Guilty (Strike Ridden) Pleasures

Have you noticed that there isn't jack squat on TV these days? Oh, sure – there's "stuff" on, but very little of it that isn't either a) a rerun or b) the equivalent of mental trans fats.

The writer's strike has me bummed out, partly because I too am a writer (although not a WGA member – har, not in the slightest), and partly because I'm left with nothing much worthwhile to watch. Everything "new" is either reality TV (which is okay on some small levels – The Amazing Race and Survivor), or pure crap (Anything starring the cast of The Hills).

So like all of us, I've had to make do without much in the way of fresh TV entertainment lately. The Lovely Mrs. G. and I have been watching a lot of Netflix movies, and we've patronized our local movie theater quite a bit, too. There are the football playoffs if you're desperate (the games really aren't that exciting until the final four or so), and I suppose you can always watch C-SPAN for riveting, ad-libbed, laugh-a-minute must see TV dialog.

But while the TiVo has been lonely, it hasn't been exactly starving. You see, the writer's strike has given the Gressel family the opportunity to delve into a couple of guilty televised pleasures.

I'll start with Mrs. G.'s guilty TV pleasure this winter, only because it's just a tad bit less embarrassing to talk about than mine. Mrs. G. has been hooked on…America's Next Top Model.

For the life of me I don't understand why she's been watching this show. For one thing, Tyra Banks should just look pretty and keep quiet. I know it's crude of me to say that, but when she's a silent Victoria Secret model, she's kind of hot. But when she opens her trap and unleashes her colossal ego on the world, it's like she slides down 5 numbers on the Sexist Pig-O-Meter. So why anyone would sit through 43 minutes of Tyra & Co. as they sift through a roomful of anorexic narcissists in the name of "fashion" is beyond me.

But never mind my testosterone-fueled loathing of ANTM – I'm a hetero All-American guy, which means I'll never understand. Mrs. G. sure likes the show – in fact, she likes it so much she TiVoed the ENTIRE recent VH1 marathon of the show. 9 seasons, about a gazillion episodes, all stored on our poor little emasculated TiVo. At one point there were 40 hours of ANTM stored on the TiVo's hard drive, a fact I'm not proud to admit to all of my macho guy buddies out there. Mrs. G. had fun with her marathon of models, but me? I'd rather poke my eyes out with a diamond-tipped emery file than watch that show. Once all of the shows are finally gone I may have to go sprinkle the TiVo with some holy water (Bud Light) to cleanse its soul.

Still, let he without television sin cast the first stone. So it's with that semi-muddled biblical quote that I have to admit to my own guilty strike-prompted TV pleasure:

American Gladiator.

Yes, the ultimate in late night drinking shows is back for the 00's, complete with new puffed-up jocks with stupid nicknames, tightly spandexed contestants who are all "giving it 110%", and goofball challenges like beating each other with giant Q-tips while standing on a 3-foot platform.

But this time around they've "kicked it up a notch", as it were, by adding water effects, a giant pool to push each other in, and quite possibly the world's worst host: Hulk Hogan.

You tell me -- is there any emcee on television worse than the Hulkster? (Even Tyra?) I doubt it. He's obviously reading cue cards for every question he asks, mixing in a chance to call everyone "brother" more times than I can count. I really thought of creating a "Hulk Hogan Brother" drinking game – small a shot every time he calls someone that – but I'm afraid we'd all be dead from alcohol poisoning before The Eliminator.

Still, it's like an auto accident or a gruesome surgery show on late night Discovery Channel – you just can't turn away. The Gladiators all throw down stupid taunts, the contestants swear they're going to win this for their kids/Mom/dead parrot, then someone gets jacked across the face with a giant swinging silver ball on a string or a pair of hand-sized marshmallows.

It's cheesy entertainment at it's finest, I'm telling you.

So before I tease Mrs. G. about her supermodel obsession, I really need to look deep into my soul and judge myself for sitting there and watching this crap-o-rama. Perhaps I'll learn that my guilty mid-season pleasure is no better – or worse – than hers. That, or I'll learn that Tyra wouldn't stand a chance in hell against "Siren", "Fury" or "Hellga".

Until then, I'll just hope & pray that the writers and producers can settle this damn thing, and bring TV back to the glorious, genteel, and elite status for which it is normally known.

And if that fails, I'm sure that Celebrity Fit Club has a marathon running on one of these channels.