Daily Blague

Years ago - and I do mean years - Kathleen and I would watch Law and Order reruns at eleven and then lazily remain in front of the tube for an installment of Biography, a show that was usually just interesting enough to make us postpone going to bed, a tedious procedure that involved turning off lights, locking the door, and clearing away our Along Came Polly collection of throw pillows. So I understood what Ms Nola was talking about last night when, having obtained permission to watch The Gilmore Girls, she was challenged at ten past nine for watching the next WB show, One Tree Hill. Now, trust me when I say that Ms Nola has sound professional reasons for watching what she concedes is a terrible soap opera (it is, she claims, the highest-rated TV show for teens). But her first justification reminded me of all the Biographys that I'd watched. "After my friend H- and I have consumed a bottle of wine during Gilmore Girls, One Tree Hill is irresistible." We were waiting for Kathleen to come home for dinner, so I sat down and watched. Lord, what an awful show. Of course it's awful! It's written for teens.

Everybody in One Tree Hill has slept with everybody else, except for Lucas (Chad Michael Murray), a soulful young man with a heart condition. Without exception, the young women look like pole dancers dressed for church. The dialogue is predictable and trite, and the story lurches from one wrenching but fundamentally vapid disclosure to another like an Arthur Miller drama on speed. I was quickly convinced that Keith (Craig Sheffer) was only pretending to be  concerned about Lucas's heart condition, for if Lucas dies, the pot of money that he will necessarily fail to inherit will go to his stepfather. I'm making this up. Actually, what this show needs is the What's Up, Tiger Lily? treatment: dubbed sarcasm. Lucas, whose lack of a love interest is obviously plotted to trick viewers into believing that he really belongs to them, could keep all his lines, because nobody's listening anyway: Chad Michael Murray is the Fred Astair of furrowed brows.

"Just wait till Kathleen comes home and sees this show," I warned the kiddies. And it was fun, now that I was back in the kitchen finishing the macaroni and cheese, to hear Kathleen's cries of disbelief.

Does this mean that I can't say "I never watch television anymore?" Of course not. My interest, like Ms Nola's, is really professional. As the lady put it herself, "We're watching this so that RJ can write about it in his blog."