THE GREAT GADFLY:

Syntax Casserole

Regarding tomorrow's Super Bowl, I simply offer this question to the universe: now that we have reality television, are sports really necessary anymore? I mean, you get the same kinds of thrills from a season of "Survivor", but with juicier mental collapses. I think we need to do away with the NFL, NBA, NHL and all the rest, and just run reality TV shows all day every weekend. That's what I think.

I've been disturbed by this new Dear Abby person who's been popping up in the newspaper columns. I think she's the daughter of the Original Abby (not to be confused with Original Gangsta), and she's simply trying to carry on the Abby franchise, but still. This woman's picture makes her look like some kind of spine-chilling ClonAid copy of Linda Dano. And that makes me think of the possibility of dozens of Linda Danos running around the world. Imagine "Attack of the Clones", with thousands and thousands of Linda Danos, all elbows and shoulderpads, headbutting innocent bystanders with that jutting pompadour of hers. The thought doesn't exactly offer a sound night's sleep. Just sayin'. I think they should clone pop stars, though. Okay, I don't really think that. It's just a reason for me to set up a joke with the punchline "ClonAid O'Connor".

I would like to join the ClonAid cult, though. Really. They get to wear shiny tunics and grow goatees and operate cheesy looking gadget boxes that look like leftovers from an Ed Wood movie. Do all the women in the cult have to dye white stripes in their hair? I think that's awesome. If I were a cult-joinin' man, the Raeliens would be the group for me. I want to sit at their welcome table.

So I've been putting off announcing some kinda big news in Gadflyland, partially because I wanted to be prudent and cautious with my blathering for a change, and partially because I don't want to jinx the momentum of this development by blabbing about it before it's a done deal. But, well, here you go: I'm working on a treatment for a television show. I'm collaborating with someone in New York who works in TV, who came across one of my old online rants and approached me about developing some of my writing for the idiot box. Nothing's been picked up yet - nothing's solid as of now. We're going to register the treatment I've written, then do some shopping around in the next few months. I have no idea what's going to come of this. Let's just say, however, that the overall vibe is frighteningly auspicious. Wow. More details as events transpire, mmmkay?

Meanwhile, my first week at the new job has been a sanity-trying, crazymaking chaotic wallop of spasmodic craptitude. I've worked more overtime in the past week than I did in all of 2002. Blood, sweat and tears aplenty have been shed in this short time. And ya know what? I think it's great. I wouldn't have it any other way. I finally gots me a job, see. And that's just allright with me. Bring it on.

I'm currently heating up a batch of Spanish rice and listening to Liz Phair. As quiet, restful evenings of licking wounds go, I can't ask for much better. Well, maybe I could. But not tonight.

Everyone should pick up the new issue of Bitch magazine, which I just got in the mail last week. The new ish, the "Fame and Obscurity" edition, has a faboo interview with Princess Superstar, a chat with Mags Cho and lots of other nitpicky pop culture goodness. The new Bitch mag also hipped me to this unseemly hullaballoo.

I wish Chicago had bootleg vendors on the street who specialized in cheap knock-off DVDs of movies currently running in theatres, like they used to (still?) have in New York. Still, I don't think such a resource would help me get my dirty paws on a copy of the new Matthew Barney "Cremaster" movie. Feh. Check out the new New Yorker for a long, long, long story on Mr. Barney (or Mr. Bjork, as the tabloids would scream), complete with requisite disturbing images. I'm seething with envy for every ticket purchased for that film that isn't from my hand. Gah!

Nell Carter died last week. How much does that suck? I'll always remember that time on "Gimme A Break!" when she clasped a sombrero to her chest and it stuck to her boob. And I'll always remember that awards show when she gave a bizarre performance of a song from "Aladdin", in which she was painted up like an evil genie and ended with a cadre of dancers carrying her off kicking and screaming. Nell Carter was the perfect loony, over-the-top TV auntie for every latch-key kid in the '80s. Sorry to end on a downer, but - Damn.