I'm a television loser. Fortunately or unfortunately, I don't have any of the ubersystems that are constantly being advertised in the local sports talk radio station (apparently you're not man enough if you're not receiving LIVE GREY CUP ACTION 24 HOURS A DAY ON THE FINANCIALLY AILING CANADIAN FOOTBALL LEAGUE HEY DON'T LAUGH WE USED TO HAVE DOUG FLUTIE NETWORK) in between all of the blurbs for strip bars and offshore betting services. The sad fact is that I simply don't make enough for PrimeStar or that ilk, and must instead content myself with slightly-above-basic cable. That means, at least in suburban Atlanta, somewhere on the order of 70 channels, ranging in interest from approximately a dozen Christian channels (which I don't watch) to Univision (which I don't watch, even when that wacky soccer announcer is blowing bats out of the air with his signature goal call) to The Golf Channel (which I don't watch, because I have sedatives that accomplish precisely the same thing as a good five minutes of watching grainy film of Sam Snead) to, well, you get the idea. It's a vast, dull wasteland, illuminated by brief flashes of watchability that soon fade into the infomercial-laden night.

But there are a few -- a precious few -- channels that can occasionally divert my attention. TNT, when it's showing Big Trouble in Little China four times a day (as opposed to Roadhouse four times a day, or Jaws four times a day, or the entire Bond catalog four times a day) manages the trick, particularly when the level on the bottle of scotch in my pantry has been dipping. ESPN is a particular favorite, especially the smooth distillate of snideness served on SportsCenter. The Hitlery Channel, err, History Channel has its moments, though the network's reliance on World War II documentaries now means that even Patton's ghost is sitting up and screaming "Show some fucking footage of Korea already, you bastards!" But other channels disappoint. Tuning into the Cartoon Network is an exercise in frustration; they really ought to name that thing the 24 Hour Scooby Doo Channel. A&E now shows nothing but Biography and old episodes of Law & Order; at some point they'll start doing episodes of Biography on the stars of L&O, and the entire channel will collapse under its own gravitational pull. And MTV? Near as I can tell, MTV hasn't played an actual video in over four years.

There is one bright and shining spot on the dial, however, a single channel that can draw me even as a moth is drawn to the flame. I refer of course to E!, the network that holds the same sort of unholy fascination for me that shoggoths do for protagonists of H.P. Lovecraft stories, i.e. it's big, it's glistening and it's probably going to suck my brain right out through my nostrils.

I mean, you have to admire E!. They had a blank half hour on their schedule, decided to show film trailers -- advertisements, mind you, massive advertisements for upcoming films -- and called it programming. They've been pushing their brand new network, Style, for approximately the length of the Spanish Civil War. Guys, once the commercials hit their first anniversary, the network isn't "brand new" any more. Honest. If people aren't calling up and demanding that their cable providers supply them with the Rich-Bastards-Getting-Massages-You-Can't-Afford Channel, maybe you overestimated the perceived marketplace need for that sort of thing.

But those are just peripheral issues. There is a trinity of sheer brilliance that brings me back to E! again and again, even when I'd rather be taking a clawhammer to my retinas.

The first is the low-key production Mysteries and Scandals, hosted by a Chazz Palmienteri lookalike. Each episode takes a look at a particularly lurid scandal from the entertainment industry, which means that if they keep on cranking out episodes weekly, they should run out of material in the year 2431. One a week or so, our ominously garbed host (he dresses like the cover illustration for a collection of Hammett stories, presumably to impress upon us how down and dirty this stuff really is; I suspect that if he were cleaned up and given a nice shirt, he'd look like the sidekick on MTV's Loveline. (Amazing, isn't it, how many people feel the need to share how pathetic they are in the sack with the entire world? "Doctor Drew, my lover can only achieve orgasm if I shove a half-gallon of tutti-frutti up my pazuzu before we engage in ritualistic foreplay involving lacrosse sticks and the complete works of Benjamin Britten. Do you have any advice?" "Umm, would that be low-fat or regular tutti-frutti? It makes a difference, you know." But I digress.)

In any case, each episode follows a fairly standard format: A star is briefly profiled, his (or her) rise to success is glossed over quickly through a series of panning shots of period photographs, and occasionally old footage of said star is randomly inserted. Don't worry if you miss it the first time; it'll be back at least twice more before the episode ends. Talking heads, usually authors of adoring biographies, aging actors who worked with the victims or keepers of bizarre little museums, give sound bites, most of which contradict one another. Then, about twelve minutes in, we hit the big scandal. To their credit, the writers do their homework and give balanced, reasonably detailed looks at whatever the heck went on -- but it's over quickly. Then we get the inevitable look at this week's victim's sexuality. Apparently everyone who ever got in trouble in Hollywood was either gay, bisexual or the sort of horndog who'd hump a knot in a tree if he thought it was giving him the eye. "Was Rudolph Valentino really gay?" our host asks ominously? "I DON'T FUCKING CARE!" I scream back at the screen. But it never seems to help. Valentino, incidentally, rings all the bells; apparently he was gay, bi and horny enough to change the ambient temperature of southern California -- at least according to the episode I watched. I mean, I knew the man had talent, but that's something else entirely.

Finally, each episode wraps up with a pithy summation and a faux-tough bon mot from our host, who then stalks off into the vaguely foggy night. I suppose it impresses someone, but I can't help thinking that any of the noir characters the scene is supposed to evoke would kick this guy's ass, take his milk money and light a match on his carefully groomed stubbly chin. Hell, most of the naughty celebrities profiled seem capable of that as well.

Mysteries & Scandals, however, pales in comparison with the brilliance of Talk Soup, wherein a smartalecky host (at the moment, John Henson -- clearly no relation to Jim) takes snippets of the day's talk show miasma and holds them up for ridicule. Now, there's nothing wrong with this. Let's face it, most talk shows deserve ridicule. Frankly, most talk shows deserve to be laughed off the planet, with their endless streams of faux-concerned hostesses, freak show mentalities and fascination with utter minutiae. I mean, does America really need to watch two urbanized yahoos play miniature golf, or some middle-aged uberconformist forcing teenagers to get makeovers because black nail polish is apparently too icky for words? Come on, people. At least go out and play your own damn miniature golf.

But the real heart of Talk Soup is freakshowing the freak shows. Every show we get the lesbian love triangle du jour from Jerry Springer (first of all, when did "lesbian" become synonymous with "feverishly compelled to strip in front of slack-jawed studio audience for no good reason?" and second of all, why do those self-same slackjaws chant Springer's name when he's not the one doing a damn thing? Two mostly naked women go at it with studio furniture because their drag queen "boyfriend" has been sleeping with each of them almost as much as they've been sleeping with one another, and the audience goes wild for the pasty white guy with the microphone. Me, I'd make book on the tussling exhibitionists, or at least cheer for one or the other. Then again, I'm not your average Springer fan, I guess) followed by the Daily Show staff tormenting some prime specimen of fringe Americana. It's endlessly fascinating, not only because we get to watch the distilled genius necessary to come up with 300 or so mutant exhibitions a year, but also because we get to watch the endlessly inventive Talk Soup writers come up with new and exciting ways to present the fifth twist on "My Mother Stole My Lesbian Lover's PreOp Boyfriend's Dentist" that week.

To be honest, I started watching for the boiled-down freak shows, but now I've got an ulterior motive. How many "Cute Animals on Conan" clips, how many sound bites of Jay Leno being condescending to a ten year old, how many of those omnipresent lesbian love triangles does it take to make the host of the show snap. Greg Kinnear got out before he did, though his choice of film roles seems to indicate some residual damage. Henson is fleeing this summer for a network gig, but I'll be watching him carefully for nervous tics and quivers. And the next victim? It's only a matter of time....

The finest bit of fluff E! throws at our hypnotized selves, though, has to be the "Wild On..." series. Hosted by a hormonal Muppet named Jules Asner, "Wild On..." is essentially a guided tour of hedonism throughout the world. Each episode, whether it be "Wild on the Riviera" or "Wild on New York City" or "Wild on the Suburbs of Ulan Bator" is a nature-style documentary of where to go to get screwed, blued and tattooed in that particular location. Asner narrates all the action with a sort of breathless excitement that's intended to make the viewer believe she's never seen a drunken secretary from Kitchener, Ontario flash her over-ample breasts at a camera before. In the meantime, we get shown -- briefly -- the insides of clubs and spas that would turn each and every viewer of the show away at the door. But for one brief moment, we get to follow Asner's swaying derriere inside, there to see all of the naughtiness!

Therein lies the crux of Wild On...'s fascination, to be honest. E! as a network thrives on selling sex. From the titilation provided by second-hand Springer to backstage looks at lingerie fashion shows to "documentaries" on former Playboy Playmates, E! smothers the screen with as much female flesh as it can get away with and still be part of basic cable. Wild On... takes this to an extreme, because let's face it, the whole point of the show is to exhibit exotic locales where people other than you are getting laid. Combine the innate hedonism of the setting, the insanity that always descends on people when a camera is nearby and the sheer volume of alcohol consumed in every episode, and the end result is a lot of naked female flesh. (Not so much male flesh, however; go figure. Perhaps they're trying to capture the niche market of bored Springer guests killing time until Talk Soup comes on.) However, since E! is basic cable, we don't actually get to see that naked flesh. Instead, we get the dreaded mosaic, that visual scrambling effect that one normally only gets after chugging the bongwater. Mind you, there are enough bare breasts in the average episode of Wild On... to necessitate more mosaic that archaeologists have found on the walls of Pompeii, but hey, it's for our own good. God forbid we get our eyeballs seared by a glimpse of a nipple, even though the entire episode has been about, to be bluntly, where to get fucked and where to get fucked up.

So that's my fascination with E! in a nutshell, and I do mean "nut." It sells sex, but in the most puritanical fashion imaginable. It sells scandal, but only through rose-colored spectacles ("The Gossip Show" is the biggest collection of creampuffs and softballs I've seen. If you want the good stuff, grab an issue of Movieline and have endless hours of fun trying to dope out whom they're talking about in those cute little colored offset boxes). It sells satire, but only when the targets are defenseless.

And you know what? I love it anyway. If you need me, I'll be on the couch, waiting for another glimpse of Jules Asner frolicking semi-nude in Fairbanks.

Five bucks says you will be, too. Pass the popcorn, or at least stop drooling in mine. Either is fine by me.