice prevails. Driver is let off with car of boyfriend, whose name escapes her at present. But the full weight of the law comes down on the space-cadet babe sitting in the seat under which the two crack pipes were found., 12:30 P.M. Arrest and Trial. What you're about to see are real cops, real criminals, and real prosecutors — according to the bumph. Welcome to the files of the Lowell, Massachusetts police department. A Lowell girl gets gang raped. The problem is that the four alleged perps are local heroes and the girl is not. She's an alleged hooker. Justice prevails. The defendants are found guilty, despite the girl's shady rep and their upstanding lineage. And the moral of the story? According to the Arrest and Trial announcer, no

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matter what their station in life, "everyone is equal in the eyes of the law." We never doubted that for a moment. 1:01 P.M. More reality TV on Real-TV. Distraught man hangs on to 170-foot-high bridge in Mobile, Alabama. Before you cast judgment, have you ever been to Mobile? Cop tries to help. Guy slips, falls into water, disappears. "It's like hitting cement from that distance," the announcer says, trying to reassure us. He's a goner for sure, and the announcer seems delighted by such a prospect. But the guy survives. 1:05 P.M. More CNN updates on "The Day after the Revolution in Yugoslavia." Talk about easing trade sanctions with a new regime in place. 2:37 P.M. One Life to Live. That's right. And if I ever see another soap opera again, it will mean that I'm doing time in the jug. 3:36 P.M. Dr. Laura, I'm so confused. But Dr. Laura is oblivious to my plight. Instead, she's railing about parents who push their kids too hard to succeed. And she's railing about kids who push themselves too hard to succeed. Is it worth it, Dr. Laura laments? 3:49 P.M. The end is almost in sight. Bye-bye soaps; byebye Dr. Laura. Now it's just the wall I have climb — one last time. And, once I scale that do-gooder, self-righteous wall of Oprah and Rosie and Sally, I'm home free: Simpsons, Seinfeld, prime-time trash, Letterman, Conan, Kilborn, weekend football. Yes, life can be worth living after all. 4:03 P.M. "Change your look, girl, or I'm leaving," an insensitive boyfriend tells his sobbing girlfriend on Sally's show. The boyfriend doesn't understand why the audience is

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hissing at him. All he wants her to do is start looking like Jennifer Lopez. For the record, he doesn't exactly look like Puff Daddy, himself. However, he does inform the concerned Sally that if he wins the lottery, he'll fork out the funds for his girl's makeover. Ain't that special? Sally asks girl why she puts up with this. "I dunno," the girl says. Perhaps because she has fewer functioning brain cells than a begonia. 4:06 P.M. Should Sally's guests flip the channel to the Oprah show, they'll find trained fashion experts doing makeovers. The big kicker, though, is that they've made a boy over to look like a girl. Always the drama queen, that Oprah. Fashion expert plans makeover for girl who hasn't felt good about herself in fourteen years. But, in the interests of her self-esteem, the fashion expert will make the girl over to look like a girl. Help! My brain is melting! My brain is melting! Only another fifty-three minutes to the freedom of The Simpsons and Seinfeld. 4:08 P.M. Rosie's guest is Rory Kennedy, daughter of Robert and maker of a documentary about the danger of guns. Rosie is moved. But Rosie, what about your armed guard? 4:13 P.M. More white trash air their laundry on the SallyA show. Slug who does nothing all day is peeved with wife who works and doesn't look like a supermodel. "I'm not attracted to you no more," our unemployed linguist tells his wife. 4:15 P.M. Fashion expert unveils his latest makeover. Congrats, dude. You've made the homely chick look like a homely guy. 4:25 P.M. This just in: my sister-in-law phones to tell me that I've not seen the worst of the soaps if I haven't spent part of my day tuned in to The Bold and the Beautiful. But

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I've seen The Bald and the Beautiful — no, wait a second, that was The Ricki Lake Show. The Bold and the Beautiful is a special kind of bad, my sister-in-law informs me. It's about fashion designers in L.A. Well, my loss. 4:46 P.M. Rosie's guest is actor Brendan Fraser, who — surprise — has a motion picture to push. Rosie is in the wrong line of work. She should have taken her professional cheerleading act where it belongs — on the gridiron. 4:49 P.M. Clinical psychologist visits Sally and offers this revealing insight: looks are what attract men to women. Who knew? I feel bad for my mental-health professional, Dr. Sam. He's helping me undertake an experiment that could change the course of history, and he's doing it pro bono. TV psychologist says that in a perfect world, men would mature and look under the skin for inner beauty. Hey, isn't that what Hannibal the Cannibal wanted to do in Silence of the Lambs'? Someone tells a woman looking to enhance her breasts to do it for herself, not for him. Only ten more minutes before The Simpsons and real therapy. 4:51 P.M. Oprah's fashion experts are doing makeovers in hospitals, for the greater good. It's just so Oprah. 4:55 P.M. High-school math teacher from Oklahoma wins Rosie lookalike contest. I could, but I won't, go there. 4:57 P.M. Only three more minutes of the wall. 5:00 P.M. I made it. It's a small step, I grant you. 5:06 P.M. Marge wants to rock the Casbah with Homer — if you catch her drift. Oh, bliss, it's The Simpsons. I've seen this episode at least six times, and I'm still not tired of it. As

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I've indicated, if I have to watch dysfunction on the tube, make it animated. 5:35 P.M. Jerry finds the perfect suede jacket on Seinfeld, in an episode I must have seen a dozen times — and it, too, still cracks me up. Jacket has ridiculous pink lining. Repercussions to follow. Elaine's irascible author-father will soon make his presence felt, much to the chagrin of Jerry and George. 6:39 P.M. Time out for much-needed intoxicants, particularly after tuning in to the real world on CNN and learning that all hell is about to break out in the Middle East. Fragile peace accord between the Israelis and Palestinians is even more fragile. 7:31 P.M. E.T. says that Baba Wawa says that Princess Di never beat her battle with bulimia. Not like it really matters anymore. E.T. says that Baba Wawa says that Monica Lewinsky complained that the edited version of their four-hour interview didn't really reflect the "tenor" of their conversation. And which tenor would that have been — around whose appendage Monica wrapped her tonsils? And you'll never guess who's on E. T. tonight. Yo, Farrah — you're not so crazy after all. 8:00 P.M. The moment we've been waiting for: the latest incarnation of The Fugitive. Unless the show's director has conscripted Merlin the sorcerer, I can't see how they can bring new life to this one. Cynics may rightfully conclude that there is a dearth of original ideas in TV Land. But ya gotta feel for the wife of Dr. Richard Kimble. Briefest role ever in a prime-time series. Only if they keep flashing back to her grisly death does she have any hope of cashing in with residuals. Does it matter that the good doc says he

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didn't do it, that it was a one-armed man who iced his bride? Sure, we've heard that one before. Why, it's deja vu all over again. The cops just don't buy the good doc's story. He's condemned to death. But he didn't do it, I tell you. I've seen the old TV show and the two movies, and, please believe me, he's been framed. Fear not, though, for our fugitive. After a spectacular crash involving the vehicle that's taking the good doc to jail, he escapes. Naturally, the relentless detective Gerard is in hot pursuit. 8:46 P.M. Dr. Sam has come to check my vital signs. He is, again, more concerned about the commercials. And, again, I explain that the commercials are by far the least painful programming I've been bombarded with. Well, save for the one shilling Nix, which kills head lice and their eggs. And save, of course, for the ones that recite side effects. 8:47 P.M. No Digit-Memory Tests tonight, Dr. Sam says. He just wants to observe someone who has spent the last hundred hours or so glued to the tube. Dr. Sam watches me watch Dr. Kimble watch the one-armed man board a bus. At least one of us is not well. 9:02 P.M. I'm on to C.S.I — which means "crime scene investigators" — and the actors are using words like "larva metamorphosis," and I'm already getting queasy. One investigator tells the other that the victim they're examining has been dead seven days. To which the other investigator responds, "Yeah, and he stinks." Everyone's a comedian. I'm looking at far too many cadavers and far too much larvae metamorphosing here. Bye-bye, C.S.I. 9:15 P.M. From the creators of the bogus Blair Witch Project comes Frealcy Links. A Webmaster is plunged into the world

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of the paranormal after seeing images of his dead twin brother. 9:17 P.M. Dr. Sam fears that people can trigger a spiral of depression by watching depressing TV and getting hooked on it. 9:23 P.M. Freaky Links, indeed. More paranormal poppycock. Click. 9:31 P.M. Say hey to Gabriel Byrne, another former film star reduced to slumming on the tube, in the sitcom Madigan Men. He plays a divorced New York City architect who tries to reenter the dating world with the help of his teenage son and his cranky, Guinness-drinking Irish pop. Sounds like this one might make it a month before getting the chop. 9:32 P.M. After some intense observation, Dr. Sam gives me the results of my mental midterm: I'm attentive, cooperative, and focused. Prognosis for completing the experiment intact: excellent. "I just have no idea what you're going to do when you grow up," Dr. Sam says. Everyone's a comedian. "So there's no psychosis seeping in?" I delicately inquire. "Not unless it's mutual and I'm not picking it up because there's a folie a deux at play," Dr. Sam replies. "Folie a deux" is a shared psychosis, he informs me. "We both think we're fine, but we're not necessarily." Dr. Sam then assures me that Lauren's fears about me being transformed into an obsessive-compulsive control freak have not yet materialized: "If anything, you've mellowed." Now, that is truly frightening. I believe a folie a deux is at play here. How can I be feeling mellow when I'm witnessing the end of the world — through both reality TV and the real carnage on CNN? Or maybe I've just stopped feeling at all. I'm alarmed.

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9:35 P.M. Back to our regularly scheduled programming: Madigan Men is sinking faster than the Guinness that's being quaffed by Byrne's TV dad. I now give it about two weeks before it gets blown away. 9:45 P.M. Hark, have found a worthy PBS mystery. In the interests of fair play, I've been avoiding PBS, because I felt I would be cheating by watching the sort of high-quality public programming that mainstream America avoids like the plague. And, besides, the PBS funding drives — fueled by free tote bags — could make me even more mental. 9:46 P.M. I'm showing off my digital dexterity to Dr. Sam. We've landed on the Space channel. More paranormal poppycock. 9:48 P.M. Forgive me, Father, for I have really, really sinned. All week long I have neglected Larry King, doing his hardhitting investigative reportage on CNN. He's now going one-on-one with Don Johnson, the ex-Miami Vice stud who has morphed into Nash Bridges. Larry King, never one to mince words, tells Don, "There was never a show like Miami Vice." Yes, it changed the world. Don Johnson thinks there's a lot of "irresponsible violence" on TV. Not like the responsible violence on his show. Larry King pulls out all the stops and big words in this interview. He describes Don doing six seasons of Nash Bridges as a "Herculean" effort. Note to Larry: it's not like Don has been bashing the atom or anything. A little perspective, please. 9:54 P.M. Dr. Sam is feeling ever better about my mental health. The fact that I'm still laughing after five days is a good sign. Thanks, Dr. Sam. The cheque is in the mail 9:55 P.M. Love-in between Larry and Don continues. Get a room, boys.

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10:00 P.M. Something to get excited about: Law & Order: Special Victims Unit, with my favorite whimsical sleuth, Richard Belzer. Wait. I've just been treated to my third autopsy of the night. They're having a picnic on top of the cadaver. Even with Belzer, it's not easy on the tummy. And what's this? Prime-time Friday ends on a high note: necrophilia on Law & Order: Special Victims Unit. Yum. 11:36 P.M. Again, Letterman doesn't do up the outer button on his double-breasted suit while performing his monologue. Why is this making me snakey? Time for Alan Kalter's nightly rendering of "Who Let the Dogs Out? Who? Who? Who? Who? Who?" This is a thinly veiled reference to the dynamic presidential campaign currently being waged. 11:50 P.M. Time to stare at Ted Koppel's perfect coif. Go figure — the most cerebral man on the mainstream networks has the most perfect hair. 12:04 A.M. Bill Matter gets Politically Incorrect with the new TV season. Normal, Ohio. It's about a guy (played by John Goodman) who was once married to Roseanne who turns gay. 'Nuf said. Forget tensions in Yugoslavia and the Middle East — it's the start of the new TV season, Maher says. 12:08 A.M. Bill Maher gets Politically Incorrect with Spike Lee. Maher fears no one. Has issues with Spike's new flick Bamboozled, a vicious satire about Black minstrels. Spike rebuts. Maher doesn't back down. But all seem to agree that political correctness is mostly a pain. 12:30 A.M. Confession time with Jay Leno: young man in the studio audience confesses that when he was seventeen, he had an affair with his mom's thirty-three-year-old friend. Whoa! Reality TV hits the late-night circuit. Wait till Maury

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and Jerry and Sally hear about this. They'll get their revenge by interviewing Sly Stallone and Jackie Chan and Farrah Fawcett. And that's not all. Jay finds some other kid in the audience who 'fesses up to an affair with his friend's mother. When will it all end? 1:31 A.M. Hot young thesp Kate Hudson, daughter of Goldie Hawn (do I feel old, or what?), wants to part Conan's hair the other way. Now this is television! Alas, the parting of Conan's hair doesn't work. 1:43 AM, Too much excitement for one day. Hey — my mental-health professional has pulled a Houdini. Unless Dr. Sam is hiding under the sofa, waiting for the Saturdaymorning kiddie cartoons to start. He just vanished into the ether. Or into the TV set. Anything is possible in this world. 2:18 A.M. I see dead people. Oops, sorry. Those are the ads for the tarot readers. 3:36 A.M. I see dead people. Oops, sorry. Those are the network test patterns. 4:21 A.M. Now even the network test patterns have gone. It's just static. And noise. And my scalp is awfully itchy. Can't be. Oh, no — it's time for Nix. Kills lice and their eggs. And normal sleep patterns. 4:47 A.M. It's come down to this: my life has been reduced to a sitcom. Only George Costanza could possibly relate. Say, when do those Saturday-morning kiddie cartoons start, anyway? 5:12 A.M. On the bright side, they don't broadcast Springer, Maury, Ricki, Sally, or even the soaps on Saturday, do they? I'm free-ish!

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7:20 A.M. That felt good. Two hours of tossing and turning, with nightmares about Regis and Rosie. And now the tubedelivered thrill of learning that Peter Pan still lives. Well, one of his/her alter egos does, anyway. For those grown-ups fortunate enough to be awake at this time, there's gymnastturned-thesp Cathy Rigby demonstrating the fine art of flying around rooms in a green suit. Evidently, this Peter Pan is still in Never Neverland. This is definitely not a fantasy. Fly away, Peter Pan, fly away. 7:31 A.M. Welcome to my world. Or, rather, the world of Dora the Explorer. Wow — who knew they'd turned my grandma Dora into a cartoon series for kiddies, with calypso music and everything? And then come the commercials for chocolate cereals. Does it get any better? 7:32 A.M. Wait a second. Bryant is still missing. No time to feel smug. And what happens to Regis on Saturdays, anyway? Can't he find someone else to do his lawn? What are we to do without Reege? 7:33 A.M. For society's future leaders, there's PBS Kids Bookworm Bunch. It's a show for tykes who read Tolstoy and Harry Potter, when time permits. And, let me guess: these Mensa Muppets eat their veggies, too.

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7:34 A.M. Recess. No, it's just the series Recess, where life is one long fifteen-minute break and no one gets detentions and everyone eats Count Chocula — save for the Mensa Muppets on Bookworm Bunch. 7:37 A.M. Time to make a right turn down Sesame Street, where the folks are cheerful and always kind to all critters large and small, even those made of tacky shag carpeting. 7:43 A.M. In fact, no matter what channel you turn to, everyone is so darned cheerful. What — do they force-feed them all Prozac? 8:13 A.M. Anyone who can handle this tongue-twisting title —Power Rangers Lightspeed Rescue—at this hour deserves a guest shot on PBS Kids Bookworm Bunch. For the record, the Power Rangers are called upon to restore peace and order in a city beset by evil forces — no, not Count Chocula. The show's set looks like my shower stall, if memory serves me correctly. Clearly, special-effects budgets are more generous for shows with an average audience age of over eleven. 8:16 A.M. Now, this is more civilized: bears in three-piece suits chatting about quantum physics or something deep on Little Bear. These bears don't pillage or plunder or terrorize humans by taking all their honey. 8:31 A.M. Oh, no. Little Bill, what have you dug up today? Little Bill is a little child with a big, loving family. But sometimes Little Bill misbehaves — so the big, loving family tries to flush him down the toilet. Sorry. Just fabricating there. It must have been a synapse, a psychotic episode. Nothing personal, Little Bill. The toon show Little Bill was created by big Bill Cosby, just in case he found himself running low on residual dollars from his hit adult series, The Cosby

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Show. Little Bill's favorite thing in the whole wide world is his cat's-eye marble. Let's hope Maury or Ricki don't hear about this, or there'd be an episode on marble-obsessed kids who terrorize cats and their moms on next week's daytime yakathons. Yahoo. Little Bill is appointed King of Marbleland. As we had always suspected, good things happen to those who collect marbles and brush their teeth. 9:01 A.M. At last, I've seen my first grown-up of the morning — unless we count the eternally young Cathy Rigby Then again, Jewel, the alleged singer/poet, who has turned up on The Saturday Early Show, might not fill the bill as a grown-up, either. 9:02 A.M. Reality kicks in with all the subtlety of a baseball bat to the gonads. Strife in the Middle East is mushrooming. But they're rejoicing in Belgrade over the recent revolution in Yugoslavia. The Saturday Early Show reports that ousted madman Slobodan Milosevic wants to spend more quality time with his family. Now, whether Slobodan's family wants to spend more quality time with him — well, that's another matter entirely. 9:07 A»MO Where is it written that every TV weatherman has to be a jolly fat guy? But I'm grateful for these fellows, including the genial Ira Joe Fisher of The Saturday Early Show. They offer me the only glimmer of daylight I get to see as they venture outside their studios to high-five housewives from North Dakota. This way, though, I only get to see New York City. Of course, it could be worse — I could only get to see North Dakota. 9:14 A.M. Ad for a great new allergy medication for kids over three. Minor side effects include viral infection, nausea, headaches. Yummy. So, what would a major side effect be?

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9:16 A.M. Something to live for: tomorrow night's 60 Minutes will have an interview with Tina Sinatra, who will tell all about father Frank's dealings with John E Kennedy and the Mob. Frank would doubtless be amused. 9:22 A.M. She's got ratty red hair and a ridiculous triangle smile. She's eighty-five years old. But she's hip. She's happening. And she fetches a fortune. She's Maggie Thatcher? Of course not. She's Raggedy Ann, a real doll, who can fetch up to three thousand dollars, even with a cardboard heart. Quick, call the broker, The Saturday Early Show suggests. Sell your shares in Microsoft. Buy Raggedy Ann. Coming up next: Is it better to buy or lease a car? They're not sure. But does it really matter to the eight year olds who happen to represent the biggest chunk of viewership in the multichannel universe at this hour? 9:42 A.M. Oh, gosh, Gretchen comes in late, and though Gretchen is good beyond belief, her tardiness will forever be a blot on her permanent school record. That's life, according to Disney's One Saturday Morning. Is this any way to treat a gal like Gretchen, who knows more about ionic atmospherics than anyone in the animated TV kingdom — and probably more than most in the nonanimated world, as well? What's worse, T.J., the slacker, gets away with murder while Gretchen the good is forever getting into deep ka-ka. What kind of family values is the Disney Mouse House preaching here? I think I like it. T.J. and Gretchen are teamed up for a school project. Gretchen is consumed with irrigation in ancient Mesopotamia, and T.J. is not. Overcome by guilt — or the script — T.J. changes his tune and becomes a caring individual, proving to Gretchen and the rest of the class thai moral decency prevails at the Mouse House. And, by the way, when visiting southern Florida, do drop in at the EPCOT Center. We've all learned

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something this morning. But maybe not as much as we should have on the subjects of ionic atmospherics and irrigation in ancient Mesopotamia. Maybe next week. And, by the way, a visit to EPCOT Center is a must, says the nice man on the commercial. 10:22 A.M. While almost immersed in Hang Time — a tale about the wacky antics of some high-school basketball players who spend a night in a Volkswagen Beetle for reasons that will forever remain unclear — it occurs to me that it's been a day since I last touched base with Regis, and I'm becoming disoriented. No sightings of Sly Stallone, either. But that's more understandable. Reviews of Get Carter have come in and, hard as this may be to believe, critics declare it the most abominable work Sly's ever done, which says something to those of us who suffered through Sly in the arm-wrestling classic Over the Top and — wearing spats — in the gangster spoof Oscar. 10:23 A.M. Just realized my dog hasn't been walked in six days. That explains the smell. I've been trying to convince Lauren that we must all pull our weight during dad's experiment, which aims to make the world a better place. She's not buying it. She says she'd gladly trade places and watch TV. In return, I can do her term papers and walk the dog. She just doesn't get it. This is work, damn it! This is for science! This is for our future! She just laughs and laughs and laughs, more convinced than ever that I've lost it, just as she had predicted. 11:17 A.M. I regret to inform you that while almost immersed in City Guys — a tale about two guys from different backgrounds who develop a friendship while attending a tough inner-city high school — I missed an installment of

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Pokemon this morning. I was so looking forward to touching base with Pikachu and Charmander. 11:18 A.M. I'm now following the exploits of Franklin, a buck-toothed beaver — or perhaps he's a turtle? My eyes have taken a beating during the past week. 11:20 A.M. Morality tales on Pepper Ann, No matter what choo-choo train you have a ticket on, you must never litter or drop-kick the cat. Okay? Whoa. The Pepper Ann gang is now discoursing on reincarnation and Buddhism. Either that, or I am ready for the foam-rubber room. Quick, someone call my friendly mental-health professional, Dr. Sam. Where is he, anyway? Out enjoying the sun. No fair. 11:23 A.M. I know this could be considered a sacrilege, but, in the interests of science, I've drifted off to the Playboy channel to see what sort of animated frolics beckon. Honest. I can now assure you that Playboy is not showing cartoons called Franklin about a buck-toothed beaver. Let me rephrase that. Oh, forget it. They're showing photos of the lovely Anna Nicole Smith, no doubt the richest former Playmate of all time after getting the courts to shell out half a billion dollars from the estate of her still-dead, 415-yearold oil-magnate husband, J. Howard Marshall II. Anna has a bottle of Coca-Cola. Minds out of the gutters. 11:44 A.M. Time to nurture my soul with "Daily Affirmations from Stuart Smalley." I'm cheating. I'm watching a Saturday Night Live rerun — although some would say watching any Saturday Night Live rerun after the 1970s is hardly cheating; it's cruel and unusual punishment. 12:01 P.M. CNN never sleeps. I am brought up to speed on the chaos in the Middle East. And it's mighty distressing

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and depressing. Small wonder folks seek the mindless escape of fantasy or football. 12:16 P.M. Sports at long last. Florida State and Miami get down and dirty on the gridiron. I care not who wins. I just want to drift off. 12:29 P.M.. Flipping between the Big 10 showdown that pits Michigan against Purdue and the Florida State/Miami bout, it occurs to me that I've now gone twenty-eight hours without a shot of Regis. Don't know if I can do this cold turkey. 1:04 P.M. I am becoming hypnotized by football. I'm getting drowsy. 2:12 P.M. College-football bliss is not to be. I'm getting bored. 2:46 P.M. CNN reports that Israel's Ehud Barak has given Palestinian boss Yasser Arafat forty-eight hours to stop the fighting. Or else. 2:47 P.M. CNBC is grilling grill king George Foreman — but in the event of war, they will ditch Foreman for late-breaking news. Memo to CNBC: the situation in the Middle East is akin to a barbecue. 3:39 P.M. A comeback, nail-biting victory by Purdue over Michigan. And why should I really care about two college teams for which I have no affinity, from two states for which I have no affinity? 3:41 P.M. Florida State comes back from a ten-point deficit to pull ahead of Miami. Well, at least Florida has palm trees, which is more than can be said for Indiana or Michigan.

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3:59 P.M. Last-second field goal by Florida State goes wide. Miami wins and I actually seem to care. This scares me. 4:01 P.M. Elation is short-lived. Reality sets in with CNN report that the Middle East conflict is starting to look a lot like war. Well, it is war. 4:03 P.M. CNBC has had its fill of Foreman's grill. Now it's on to deeper stuff. EC. market? Dazed, dead, or dozing. Or does anyone really give a shit? Sorry. I'm getting a little antsy. CNBC now has its panties in a bunch over Napster. At least with the Internet you can actually interact and pick what you want to listen to. On TV you're stuck with whatever they dish out. 4:24 P.M. Important question: In light of the fact that the only thing on TV is football, reruns, and news about war and Napster, where do the people who feed off Regis, Ricki, and Maury go? What do they do on weekends? Surely, they don't go on nature walks when they could be, like me, glued to the tube. 4:29 P.M. Lauren asks if she can take control of the remote: "It wouldn't kill you, ya know?" She's right. I surrender the remote. I'm no longer the control freak I was at the beginning of the week. I'm worse. 4:33 P.M. Lauren gets bored surfing. She returns the remote to me. 4:58 P.M. I return the remote to Lauren. I'm bored. 5:20 P.M. Thirty hours amd forty minutes to go before my TV experiment ends, and Lauren wishes to pass judgment: "TV is mostly crap and watching it is mostly boring. But

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you seem calm. That's great. And, by the way, can you lend me twenty dollars?" 5:38 P.M. Absolutely nothing to watch, so I've decided to give the Fashion channel a try. When the going gets tough, Naomi Campbell makes it even tougher. My gosh, Naomi is wearing nothing but gauze and beads. Naomi is now wearing an ostrich on her head. She is also babbling in a tongue I've never heard before. The fashion parade continues, dahlings. But is it fashion when the models aren't wearing frocks? Regardless, it works for me. Some ponce designer says he likes the drama of the dark. Yet he denies that his creations are somber. As if we care. 6:00 P.M. CNN is going full throttle on Middle East tensions. 6:31 P.M. Nothing, other than the news. This can be an awfully lonely and pathetic existence—waiting for Walker: Texas Ranger, that is. It starts in about two and a half hours. And it is looming as the highlight of my Saturday night. Me and Chuck Norris, ain't that special? 6:35 P.M. But for the kindness of strangers — or, in my case, takeout delivery people and sundry acquaintances — I would be talking in the same tongues as Naomi Campbell. 6:37 P.M. I believe I've reached my lowest ebb. I'm now waiting in breathless anticipation for Walker: Texas Ranger. And I'm not kidding. 8:04 P.M. I'm watching some Sandra Bullock lookalike in something that can best be described as Sopranos Lite. The show is called That's Life. The Sandra Bullock wannabe is a bartender who works across the street from a graveyard — or it could be New Jersey, or both. The Bullock lookalike

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has a name: Heather Paige Kent. She has dumped her fiance. Her parents are concerned. Paul Sorvino and Ellen Burstyn play her parents. And now I'm concerned about poor Paul and Ellen. Is this the best they can do, getting marooned on a Saturday-night TV show that is doomed to die, and fast? Burstyn is already annoying me. She plays a grating mother with an awful Italian accent. Joe Pesci has bludgeoned people with a baseball bat for less. Plot seems to hinge on Kent's ex-fiance, who wants his engagement ring back. Kent is shrill, and she's proving to be as grating as Burstyn. Sorvino plays a token taker on a bridge. How the mighty have tumbled. This is going to be a long night. 9:03 P.M. Yahooooo! Walker: Texas Ranger, at long last. Never thought I'd be this happy to see Chuck Norris. More punching in the first few minutes of this episode than in the last Holyfield fight. But those are the worst sound effects this side of Hong Kong's chop-socky studios. Amazing — people get the crap kicked out of them and nary a drop of plasma is spilled. Those rangers are good. Norris — I mean Walker — must come to the rescue of hardworking decent folk who face being evicted from their apartment building by thugs who want the place demolished. This time it's personal. Thugs not only rough up the hardworking decent folk, but Walker's lady, as well. Hope they have good dental plans. Yeah, Walker: Texas Ranger, saves the day. Rescues kid from burning building. Saves his lady. Takes down bad guys. And doesn't even work up a sweat. He's my hero. 9:56 P.M. Larry King is doing investigative reportage, digging up color on John Ritter and Henry Winkler. 10:02 P.M. Saturday night is Get Tough on Crime Night. A new police chief pledges to eradicate crime in Washington,

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D.C. Hell, he cleaned up New Jersey — he can handle anything. Show is The District. Star is tough guy Craig T. Nelson. Conflict abounds. Assistant police chief in D.C. wanted to be top dog. He's sore. Craig T. is unrepentant. He also has his own P.R. hack. Not only a crime buster, but also a crooner. At honky-tonk saloon, Craig T. sings "High Hopes" to D.C.'s adoring deputy mayor — a babe, actually. Meanwhile, back on the street, a nutbar tries to shoot his way through town, a rapist runs amok, and the mayor is hauled up on corruption charges. Craig T. admits that he's working through a few issues — like a couple of divorces and an attitude problem. I give this show half a season. Craig T. pledges to gut his fellow cops like fish if they don't come clean. 11:23 P.M. Regis at last. Actually, a Regis and Kathie Lee parody on MAD-TV, which is not really that mad. MAD-TV is barely able to keep me conscious. Twenty-four hours and twenty-six minutes until the end of this marathon. But who's counting, much less laughing? 11:59 P.M. Trust Saturday Night Live to come through for me again. But their parody of a presidential debate between Bush and Gore is actually more boring than the actual debate. Then there's a vicious take on former SNL trouper Dennis Miller doing bizarro commentary on Monday Night Football Still, I'd gladly swap SNL for a little Dennis and some Monday-night pigskin right about now. The highlight of the show is an appearance by comic genius Ralph Nader. Host Rob Lowe is not sure if he knows who Nader is. He's a presidential candidate, doorknob. Where are Bill Murray and the Belushis when we really need them? Even Eddie Murphy would do. This show sucks. Even this week's musical guest, the outrageous rapper Eminem, is reduced to a milquetoast.

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1:09 A.M. More hard-hitting investigative reportage from the man in the suspenders. Larry King goes one-on-one with gossip queen Liz Smith. She says that the New York Daily News came calling many decades back to ask her to do a gossip column. She didn't think New Yorkers would be interested in gossip. "Boy, was I wrong." Fascinating. 1:24 A.M. The season premiere of Saturday Night Live ends, and not a moment too soon. 1:37 A.M. More laughs from the tarot readers in a oneminute commercial than anything Rob Lowe and friends could generate in ninety minutes of Saturday Night Live. 2:38 A.M. Even the network test patterns are funnier. 3:17 A.M. Giddy with excitement that I only have twenty hours and forty-three minutes to go until the end of my TV stint. But who's counting? 4:09 A.M. Sunday should be a breeze. NFL football. More NFL football. Tina Sinatra spilling all on 60 Minutes. A new show called Ed. Could it be about a talking horse? Sorry, that's Mr. Ed — and he's glue now. No, this Ed is about a lawyer who must do time in a bowling alley. Talk about just deserts. 5:03 A.M. Only eighteen hours and fifty-seven minutes to go. And no more Nix ads. Say good night, Bill.

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7:34 A.M. I'm in heaven. It can't be the other place. That's because I'm inside the Palm Springs Racquet Club, cavorting with the ghosts of Dean Martin, Marilyn Monroe, Bing Crosby, and Spencer Tracy. And, did you know this, my wee, hungover gremlins? The Palm Springs Racquet Club was the birthplace of the Bloody Mary. The Palm Springs Racquet Club was also the setting of choice for the illicit affairs of showbiz celebs. We're just not sure how often they ever swung racquets. On the tennis court, silly. The show I'm trying to pry open my eyelids to catch is, of course, Famous Homes and Hideaways, and it's must-see viewing for all the urchins — and a few sundry madmen — who happen to be up at this hour. 7:37 A.M. You can get 'em for fifteen thousand bucks a night. What are they? I'm guessing: pricey hookers. And I'd be so terribly wrong. Wake up, man, you're drifting again. Indeed, fifteen thousand big ones gets you a well-appointed suite at New York's Plaza Hotel, according to some show whose title escapes me. Then again, for that price, they'd bloody well better throw in the hooker. But, more germane, where am I? For a moment, I have no clue what I'm doing watching TV Then it hits me with all the impact of a behemoth NFL nose-tackle. I'm watching TV for the greater good. For science. Help! But the good news is that

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this is the last day of my odyssey, and odds are good I'll make it out alive, though powerfully addled. 7:47 A.M. I switch over to CNN, delighted to learn that World War III hasn't erupted overnight. If it had, why would the network be broadcasting Style with Elsa Klensch? Elsa takes us inside some fashion designer's living room, which, you will be thrilled to discover, has been influenced not by her clothing designs but by the exotic destinations she has visited. Ahhh. And are we ready to look at Richard Tyler's fab collection for fall/winter 2000? I don't think so. 7:59 A.M. It's Sunday morning, for God's sake, and they're promoting tomorrow's Dr. Laura. The issue du jour will be, "Are we going to put Penthouse next to TV GuideV 8:01 A.M. Dose of reality on The Today Show. Tensions are said to be easing in Yugoslavia, but not in this mind. Will somebody please file a missing persons report on Bryant Gumbel? It scares me that I seem to care more about the missing Bryant than the prospect of thermonuclear war. It scares me that others marooned in TV Land might also care more about the whereabouts of Bryant than thermonuclear war. This can't be good. Oh, yes, it is reported that Martin Sheen was arrested yesterday for protesting against military space technology. Hey, wait a Washington minute here, they can't arrest the president. He has a TV show to do. The lines are getting blurred again. Now someone is flogging a book called First Mothers on The Today Show. Wait a minute. There can be only one first mother. I'm guessing Eve. No, no. Author is talking about the first mommies behind the first men, the U.S. presidents. That Sarah Delano Roosevelt was one tough cookie. Must have been. Why else would she have named her son Franklin?

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8:58 A.M. Shucks. Just missed Polka Dot Short: Thomas the Tank Engine and Friends. Just a suggestion: TV programmers, wouldn't you be better off limiting titles of kiddie shows to one word, maybe two? Tongue-twisters appear to be a turn-off. Thank you. We now return you to regularly scheduled commercial programming. 9:04 A.M. Madeleine Albright on Meet the Press. The cycle of violence has to be stopped, says the U.S. secretary of state. What, are they mugging hapless cyclists in Holland? Of course not. Albright is pondering the current levels of hostility in the Middle East. Sadly, this episode could be a rerun. She details her master plan for peace in the Middle East, then reflects on democracy in Yugoslavia. Stay tuned. Albright will be making her NFL picks for this Sunday. Well, it was just an idea. And no one ever did a decent job of replacing Jimmy the Greek. Football is, of course, the ultimate metaphor for America. It's about money, power, violence, beer, and tasty chip dips. It's what unites America, in partnership, natch, with the tube. 9:34 A.M. The secretary of state is now being peppered with questions about the Bush/Gore positions on Yugoslavia — I believe Dubya favors the missionary — and the Senate race in New York, where Hillary Clinton is running harder than a doggie, or president in heat. Meet the Press host thanks Albright and says he's looking forward to reading her memoirs. Everyone is trying to peddle their spill-all memoirs on the tube. 9:37 A.M. Oh, goodie. A promo for tomorrow's Oprah. The queen of daytime TV says we all have toxic people in our lives. You said it, Oprah. 9:56 A.M. Sunday Morning takes a lighter approach to politics with a segment on painting the portraits of the

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presidents. Norman Rockwell had a hard time with Dick Nixon. Join the club. Sally Field conquers a new field, according to Sunday Morning. The Flying Nun is now a director. She is tenacious. She is self-assured. She will survive, damn it! I think there's a song here somewhere. Whether it's hiking or directing her very first feature film, Sally will not be denied. We like you, Sally. Really. Sally comes clean about her past: she admits she was a national joke as the Flying Nun TV character. Sally could bash the atom, but she'll still be the Flying Nun. 10:18 A.M. After a quick update on the state of humanity, courtesy of the Playboy channel, I am riveted by a homage to a chicken called Mike on Sunday Morning. Mike has even spawned his own chicken festival in Colorado. By the by, Mike went headless for a good portion of his existence. According to the lore, Headless Mike lived for more than a year back in the 1940s without an important part of his decision-making faculties. Big dance celebrations in the streets of Colorado to celebrate Headless Mike. (On the plus side, Mike never needed Nix to kill lice and their eggs.) I fear we are now learning more about Headless Mike than is absolutely necessary at this hour: they would feed Headless Mike through his neck with an eyedropper. McNuggets, anyone? There goes the aippetite again. Headless Mike also went on tour — although it all must have looked the same to him. Headless Mike allegedly penned a poem: "Haven't got a head / But I'm still better off than being dead." I pinch myself to make absolutely certain I'm not hallucinating; an anchovy on my pizza might have turned. Moment of silence, please: Headless Mike choked to death in an Arizona motel. He never could lay off that hootch. All the same, he lived a good life for a headless fryer. Headless Mike was two when he entered that big chicken coop in the sky. As delirious as I've become, I couldn't have possibly invented the legend

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of Headless Mike. No, friends, this is television at its finest and most informative. 10:28 A.M. Time to bid adieu, says Sunday Morning host Charles Osgood. See you next week, Chuck adds, and until then, "I'll see you on the radio." Get it? Well, Headless Mike would have. 10:31 A.M. Back to reality on Face the Nation. Israel's Ehud Barak is being questioned by moderator Bob Sheffer. Barak and Arafat spend as much time defending their positions on American TV as they do in their own seats of government. They know where the real battle has to be won. Ralph Nader, fresh from his shtick on Saturday Night Live, now pops up on Face the Nation to outline his Green Party presidential platform. He would use his leverage to bring peace to the Middle East. It's the policy position of a man who spent the 1960s saving us from the danger that was the Corvair, according to wacko football and auto analyst Dennis Miller. 11:00 A.M. Take your pick: more trenchant analysis of the U.S. presidential race on Think Tank with BenWattenberg, or mindless babble about today's slate of football bouts on ESPN's NFL Countdown. Hmmm. Naturally, I put aside my personal preferences and act for the greater good: I opt for NFL Countdown. It's week six of the NFL season. Everyone's got problems. The Bills, the Bengals. Linebackers under siege. Now this is war. Now these are cliches: "The best team always wins" and "The bus stops right here," an interesting variation on the old saw "The buck stops right here." We forgive our athletes the platitudes we would crucify our politicians for spouting. I could coast on ESPN all day and all night long. Ya want funny anchors? Go to SportsCenter. There you'll find none of that Dan Rather

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righteousness. SportsCenter brings the madness of latenight television to the day. 11:55 A.M. True confessions: on any given Sunday — actually, that's the name of a mediocre football movie — I'd probably be vegging out on the couch watching football, anyway, followed by postgame analysis, 60 Minutes, The Simpsons, and Sunday-night football. So, maybe this isn't such a hardship... all the same, I've never before been forced to submit to this rigorous TV diet. 12:01 P.M. Does it get any more poignant than this? Former Buffalo Bill Thurman Thomas talks about the angst of being dropped by the team and then slipping into a Miami Dolphins sweater. 12:04 P.M. Thurman's tale is too heavy. Need a little levity. Click to Fox NFL Sunday, with the souffle-like lovable bozo Terry Bradshaw trying to match barbs with fellow analysts Howie Long, James Brown, and Cris Collinsworth. Hey, wait a minute. The boys are taking shots at my beloved New York Giants. We then learn that Cris has a kid who won a pass-and-punt competition. Howie has a son who will blitz him. And Terry has daughters who will likely date both of them. 12:07 P.M. Can't get the definitive word on NFL action without checking into NFL Today with Jim Nantz. Busy week for Jim. Had to fill in for missing-in-action Bryant Gumbel all week, and now this. Today, at least, he only has to match wits with helmetless commentators Mike Ditka and Jerry Glanville. And you heard it here first: Cordell Stewart gets the start as quarterback today for the Pittsburgh Steelers. What, you expected allegations of another cover-up in the Oral Office? All-time sack leader Reggie White, now with

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the Carolina Panthers, has had two and a half sacks to date. But it's been a quiet two and a half sacks, sayeth the experts. He does, however, bring leadership and spirituality to the Panthers. Reggie, you see, does more than rip heads off the opposition — he's also a man of the cloth. Gospel music in the background to drive home the point. Reggie's former coach, Mike Holmgren, apologizes to the man of the cloth for using the f-word in the heat of battle. Religious beliefs notwithstanding, Reggie admits he loves money. Who could have guessed? A pro athlete coveting cash. More insights: the Minnesota Vikings need wins like pigs need slop. A concept Americans can comprehend. 12:42 P.M. Wanna be a punt-returner? First thing ya gotta learn is the dance, according to Terry, Howie, Cris, and James on Fox NFL Sunday. Terry does a dance. Cris, who used to return punts, demonstrates his catching technique. Then Cris does the dance. I love it: these guys get paid millions to horse around once a week, and only during football season. Terry says the Falcons vs. the Giants game is going to be a coach killer. Now that's old-fashioned sport even the Romans would love. No, no, Terry says. He means killing in the mental sense. There's a difference, ya know. Terry is using big words. Be afraid. Be very afraid. Terry says this is the "apex" of his day and he's "imploding" because he can't find his notes. If Headless Mike came back, he'd be Terry's sidekick. They would be friends. Terry would feel at ease. Terry announces that he has a "conundrum" right now. Howie tells Terry that he needs a "lobotomy." We're not sure whether Terry knows what that means. Headless Mike, of course, was well aware. Sure, these guys have taken a few too many helmets to the head, but they're a nice bunch of guys, and they are living proof that it's never too late to learn new words.

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1:00 P.M. It's getting down to crunch time. The Indianapolis Colts, led by the incomparable Peyton Manning, take on the New England Patriots, led by the incomparable Drew Bledsoe. 1:32 P.M. Still zoned out on the Colts and Patriots. Good game. Hanging in. Indianapolis has gone up 7-3. And more good news: only ten hours and nine minutes left in my exile to TV Land. 2:09 P.M. Manning fumbles. Colts have to settle for field goal. And I've stumbled upon an Esquire piece by Tom Carson, which asks folks to think of the Who Wants to Be a Millionaire host as a belated answer to Joan Osborne: "If God was just a slob like one of us, he'd be Regis." Carson points out that Regis has an irascibility that has always made him the "dull man's David Letterman." Carson next posits the theory that Regis becoming a fashion plate proves anything is possible. "His acute sense that his own meaning to America is as its real-life Homer Simpson is uncanny." Methinks Mr. Carson has been taking Dennis Miller pills. Meanwhile, Bledsoe tosses a hail-Mary pass on the last play of the second half. And, miracle of miracles, it is caught and the Patriots and Colts go to their respective locker-rooms tied at the half. It's poetry, I tell you. Pure poetry. 2:25 P.M. Deep thought: NFL football is the mother of all pacifiers. 2:34 P.M. Second half begins. Indianapolis marching down the field. Stuck on the sofa, I ask Lauren to get me a beer. She doesn't respond. Have to up the ante: "Lauren, get me a beer, and I'll dedicate this book to you." Such is the depth of my sloth. Lauren brings me a beer.

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2:40 P.M. My friend Fred, the business-news anchor, calls from another city and asks what the weather is like in my town. All I can tell Fred is that I'm not sure about here, but the weather seems to be fine in Foxboro, Massachusetts, where the Patriots are playing the Colts. Fred thinks I've lost it. 2:44 P.M. Dr. Sam calls to see if I've contemplated doing a double-gainer from my second-floor window yet. Why, I ask him, do you know something I don't? He's proud that I'm persevering. He says it could be worse. I could be doing hard time in solitary. Wait a minute, I shoot back, I am doing hard time in solitary. 2:48 P.M. Lauren brings another beer. Dedication is cemented, I tell her, all the more so since she has again brought me a Heineken instead of a Corona. 2:54 P.M. Dr. Sam shows up to catch a little football on the tube. We used to play high-school football for rival teams. I've just learned that Dr. Sam is six days older than me. So that explains his relative maturity. Dr. Sam often gets asked if he is a real doctor. He harkens back to that great New Yorker cartoon, wherein a snooty maitre d' asks a client, "Are you a real doctor, or just a PhD?" Sam is a doctor of philosophy in psychology, which doesn't necessarily mean you want him to lance your boils. Dr. Sam now passes judgment on my comportment: "Well groomed. Good sense of humor. Good recovery." By that, he's referring to my rebound from yesterday's trip to the television trash bin. 3:08 P.M. As Indianapolis nurses a slim lead over New England, Dr. Sam says he's pleased with my energy level. He doesn't perceive any noticeable damage or decay. It's the beer, I say.

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3:14 P.M. My brother Bazil shows up. New England has gone ahead 17-13. We've got a game, here. 3:40 P.M. Lauren's friend Zubin drops by. We've got a crowd on the couch. Great, but where were they all when I had to suffer through the soaps? 4:00 P.M. The fun continues. The long-awaited GiantsFalcons game starts. My beloved Giants go ahead 7-0. Thunder — that's Ron Dayne, as opposed to Lightning, who is Tiki Barber — scoots into the end zone. Lauren, another Giants fan, is delighted. Zubin, a Packers fan, is not. Zubin asks why I love the Giants since I don't live in New York. Good question. I've been a Giants fan for so long that I don't remember why. Lightbulb goes on. Wait, I know why I love the Giants. Back in the days of the three-channel TV universe, the Giants were the only NFL team whose games were broadcast in our market. Lauren, on the other hand, doesn't know from the three-channel universe. "Tell me about the old days, Dad," she asks with a grin. "Must have been tough without hot running water and cold beer." Ah, child, don't get me started. Lauren comes by her love for the Giants honestly. They're all she ever saw when she was growing up. She still savors the Giants Super Bowl win over Buffalo a decade back, when the latter team missed a short chip-shot of a field goal on the last play of the game. Many years later, Lauren still can't believe Buffalo missed the field goal. I can't believe that Lauren, who was eight at the time, remembers. Life is good. Giants pull ahead 10-0. Only seven hours and change until the end of this odyssey. I'm getting pumped. 4:41 P.M. Check in on another of my favorite teams, the Oakland Raiders, who are ahead of their crosstown rivals, the San Francisco 49ers. I'm so riveted by the action on the

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tube that I fail to notice that Dr. Sam, Bazil, and Zubin have slipped out. 5:20 P.M. Giants up 13-3 on Falcons at halftime. Only six hours and forty minutes left until the end. But who's counting? 5:31 P.M. So, whither my love for the pigskin? It goes back to my high-school days, when I was a scrappy 137-pound inside linebacker on a bantam team. If memory serves me correctly — and I wouldn't bet on that at this juncture — we were division champs. Likely not the result of rny efforts. My moment of glory came one fateful fall day, when the sun beat down on the black shoe polish under my eyes. I was doing short pass coverage on the receiver. The opposing team's quarterback tossed a little floater. I spotted the ball before the receiver had turned around. I intercepted the ball and ran down the field for a touchdown. I was in heaven. The glory was too much. But wait. Where was the roar from the crowd? Where were my teammates to high-five me and sweep me up in their arms? They were still down at the other end of the field. Bummer — there was a penalty, and the play was called back. And that was it. No more heroics were to follow. I would content myself by simply diving into the mud and getting my uniform dirty enough to convince the coach that I was involved in the action. And that was the highlight of my football career. It might even have been the highlight of my entire career, had fate not intervened and seen to it that I would make my mark on humanity by critiquing the cinematic adventures of the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles and other great oeuvres for my local newspaper. "Sad, so sad," Lauren says softly, and with genuine feeling. Yeah, kid, I could have been a contender. "But no time for cheap sentiment," she interjects — the Falcons are moving in on the Giants.

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5:34 P.M. Deep question: Would I do this all over again? No. 5:35 P.M. On second thought, get me one of those largerthan-life, wide-screen suckers, and we'll talk. 6:07 P.M. Giants ahead 13-6. Ya gotta like the team's chances. And ya gotta like my couch. We haven't talked much about this sofa bed, but it has taken a pile of abuse and pizza and a few drops of beer and it hasn't crumbled. I never thought I'd feel this way about a sofa. I've changed. I'm more sensitive. Nah, I'm just fuckin' nuts. While we're at it, gotta say something about the TV reception. The cable never shut down. But best not to get too cocky. We still have five hours and fifty-two minutes to go. 6:57 P.M. Life is really grand. Giants hang on to win. World peace be damned — I don't want to know what's happening on CNN. I'd rather be tuned in to 60 Minutes catching Frank Sinatra's daughter Tina tell all. 7:21 P.M. Finally, Tina comes clean. He had a habit of cutting himself off from others, she says. The mob hired Frank to croon at their casinos and hotels when others wouldn't, she says. Also, JFK and Frank were tight. According to Tina, Joseph Kennedy, JFK's dad, asked Frank for a small favor. He asked Frank to ask wiseguy Sam Giancana to help deliver West Virginia union votes to JFK in the presidential election. That's all. And so JFK gets into the White House, and RFK cracks down on the Mob. Giancana is not amused. Frank repays the favor by playing sixteen shows in eight nights at Giancana's club in Chicago, with the Rat Pack. There's more: Tina says Frank lied in 1981 when he testified before the Nevada Gaming Commission; he claimed he didn't know Giancana. And Tina isn't much wild about

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Frank's fourth wife, Barbara, who didn't call Frank's kids to the hospital when he was on his deathbed. The apple doesn't fall far from the tree. If people don't like her book, Tina has a few choice words: "@#$% 'em!" Spoken just like her dad. 7:35 P.M. Thought we were finished with football? Dream on. During commercial break, I cut to Oakland-San Fran game, which is tied in overtime. 7:37 P.M. 60 Minutes picks up wild Boris Yeltsin's trail. Mike Wallace and Boris — now there's a match made in TV heaven. Boris is looking a lot like W.C. Fields these days. Boris insists that his body is stable. As for Boris's mind, we don't think so. The legacy of Boris: in Russia, crime and corruption are up, the economy is down. Actually, it's in tatters. Boris doesn't believe the U.S. is any more influential than Russia is these days. Russia has tennis players who are better than the Americans, says Boris. And female volleyball players, too. And our culture is superior. And don't forget about the vodka, Boris, while you're at it. What was that we were just saying about Boris's brain? Ya want high comedy? Translator gets it wrong. Wallace asks Boris if he's thin-skinned. Translator's take is: "Are you a thick-skinned hippopotamus?" Boris is incensed. Unless, Boris says, it's the translator's fault and then that translator would be a thick-skinned hippo. Boris insists that he's not in it for the money. Boris looks embalmed. But he does admit that he was a little bit tipsy back in 1994 when he played conductor for a sidewalk band in Berlin. He just drinks to relieve stress. And to get the most out of the wind section. 7:48 P.M. Meanwhile, the score remains tied in overtime after a San Fran field goal is blocked. They should have brought in Boris to boot it.

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7:53 P.M. Resident 60 Minutes curmudgeon, Andy Rooney, suggests that the Bush/Gore debate was as exciting as synchronized swimming. Wait — that's not fair to the synchronized swimmers. 7:57 P.M. Wisdom according to Southwest Airlines: "The game is over. That's the bad news. There is no good news." Hmm. There just may be a germ of truth to that nugget. 8:03 P.M. Time for the much-touted premiere of Ed, starring Tom Cavanagh as a New York lawyer who seemingly has it all — until that dark day when he comes home from work to find his wife in the sack with a mailman. Devastated, Ed goes back to his hometown of Stuckeyville to track down the high-school babe of his dreams, now a teacher, despite the fact that they don't really know each other. Ed buys a bowling alley and seeks to disprove the old Thomas Wolfe adage about not being able to go home to bowl again. Methinks Ed is deeper in the gutter than I am. 8:06 P.M. Three hours and fifty-four minutes to go. We're coasting. I'm betting Ed's brain melts before mine. 8:10 P.M. One of Ed's buddies quips that Ed buys a bowling alley after he gets his first kiss from the high-school babe. "Good thing she didn't sleep with him, otherwise Ed would have bought a strip mall." "How do you turn around a dying bowling alley?" Ed asks Phil, his assistant who happens to live and sleep on lane 16. Easy, answers Phil, "Fill the place up with whores." In principle, a brilliant idea. But this is American prime-time TV. Phil has another brainwave to turn around the bowling alley: free legal advice for every three games bowled. Bingo. Sounds like the makings of a winning TV series to me. Ed is cute. Ed is sweet. Will I give up The Simpsons for this in the future? Not bloody

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likely. The only reason I have tuned in to Ed tonight is because there's no Simpsons rerun on. And, to be honest, I've had my share of Simpsons reruns this week. 9:00 P.M. Call me a glutton for punishment. I could end my TV marathon by merely staying conscious while watching Baltimore play Jacksonville on Sunday Night Football. But no, I must pay one last visit and kneel at the throne of the king: Regis. It's been days since I've seen Regis, and the pangs of withdrawal are proving almost overwhelming. Besides, someone might actually take home a truckload of cash on Who Wants to Be a Millionaire tonight. Stripes on his shirt. Spots on his tie. Don't really know if I'm ready for Regis. Does Regis know how to draw out the suspense? Which country's flag has its map etched on it? Brazil or Cypress? Cypress, naturally. When Regis likes a contestant, he does his best to help. For $500,000, answer this question: "For what product did a 1925 advertisement give us this saying: 'Often the bridesmaid, but never the bride?'" Who cares? I ain't about to win the cash. But I have a question: How come the lifeline advisers to the contestants are always at home when Regis calls? In case you're curious, the answer — for $500,000 — is Listerine. 9:30 P.M. Flash: Just realized I haven't suffered like I should have. By a quirk of scheduling, there were no Survivor or Big Brother episodes aired this week. Sorry. 9:36 P.M. "A person performing without preparation is said to be: a) ad-libbing; b) mad-ribbing; c) women's libbing; or d) getting jiggy." More brain-busters. "Which of the following is the traditional filling for an eclair: a) jelly; b) cream; c) nougat; or d) pork." Ah, Regis, you're such a card. But all good things must come to an end. Time to bid you adieu, Regis. Let's just walk away from one another and forever

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cherish the memories of good times spent together. Oh, dear, I feel like sobbing. 9:59 P.M. Again, no time for cheap sentiment. Must be tough. Must go to Sunday Night Football to see how Baltimore is faring against: Jacksonville. Teams are tied. I find out that Oakland beat San Fran in overtime. I must say, my love for the game is definitely on the wane after soaking up football for close to half a day. Yup, I do believe I've OD'd. 10:34 P.M. By the way, it's not quite the same as overdosing on Oprah, Ricky, Jerry, Maury, and Sally. 10:55 P.M. I am truly whipped. Haven't slept more than four hours a night over the last week. And what sleep I had was hardly restful — not with those recurring Rosie and Regis nightmares. Midnight. Jacksonville loses. Big deal. The odyssey is over. And this is how it ends? Not with a bang, but with a scamper by a Baltimore slotback. Scary. Can't hide behind the TV any longer. Must deal with reality. Must walk the dog, who is as loaded with crap as I now am. 12:12 A.M. Dog walks man. Man bites dog.

EILOGUE

"Who let the dogs out? Who? Who? Who? Who? Who? Who let the dogs out? Who? Who? Who? Who? Who?" I figured it would be images of Rosie and Regis, or perhaps Maury Povich, that would haunt me on my return from TV Land. Rather, it's the above innocuous refrain that reverberates in what is left of my brain. Makes sense. Though I wasn't conscious of the fact at the time, the refrain is repeated often on TV — on commercials, on Letterman, and on every major broadcast sporting event. It seems the perfect anthem for my weeklong TV binge. And I can now truly relate to this refrain on every level imaginable. I'm outside being walked by my dog, Angus, who, all things considered, showed remarkable restraint by not biting me back last night. Wise Angus seems to have related to my adventure. He, too, spends about twenty-two hours a day snuggled up on a sofa in a sort of isolation — although he has never been force-fed a diet of Maury Povich, for that would be wrong and cruel. I digress. A lot. Anyway, it is cold and crisp outside on this first day of the rest of my post-TV life. There is a glorious snap to the air. I feel like I've been sprung from some German POW camp — of the Hogaris Heroes ilk. (Enough with the TV analogies!) I feel free. The sun is shining, and there is no Ricki Lake to contend with. Life is good. I appear to have survived my week of TV and sleep deprivation and not-so-exotic takeout. Few

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aftereffects. And withdrawal from Regis is much easier than originally anticipated. I think I'm okay, but we'll leave the last word to our kindly mental-health professional, Dr. Sam Burstein. After administering a few tests, he asserts that I'm "well grounded" — and by that he doesn't mean that I've got an antenna protruding from my ass. He is surprised, but he sees few side effects from my social isolation — which might only indicate that I'm as good an actor as Jerry Springer. Nor have my states been overly altered, he points out. Furthermore, posttest results indicate little frustration or anger and a surprisingly low level of stress. He likens my current euphoria to a sense of accomplishment for having survived the middle-aged Jewish main's equivalent of climbing Mount Everest. Hey, ya gotta start somewhere. Of course, this euphoria can also be attributed to the fact that I haven't had to deal with authority figures or any form of decision making other than channel and pizza selection. And how 'bout that old hand-eye coordination? Again, Dr. Sam pronounces me more deft than I was. Of course, he attributes some of that to my new prowess with the remote-control clicker. I can now do zero to sixty — channels — in about the same time as a Camaro. I'm smokin'. In the maze portion of the testing, I fare less well. I wander. I get lost. It takes me more time to navigate out of my hole. It's the only area in which my performance has gone down, but it's an area that could have startling significance: that is, too much TV can throw one off course. This finding suits Dr. Sam just fine, for he is worried that too many good results will skew the outcome, and that he will thus be ostracized from the society of mental-health professionals. He also feels that my reduced visual-planning abilities, brought to light by this test, could be the result of TVinduced eye fatigue, not to mention a crisis of confidence

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brought on by second guessing my own moves in the maze. Methinks the shrink is being charitable. What most impresses Dr. Sam, however, is my heightened ability to focus. After again subjecting me to the tricky Digit-Span Test — in which I must parrot back a series of numbers, in order, frontward and then backward — Dr. Sam is truly awed. Preexperiment and midexperiment, I had a raw score of ten going frontward. I go up to twelve in the postexperiment by being able to recite back a series of ten numbers in a row. Dr. Sam says that this suggests, in computer terms, a huge boost of RAM memory. Backward, too, my score goes up substantially: from five in the preexperiment test to eight postexperiment. Dr. Sam is concerned that the moral of this story has proven to be that TV is good and kids should be compelled to watch plenty in order to bump up their powers of concentration. Then again, Dr. Sam adds, a good shrink can put any kind of spin on data to ensure that the opposite will also hold up. "So, maybe it's not TV that's good, but it's the relief of not watching TV any longer that is good," opines the calculating Dr. Sam. Well, it looks like I've fooled the mental-health professional. Dr. Sam's verdict is that I've come through the ordeal sane, focused, and mellow, albeit a little eye-fatigued and lost in a maze of Maury Povich. But Dr. Sam's curious. Would I watch any of these shows again? Save for The West Wing and the late-night shows — provided I could stay up that late — not bloody likely. Oh, and let's not forget NFL games and NCAA basketball and 60 Minutes and, of course, Seinfeld reruns, The Simpsons, and The Sopranos. And, while we're at it, Law & Order, too. But that's just about it. Unless I happen to come across some vintage Larry Sanders episodes. But, really, that's it. Frankly, I tell Dr. Sam, TV is such a wasteland: mindless, numbing, repetitive, tedious, unstimulating, shrill, exploitative...

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Dr. Sam seems perplexed. "In other words, you've become hooked." "No, not at all!" I protest. "But if I happen to wake up in a room with a television, I just might tune in to The Today Show, or click over to CBS to check on the whereabouts of Bryant Gumbel. But, definitely, that's it." I anticipate that Dr, Sam will respond to this by doing a Regis impression: "Is that your final answer?" But he doesn't press the point. MerciMly.