Smallville
Whoaaa! What is going on here? Lex is in a psych ward, Lana's cozying up to some guy with mad eyebrows from her physical rehab and there's a bunch of nuts out to kill Clark. Is this Smallville or Twin Peaks? Not that I'm complaining. After all, we are talking about the teen of steel. It's only right he be running around like a speeding bullet while the rest of his peeps are in peril. But, seriously, someone needs to talk to the writers about all the shirtless beefcake. That looney-bin weight-lifting scene between Jesse Metcalf's freak-hunter and Jonathan Taylor Thomas' meteor mutant looked like the outtakes from an Abercrombie & Fitch shoot. And it felt dirty.

Star Trek: Enterprise
It took me a bit to figure it out, but there is more going on here than just the bad theme song and Scott Bakula's Caesar 'do. Turns out, the ship's been star-jacked (like that one?) by these culty zealots and all of a sudden, the final frontier is all mucked up with religious intolerance and abortion issues. It was like a Lifetime TV-movie in monochromatic jumpsuits. But, hey, big points for boldly going out there with the topical stuff. Beats William Shatner making out with some green chick in go-go boots.

The Simple Life
I knew it! I knew that the girls' goodbye would be all sorts of huggy-feely. Well, as huggy-feely as two hard-partying boozebags with more money than God and less manners than Charles Manson can be. So instead of seeing the town string Nicole up for bleaching the pool table, we got a water-fight on the farm, tears from Janet and the promise of both a reunion special and a "lost episode" in the coming weeks. If Fox isn't careful, this terrible twosome may become as tired as those Von Dutch trucker hats they've been sporting all season long.

The O.C.
Oliver's a wacko! Hailey's outta here! Luke's eyeing up Summer! Why all the exclamation points!? Because there is nothing, nothing I say, like staged overdoses, sibling rivalry and unexpected sexual tension between beautiful people! This is what upscale suburban life is supposed to be about. I don't care if nobody mows the lawn or takes out the trash. Anna hitting the links with her Burberry golf bag and Ryan getting the willies about Marissa's hotel-dwelling druggie friend more than make up for the lack of so-called grit most dramas pride themselves on. Save that for those uglies on The West Wing.

The Bachelorette
I'm going to say it, and I'm sure to regret it later, but I love Meredith Phillips. She's got moxie, as people far older than I would say. Plus, did you notice the voice? It's not all Minnie Mousey high-pitched like some other bachelorettes we've seen. The guys, they weren't too bad, either. But let's not forget, this is only Episode 1. There's still a lot of time for the fellows to show their true colors and prove what we all know: The good ones are either married, gay or have too much integrity to date on national TV.

The Butterfly Effect commercial
I love how we're supposed to take Ashton Kutcher seriously now because he has facial hair. Big deal. You hit puberty, kid. I'm sure Demi is thrilled. Now be gone, before someone punks you into thinking we'll ever forget Just Married.

True Life
Dear Diary, I have a new addiction. MTV's documentary series is like crystal meth for couch potatoes. Tonight, I watched in unblinking horror as a bunch of East Coast meatheads headed to the Jersey shore for a summer share on the beach. Lots of tattoos, backwards Kangol caps, really bad accents and even worse attitudes about women. Imagine The Sopranos doing beer bongs. I gotta get TiVo.

Celebrity Mole: Yucatan
OK, Corbin Bernsen scares me. I haven't seen someone go this crazy from the heat since Marlon Brando in Apocalypse Now. There is no need for cursing out poor little Keshia Knight-Pulliam or insulting Angie Everhart's nude modeling. Good thing he was executed before someone got hurt. And the way things were going, it was probably going to be him. But don't worry, Corbs. There's always Celebrity Mole: Oblivion.

Dominick Dunne's Power, Privilege and Justice
Based on my sister-in-law's near-spiritual reverence for Martha Stewart, you would think that I'd be more inclined to give the beleaguered domestic doyenne the benefit of the doubt. But on behalf of everyone who has ever felt less than worthy for not being able to master the perfect almond-encrusted talapia with balsamic-sage chutney, I have to say: Burn, witch! Burn!