24 HEAVEN

At last, the true television season has arrived. Fox's ultraviolent, ultrathrilling and ultra-addictive "24" is back. Five episodes into its fifth season, the body count is already a robust 24.

For those of you who don't watch the show, "24" chronicles the adventures of counter-terrorism agent Jack Bauer as he suffers through a really stressful day trying to keep Armageddon from asserting itself. The show's format sets each episode as one hour of that day, hence the name.

Naturally, such a format makes "24" the enemy of credibility. For instance, it constantly asks viewers to believe that a drive across Los Angeles is a mere 15 minutes or some other ridiculous time interval that implies teleporting. And it brazenly declares that a man whose heart gives out under torture is able to return to full butt-kicking fury with only a shot of vitamin C. Or something like that.

But if you want something more plausible, then go watch "Charmed."

Jack Bauer is the sort of American hero that makes Chuck Norris look like a mincing, powdered-wig Regency fop. He is a creature of natural justice with little use for due process when faced with a dire threat. He is ruthless and brutal when he has to be. He has saved Los Angeles from nuclear holocaust twice and germ warfare once (for some reason, terrorists really have mad on for L.A.; I guess they hated that Britney Spears movie, too.) by hacking, stabbing, shooting, beating, bludgeoning, torturing and decapitatingd his way through whatever terrorist group is threatening mayhem in America. What's fair is fair and what's unfair gets a dagger in the eye. When he flushes the toilet in the morning, he sees chunks of terrorists swirling the bowl.

And he has been given the ultimate accolade: A Web board that lists random facts about him. Try this one on for size: In kindergarten, Jack Bauer killed a terrorist for Show and Tell. (Here's the link. www.notrly.com/jackbauer/index.php?topthirty.)

His exploits -- and by that I mean his kills -- are savored by the shows fans, in part because it's usually righteous retribution when Bauer kills. The fans practically give style points, posting things like "Only one kill tonight, but that was suh-weet. Scissors to the neck, baby; that's pure money. Quality over quantity, I say." (The "24" body count can be found at www.fastandbad.com/archives/cat_jack_bauer_power_hour.php.) You wanna say that this reveals the coarsening effect of TV on the American soul? Fine, go ahead. Just don't let Jack find out, or you'll taste a little justice, Bauer-style.

The man, however, is not impervious; he has suffered much saving the world. He was severely tortured in Season 2, and he was a heroin junkie at the start of Season 3. (Though he did get to put a bullet in his boss's brain in Season 3; what government worker hasn't wanted to do that?). Yet the greatest tragedy to befall him came at the end of the first season, when his wife died ... and his daughter lived.

Even in a land of towering villains, Kim Bauer deserves a special antipathy, not because she is exceedingly evil but because she is exceedingly stupid. Blonde and bratty, pouty and willful, she dashes from one ridiculous, self-created peril to the next.

In the first season, she was kidnapped three times in one day. One day! Three times! That might sound mighty unlikely to the rest of us, but it's not so hard in the Kimiverse. All you have to do is get the hots for your dreamboat abductor and then go running to him after you have been freed.

In the second season, she was running through the woods and got caught in the jaws of a steel trap, just like any dumb beast would. There she met her arch-enemy the mountain lion, who was chased off by a kindly, paranoid survivalist ... who then decided to hold Kim against her will so she could be his post-apocalypse mate. She, of course, escaped.

In the third season, Kim (or, as she is known at Television Without Pity, Spawn) had a safe office job at CTU but still wound up bound and gagged so she wouldn't spill the beans about a super-secret undercover mission. Unfortunately, she was freed yet again, and then decided to use her freedom to harass her boyfriend about "where their relationship was going" while L.A. was heading toward biological catastrophe. The spectre of millions dead just doesn't carry much weight in the Kimiverse when there is a commitment-phobic boyfriend to bring to heel.

Kim never really suffers from her idiocy. That's left to those around her. Her mother, her friend, her boyfriends, her employers, the girl she was nanny to -- they all have been killed, dismembered, raped or beaten. Except the mountain lion.

I suppose you could make allowances for her, given what her upbringing in the Bauer household must have been. She probably got fatherly admonishments such as "Eat your spinach, sweetheart, or I will start snapping you fingers like dried twigs." (Jack is the Rembrandt of coercion.) And when she asked her father for his advice about getting out of a sticky situation with her boss, he said, "Sweetheart, I want you to shoot him. Is he still breathing? Shoot him again." That's gotta mess with the mind a little.

Still, any sane person has got to find Kim pretty exasperating, and it's a another blot on the show's credibility that Jack treats her with patience and love. Perhaps the tenderest moment they shared was when he called her to bid farewell as he was flying to his death (or so it seemed at the time). There was much talk of love, regret and forgiveness. But it would have been so much better if Jack had said something like this: "Sweetheart, I'm flying a plane carrying a nuclear bomb into the desert where it will detonate and I will be vaporized in an instant. But I don't want you to worry; I'm going to a better place. After all, any place that is far away from you and your witless stunts is a better place. I'm doubly glad that your mother died just as you were reaching the nadir of stupidity. It spared her the pain of realizing she had raised a blithering idiot. So farewell, daughter. If only our places could be reversed; then the world could be safe from this hydrogen bomb and you, too. Frankly, I can't tell which is more lethal. But live your life, dearest, and try not to scatter too much desolation in your wake. I know that will be hard, but try. For me."

Of course, Jack did not die in the blast. He survived and made those responsible pay. And he's still doing it. Look, "24" may not be the best show out there, nor all that believeable.

But believe me, it's a great way to kill a day.

THAT'S ENTERTAINMENT

Most of us would agree that going to church is not a bad thing, yet we would also agree that going to church is a sometimes dull and compulsory exercise that eats into our leisure time. Let's face it, haven't we all wanted to stand up during an interminable sermon and say, "Yes, yes, yes, padre, that's all well and good, all well and good indeed. But it's not like we haven't heard this before, and kickoff is in 20 minutes"?

Churches of all denominations have been painfully aware for quite some time that pews are not filled by holy writ alone. The flock needs a little entertainment to keep its easily distracted gaze fixed upon the good news. And so some churches have begun filling their services with enough singing and dancing to rival a Broadway musical. Yet in doing so they have stepped upon a slippery slope. What is enthralling on Sunday is tiresome by Wednesday, so new styles of entertainment must be brought forth and before you know it, the congregation is seeing the story of David and Bathsheba performed by chimps. You know, the ones all got up in silly costumes and who wag their jaws to a voiceover.

But there are other ways to capture the faithful's attention without abrading sanctity. Take baptism, for example, which is also called christening, which is also what we do to ships. Why don't we christen people as we do ships? Just smash a bottle of champagne over their heads and slide them down a ramp into the baptismal font. And almost all baptisms I have been to have at some point paraded the newly baptized up and down the center aisle, especially when they're infants and toddlers. This is to allow the congregation to coo and ahhh. Well, why not just load the kids into a circus cannon and fire them down the center aisle into a waiting net. It be sort of like "Look at the little angel fly!" All that cooing would be replaced by an amazed and appreciative "Whoa, dude!"

When entertainment fails, churches can always appeal to base self-interest. I'm an Episcopalian and have at times been an usher, which can be a dangerous job. You see, once Episcopalians catch the scent of communion wafers and sacramental wine, they can be a pretty feral lot and just might rush the altar like wolves going after fattened sheep. So I decided I should not risk life and limb enforcing pew discipline for nothing and began charging $5 a head to be allowed up to the altar. I call it a "salvation tax." One Christmas Eve, I made $400 (then I blew it all at KitKat Massage, but that's another story). Making this an acceptable part of the service (which might depend on the deacon's cut) might help bring people in.

Of course, there are the usual oddballs at church, the ones who blow bubbles in the communion cup or shout "nekkid!" after the priest says, "Let us pray." But their entertainment value is wears out quickly. So if churches are going to make a pact with entertainment, they need to seek something that has shown it can endure, something that grabs people where they live.

Something like Elvis.