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Packed with as much sex and violence as standards and practices will allow, "Kingpin" was still a glimmer in NBC's eye two years ago, when chairman and CEO Bob Wright wrote that well-publicized bash-slash-mash note to executives, studio heads and producers. His missive was accompanied by a tape of a particularly violent episode of "The Sopranos," which he denounced as something "we could not and would not air on NBC because of the violence, language, and nudity," while at the same time urging his people to come up with a critically acclaimed scourge and highly rated menace of their own as soon as humanly possible. So here it is. "Kingpin" is what you get when you suck the soul (and the fat) from "The Sopranos," throw in some movie references and crudely stitch it all together: Aaron Spelling's "The Godfather IV: Stuck in Traffic."

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Only three days after embarking on his new adventure, Kimmel's normally cute, self-effacing regular-guy persona has started to veer into darker territory. He seems defeated. His opening-night joke ("Welcome to 'Enjoy It While It Lasts,' my new talk show"), as well as Ted Koppel's introduction ("Good evening, I'm Ted Koppel. There will be no special post-Super Bowl edition of 'Nightline' tonight, so that ABC can bring you the following piece of garbage"), hangs over the show like a dark, portentous prophecy.

Like, where are the guests? After three days on the air -- three long days spent in the "co-hosting" company of Snoop Dogg, a man whose conversational skills and extemporaneous wit would be put to shame by a volleyball with a smiley-face painted on it -- Jimmy has spent an inordinate amount of time visiting with security guards, deeply disturbed "paranormal experts," relatives and Tammy Faye Bakker. You can't blame him for not appearing to be fascinated or even quite engaged -- but then again, it is his job, isn't it?

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While this belief is not entirely our fault, it's nothing to be proud of, either. Children who watch too much television harbor similar beliefs about sugary breakfast cereals, and we don't think them adorably romantic. What is love, anyway, aside from a liquor-fueled period of psychosis counteracted with a lifetime's worth of received romantic notions and a tingling sensation in the pants? Of course, it's love's mysterious qualities that account for a large part of its enduring entertainment value. Most of us are attracted to rare and mysterious things, like truffles and Greta Garbo. Too much information is almost always a turnoff. (Note how "Foie Gras" sounds delightful, yet "Spreadable Ruptured Liver" does not.) In fact, love is a nightmare of compromise and generosity.

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Is it weird that the bad butt jokes outnumbered the bikinis? I don't know. But between the rueful financial services ads, the wistful, down-to-earth job-board commercials, the histrionic, "Reefer Madness"-style public service announcements and the triumph of the beer-for-beer's-sake ethos, a weirdly dispirited message emerged: Get a job, any job, because the fact that your stock portfolio sucks doesn't mean you won't be audited at any minute. So don't smoke, don't do drugs and ... buddy, you look like you could use a beer!

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The only explanation -- and the brain trust's current thinking -- is that the plot is too confusing. And it is. It is staunchly, proudly and maddeningly impossible to follow. You can't just drop in and out of "Alias." You have to account for your whereabouts. "Alias" demands loyalty, devotion and the ability to keep even the most Byzantine convolutions straight. And once you get into it, you really want to. You want to do it for Sydney, the most beautiful, sensitive, ass-kicking, tortured and put-upon double agent in the history of fictional counterintelligence.

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That's what would set my show, "The Rivers," apart. (I know it's not grammatical, but who's going to produce a show called "The Riverses"?) You'd have none of the palpable affection of "The Osbournes," none of the zonked-out detachment of "The Anna Nicole Show," none of the cheerful self-deprecation of "Star Dates." Instead, you'd get the unadulterated pleasure of watching Melissa gamely try to keep things clean, vapid and obsequious as her mother lets fly increasingly revolting and mortifying remarks just so she can watch her daughter's face twist into a mask of pure hatred. The cattiness was kept to a disappointing minimum during the E! fashion wrap-up, except when it came to each other. Then Joan and Melissa proved that they really are a Jean-Paul Sartre play waiting to happen.

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The conceit of Fox's "Joe Millionaire," as anybody reading this now knows, is that the women competing for the affections and assets of man-toy Evan Marriott are under the misapprehension that he is the heir to a $50 million fortune, and not, as is the case, a $19,000-a-year construction worker. This fact will be revealed to the lucky winner at the end, when the "real" point of the show will be revealed: Is she in it for love or money?

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"The Bachelorette," which debuted this week on ABC, could not have existed without "The Bachelor" -- in large part because this most recent foray into competitive matchmaking was inspired by the enduring popularity of former runner-up "Bachelor" bride Trista Rehn. The 29-year-old former Miami Heat dancer and pediatric physical therapist whose "heart was broken" by Alex Michel, the network's first slick man-prize and "Bachelor" No. 1, apparently launched a thousand letters to the network. Now that she's had time to heal, she has returned to ABC -- where else? -- to find herself a husband. Twenty-five bachelors have entered an extended voluntary confinement for the pleasure of vying for her hand (or whatever else she wants to give up).

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If "Lance Loud!" is intended to caution the kids now joining the cast of "The Real World" or trying out for "The Bachelor" about the perils of prefabricated, unmerited fame, then it really needn't bother. Unless any of those kids are campy vamps given to Oscar Wildean quips (which seems unlikely), or harbor dreams of making a splash in the underground art world (which seems unlikelier) or are possessed of a gimlet-eyed self-awareness and a sense of humor about themselves and their ravenous need for attention (I'm sorry, what?), they are in little danger of turning into Lance Loud.

"Lance Loud! A Death in an American Family," airs Monday night at 9 p.m. on PBS, and chronicles (at his behest) the last days of the first reality TV star. Loud died in a Los Angeles hospice in 2001, at the age of 50, of liver failure brought on by hepatitis C and HIV infection. "I want you there when they wheel me out," the most notorious member of the Loud family tells the filmmakers at the start of the film. "I can't leave the planet without some closure from the series."

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His fantasy life is no less pedestrian that his regular life. If anything, it's almost more so. Most of Andy's thoughts -- which run along the lines of "And then, we were all replaced by a breed of genetically engineered superdogs," or "I wish I'd said that. I'm such a jerk. And I'm 30 pounds overweight" -- are heavily influenced by dumb movies and routine self-loathing. The result is absurdly hilarious.

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Tony has always been a sentimental guy, given to big gestures that fail to make up for his constant slip-ups. And he has always savored the idea of the legacy he will leave to his kids as though it were a snifter of fine cognac, instead of the murky stew it really is. By the end of the episode, it's clear that Meadow and A.J. won't inherit the beautiful house "down the Shore" after all, but it only makes Tony's words more prophetic.

The Soprano family's fourth season on HBO dispensed with cliffhangers, opting instead for stalemates. Everything in Tony's world seems to have reached a place of unresolved stasis. Christopher is out of rehab and doing well, but drifting away from Adriana and the prospect of marriage. Adriana's desperation and angst at having been entrapped by the FBI seems to have mellowed into a morose fatalism, and she's even starting to show symptoms of the same Stockholm Syndrome exhibited last season by Big Pussy Bompensiero as he sleepwalked toward his own death.

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"You can say I failed," Attell says cheerfully, speaking of his television days, pre-Comedy Central, over the phone from New York. But you can't really say it now. Attell may self-identify as a "loser" and "a bitter, loner-type drunken guy," but "Insomniac With Dave Attell," which begins its third season on Thursday, Dec. 5, at 10:30 p.m. (following a special "The Best of Insomniac," at 9:30), has stealthily become one of Comedy Central's most popular original series, averaging 1.1 million viewers (for which it was rewarded with a new, improved prime-time slot).

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I know this because I wound up sitting directly behind him at a live taping of his eponymous show last week, and I had to watch his guests on the monitors. The solid ratings of "Dr. Phil," the show, match the Frigidaire dimensions of Dr. Phil, the guy. The show earned a 4.2 household rating in the first week of November sweeps, making "Dr. Phil" the second most-watched syndicated talk show after "Oprah," and the most highly rated new one since the dawn, more than half a decade ago, of "Judge Judy."

Given Dr. Phil's popularity and the apostolic devotion of his fans, it's a little surprising that getting a seat in the live studio audience turns out to be so easy. I know from traumatic past experiences that sitting in a studio audience requires more than just sitting; I know that a team of professional audience-warmers is poised to shuck us of our dignity and put us through a rigorous program of escalating pep that will culminate in everyone getting up and dancing to "Celebration" at 9 a.m.

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In one short season, the Osbournes have gone from programming novelties to court favorites without manifesting too many of the secondary effects of celebrity. Although Season 2 kicked off on Tuesday night with the family reaping the fruits of its rampant cuteness -- Ozzy got to be the belle of the White House correspondents dinner, Kelly got to sing at the MTV Music Awards, Jack got to tell reporters he had "a big part to do with her getting signed" -- success hasn't spoiled "The Osbournes."

Ozzy still gets a kick out of hearing his name uttered aloud, Sharon still loves spotting movie stars, and although Jack has taken to turning the sprinklers on prying fans, he still gets excited about seasonal fast food promotions. (Sharon, Kelly and Jack are driving past a McDonald's on the way home from the music awards, when Jack spots a sign and gasps, "The McRib is back!" When Kelly makes fun of him, Jack retorts, "It's the little things, Kelly.")

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Not to damn with faint praise, but the same could be said for the new Moth TV show. After having sold out live shows in New York in under three hours for the past five years, "The Moth" will premiere as a one-hour original series on the cable network Trio on Monday, Nov. 18, at 9 p.m. Eastern (6 p.m. PST), and air every weeknight through Nov. 27.

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For those who managed to miss both the series and the hype, "24" tracks the misadventures of federal agent Jack Bauer (Kiefer Sutherland), who when we last saw him was called upon to single-handedly avert an assassination attempt on the presidential front-runner, Sen. David Palmer (Dennis Haysbert), on the day of the California primary, as well as to save his own kidnapped daughter, Kim (Elisha Cuthbert), and his semi-estranged and pregnant wife, Teri, from the hands of murderous Serbs.

Over the course of what was billed as "the longest day of his life," and with no help from his traitorous chief of staff at the Counter Terrorism Unit in Los Angeles, Nina (Sarah Clarke), who turns out to be a Serbian mole named Yelena, Jack manages a respectable two out of three. Things are looking up until his wife is shot and dies in his arms, turning what would otherwise have been a triumph of time management into a somewhat hollow victory.

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If they're lucky, they go to Moomba, a nightclub in West Hollywood, on Friday nights. Since last August, Beth Lapides and Greg Miller, the creators of a long-running alternative comedy series, the Un-Cabaret, have been screening unaired pilots to the packed nightclub as part of a series called the Other Network. An instant hit, the Other Network is now hitting the road. This weekend the series will present three different nights of failed programming at the Knitting Factory in New York. And clubs from all over the country are calling Lapides and Miller, asking if they can become "affiliates."

"In Hollywood, so much great work gets produced that never reaches an audience," Miller says. Every year, the networks produce about 130 pilots, only about 30 of which ever make it to the small screen in your living room.

"The problem," says Miller, "is that it costs a million dollars to make a TV show, which means that the networks have to know that advertisers want to buy it, which means the advertisers are guessing what their audience wants to see." He adds, "People do great work, and there's a huge audience that wants to see what's out there, what they're not seeing, what TV could be."

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Hunt, a veteran of the famed improv comedy group Second City, is one of those people whose talent far outweighs her luck. Both of her previous TV comedies were shot down over Burbank -- even though critics loved them. But "Life With Bonnie" marks the first time one of Hunt's shows has been scheduled in a time slot that doesn't throw her in a foxhole with a hand grenade.

On "Life With Bonnie," Hunt plays a loopy local morning talk show host. The character is similar to two bygone Bonnies, including Bonnie Kelly, a TV reporter on "The Bonnie Hunt Show" (1995-96), and Bonnie Kennedy, a struggling actress on "The Building" (1993). This Bonnie lives in Chicago with her distractingly handsome doctor-husband, Mark (Mark Derwin, looking very much the soap opera doctor he plays on "One Life to Live," a character that, luckily for prime-time viewers, fell into a coma just in time); three realistic kids of normal human cuteness levels, who don't walk around sounding like jaded, Noel Coward-loving gnomes; and a somewhat slatternly nanny who calls to mind "The Brady Bunch's" Alice, if Alice's bun weren't quite so tight.

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After watching an advance copy of "Young, Sexy & Royal," which airs Sunday night on WE (Women's Entertainment), I once again have reason to believe. According to Village Voice gossip columnist Michael Musto, just one of the many royal sexiness experts consulted on the show, "It's a better time than ever for a commoner to marry a royal."

Prince Carl of Sweden is dating a P.R. girl, Prince Felipe -- "biggest catch in the royal pond" of Spain -- dated an underwear model whose father managed an auto repair shop, and Prince Haakon of Norway married a former waitress with an out-of-wedlock child. That's all fine. But, honestly, what could be commoner than me, lying on the couch in boxer shorts and knee socks, drinking beer from a bottle and watching "Young, Sexy & Royal"? Whoo-doggies. I've got to call my grandmother. Things are looking up!

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