The pitch: Enclose 10 people in a smallish house with no access to the outside world! Record everything with countless video cameras and microphones! Air the ensuing fireworks six nights a week!

In its post-"Survivor" hubris, CBS didn't consider the fact that its 10 "houseguests" were rather unremarkable. Anyone who showed dramatic life was quickly voted off by the viewing audience. The ones who remained claimed to be more interested in being a "family" than in sniping at one another.

Not one person fell into a fire and burned the skin off his hands.

The houseguests -- generally harmless folk much like you or me, except for their entrapment in the Studio City Habitrail -- held the CBS empire hostage with their blandness. To enliven the show, the producers invented a variety of tasks so lame even the housemates rolled their eyes. When the show finally expired, America didn't much care who won.

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I tuned in nearly every night, and kept close tabs with a few similarly inclined friends. While others argued over the viperous character of Richard Hatch on "Survivor," we shared our concern about the emotional state of dignified Cassandra during the weeklong dance contest.

When given such a task, the house hamsters didn't complain much. They danced lurchingly until it was over, and then went inside and sat on ugly Ikea furniture. Sometimes they took a dip in the pool. Or ate a snack.

They were often annoying, but just in the way people around the office can be annoying.

I found it captivating, somehow, and always wondered what had happened to these people, once a fixture in my life, since their heady days of summer.

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I noticed a flier in the dented Seminar Center ad box on my street. I'd never taken the Seminar Center seriously -- it's one of those outfits where teachers with dubious credentials teach a grab bag of courses, ranging from kayaking to past-life regression.

But the cover of its winter catalog made my heart skip a beat.

In a small box at the bottom were the words "Big Brother Reunion!"

I suddenly found myself paging through the Seminar Center catalog with the deepest reverence. Five of the house hamsters were coming to my town!

"From half-million-dollar Grand Prize winner Eddie to the pert and popular sacrificial lamb Brittany, they've become celebrities with fan clubs, web sites and a legion of followers who can't get enough of these people they came to know intimately. Now you'll have your chance to hear their stories LIVE!"

Tickets ranged from $40 to $115.

I bought four immediately.

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I knew we were in for a treat when we saw Curtis getting off the elevator! (I assume you know the housemates, and if you don't, the shame is yours.)

Two hundred chairs were arranged in the basement of an Upper East Side synagogue, and at the witching hour, the audience filled about half of them. I recognized a few people -- friends and relatives of the hamsters -- from the live episodes hosted by the animatronic Julie Chen. The rest of the audience sat placidly, as though they'd been bumped from a more exciting seminar.

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