The Revolution Will Not Be Televised

Television: chewing gum for the eyes
- Frank Lloyd Wright

Oh, television. What a cruel mistress you are.

I'll be the first to admit that most of your programming is sheer and utter crap. Most sitcoms these days are sadly lacking in humor, newsmagazines have become too sensationalistic, and reality shows seem to be rapidly eating away at the primetime schedule like a pixelated cancer.

My old standby shows have suffered in quality. ER lost its edge several seasons ago, I found myself throwing things at the screen when Mulder and Scully kissed on the season finale of The X Files last year, and more than one episode of Buffy the Vampire Slayer this season has left me muttering "Whatever."

And even when I do find something to hold my interest, The Powers That Be see fit to cancel it. Futurama? Pre-empted umpteen times for football games, then sent to the scrap heap so Fox could make more room for such quality programming as The Glutton Bowl and Celebrity Boxing. Grosse Pointe? Possibly too meta for the idiots at the WB, who didn't feel like shelling out the extra bucks for Buffy, but renewed Nikki and gave Bob Saget another sitcom. Profit? Gone so fast I didn't have time to set my VCR for a single episode.

Don't even get me started on Cupid. That show rocked, and you sent Jeremy Piven packing to play second banana to John Cusack forever. And we never even got to find out if he really was the god of love, or if he was just nuttier than a Payday bar.

Days are filled with infomercials and reruns of The Fresh Prince of Bel Air, and nights with VIP and Kevin "Don't Call Me Hercules" Sorbo playing space cowboy on Andromeda. Eeee-vil.

There are times when I think that Rosencrantz and Guildenstern have the right idea, and that I'd be better off sans television. (And perhaps to drive home this point, the TV/VCR combo in my bedroom doesn't seem to be working. No more late nights falling asleep to Conan O'Brien, I guess.)

But just when I've given up all hope, small miracles happen on the small screen.

First off, Angel has un-jumped the shark. I was ready to stick a fork (or stake, if you will) in my Monday night viewing habits, and suddenly the show ceases to suck (no pun intended). Now as long as the baby really is gone into an alternate dimension and I never have to hear David Boreanaz do the worst Irish accent ever, I might make it to the end of the season without declaring war on Mutant Enemy.

Second - Smallville. Yes, I rolled my eyes when I saw this on the schedule. Teenaged Clark Kent, in My So-Called Superpowers? With Bo Duke as his dad? How wrong I was. I've started checking my watch during Buffy, waiting to switch over from the shoddy reception on UPN to the Lexalicious goodness on the WB. For these two reasons alone, I can overlook the rest of the WB's lineup. Even Dawson's Creek.

And HBO is seriously making me rethink my anti-cable sentiments. I'm more than intrigued by the premise of Six Feet Under, and their recent acquisitions of theatrical productions that I've been wanting to see is making me quite happy. Again, I'm finding myself trying to find someone with pay channels, this time to get my hands on a tape of The Laramie Project. (Hopefully, they will release it on video, as they did with Wit.)

But the biggest surprise of all has come from MTV, of all places. After all but doing away with music videos to bring the viewing audience yet another season of bickering roommates on The Real World, someone finally smoked the good crack and came up with the funniest idea for a television show ever: a reality-based comedy about a nice normal American family called The Osbournes. Yes, we're talking life at Chez Ozzy. Watch Ozzy have problems figuring out the remote control and veg out on the History Channel! Watch wife Sharon scream at the movers as they unpack boxes marked "Devil Heads" and "Dead Things!" Watch kids Kelly and Jack bicker like normal teenagers over who drops Daddy's name more to get into clubs! Watch the MTV censor have an aneurysm from bleeping out every third word!

You can't make up stuff like that. And as surreal as this all sounds (regrettably, I haven't seen the show yet), it's getting good buzz on the Television Without Pity forums, a community not known for going easy on mediocre television shows. Between the recap of the first episode and the fact that they're using Pat Boone's cover of "Crazy Train" for the opening credits, I'm dying to see this show. Forget Survivor and The West Wing. I want to see a heavy metal icon swig Diet Coke, watch himself on Jay Leno, and bitch at his kids. Now that's quality programming.

(And I've figured out what was wrong with the TV in my bedroom. The power failure we suffered earlier tonight knocked it out, but the problem was fixed by simply unplugging it and plugging it back into the outlet. Whatever. Of course, I wish I'd figured this out before the syndicated episode of Buffy was over. Although maybe since it was the infamously crappy "Bad Eggs" episode, a non-functioning TV may have been a blessing in disguise.)