Secrets of the Dead
So, since it is Holy Week and all, I figured it would probably be good for my eternally damned soul to check out this hour on the shroud of Turin. The legendary wrap, long revered as the final burial cloak of Jesus, has fascinated me since Miss McKenna told my grade-school religion class the traumatizing Bible story that's been making Mel Gibson a ton of money these days. Is it the Savior's impression resonating from that ancient linen? And who was using such a light fabric so early in the season? Of course, there are no clear-cut answers offered here. Just a bunch of British scholars blathering on and on about carbon-dating, restoration processes and other CSI tidbits that made the mystery not only murkier, but God help me, pretty damn dull. Oh well, I guess that's what faith is all about. Being able to discount the brainiacs and trusting what you believe. And believe me, this is the last time I go to PBS for spiritual guidance. I'll leave that to...

American Idol
Because I have seen the light! Tamyra Gray, your voice is sent from up above, girl! Performing "Raindrops Will Fall" from her upcoming album, the first-season castoff hit the stage looking — and sounding — very Whitney, circa The Bodyguard. Who cares if she was forced to play "Ask the Exile" with the final nine who, by the way, may be the remnants of the best top 12 ever, but seem to be getting progressively weaker. The twist tonight, aside from the one in my gut while listening to the booted Camile Velasco torturing "Goodbye Yellow Brick Road," was that the kids were broken into groups of three. The top vote-getters, the middle of the pack and the bottom three. That Jennifer Hudson, George Huff and LaToya London scored the most makes a lot of sense, but how did Jon Peter Lewis and John Stevens survive the cut? Granted, Camile needed to go, but there is no way those guys were anywhere near as good as the ailing Diana DeGarmo and Jasmine Trias. Do I need to start text-messaging again? 'Cause I will, people! Oh, and Paula? Ditch the tacky satin getups. They're making Simon's flat-top and fitted man blouses look good.

60 Minutes II
It's official. I am never watching a newsmagazine again. Unless they're covering The Apprentice and Donald Trump, which isn't really news at all. Tonight, we got two accused killers telling their side of the murder charges against them and all I can think is "they have a lot of acne." You know why? Because they're 13! Charged with the death of a fellow kid, these pint-sized prisoners are facing hard time. I can't take this. Children killing children, mothers reliving their son's final moments. No. This is not good TV. It's tragic and heartbreaking and horrible. If I wanted that, I could watch...

The Swan
Fox's latest reality abomination plays like Frankenstein meets Extreme Makeover. Weepy, homely women agree to undergo complete surgical and psychological reconstruction for a spot in a season-ending beauty pageant and nobody is protesting? This is the Poor Self-Image Olympics here, folks! The opener's first two victims, er... patients... er, contestants are a sad-sack with an inattentive husband and a basket case who needs more work upstairs than out front. The big reveal, as these shows are so fond of touting, delivers the ladies looking like a pair of low-end porn stars with puffy wax lips and, as my blessed-with-natural-beauty roomie gasped, "plastic freak faces!" It will be interesting to see what lasts longer: the show, or the nerve-paralyzing Botox that kept winner Rachel from actually expressing her excitement.

100 Most Outrageous Celebrity Moments
I love countdowns. Especially when they allow Greg Proops to empathize with Diana Ross's DUI-licious trip to that Tucson Blockbuster. "I've been drunk and rented The Wiz." And here I was thinking she was looking for a copy of Lady Sings the Booze.

Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz. Huh? Oh, sorry. Dozed off. Cripes. I understand a lot of you out there think it's all about the Clooney, which means a lot of you also must have dodged this cinematic Percocet. Sci-fi is tough enough to pull off without all the talking and crying and shirtless vanity shots of a guy who rarely flashed it on ER back when it was probably worth it. Using a long-ignored Russian novella as a source material makes it all the more indecipherable. Is it his dead wife? Who knows. They're in space. Where no one can hear you scream. Or snore. Or change the channel.

The Bachelor
Touchdown! Jesse Palmer scores big points as the new man up for grabs, not because he's particularly charming or devastatingly hot, which, come on, even guys have to admit that this one is smokin'. No, he wins for a) having the guts to right the wrong of giving Katie the rose meant for Karen and b) alleviating some of my fears of Canadians. Aside from that, so much was going on in the two-hour kick-off, it's hard to make a safe call on Palmer's posse of pretties. Lovelovelove Mandy C., the pro soccer player. Jean Marie is rough, yet fun. Anne-Catherine will probably last a while since she's a fellow Canuck, even if she does have that Nina Blackwood-ish mullet. And Trish showed enough spunk to snag the first-impression rose, though that confession about wanting to wrap her legs around Jesse was just plain out there! Honey, such talk is best reserved for your inside voice, OK? Much like the one that's telling me we have our first candidate for the "Who's the Stalker" sweepstakes. Good thing the guy's a New York Giants quarterback. He's gonna need to be able to run real fast when she — and her legs — become unwrapped.