The write-off

The writers' strike is finally over, and I'm glad that they are getting what's due them. However, I honestly can't say that my life had a gaping hole in it because I wasn't getting new episodes of, say, The Office. Instead, all the writers' strike did was further my illicit love affair with reality TV, throwing me into the arms of shows like Celebrity Rehab with Dr. Drew, Randy Jackson Presents America's Best Dance Crew, American Idol and Project Runway.

First of all, I think Dr. Drew just might be the hottest man on TV right now. On top of rocking a full head of premature grey (well, white, really), he has that nurturing quality to him that women love (sort of the way you feel when you see a hot guy pushing a baby stroller) as he tries to right the wrongs of a whole motley crew of slobbering, vomiting, crying, yelling, withdrawal-stricken drug and alcohol-addicted B-list celebs. (In one episode a poor aide has to slather some type of Ben Gayish lotion on Jeff Conaway's ass.) Dr. Drew makes me swoon.

Then there's the talent shows. American Idol has too many favorites for me to name right now (the soulful Irish tattoo artist and the soulful Australian are my current faves), and I'm loving the Jabberwockys and Kaba Modern on the dance show. And competitions like Project Runway and Top Chef have been more compelling than regular TV for a long time.

Sure, I do get back episodes of Lost (though I could do without the Cliff's Notes episodes, where they explain the plot--isn't part of that show's appeal the fact that it's too confusing to follow?), but it might be too late for "regular" shows to woo me back, even with promises of Matthew Fox's pouty, longing looks at Kate, or Wentworth Miller's pouty, longing looks at life outside bars. These new writer-produced episodes better be worth the space they take up on my Tivo's memory.