PLAUSIBILITY

Anybody who wants to have any cred around the office water cooler probably should know the goings-on of at least one of these three TV shows: Heroes, 24 or Lost. In a nutshell, the shows chronicle the lives and times of genetic anomalies with superpowers (think X-Men), the baddest man on the planet (think Jack Bauer; think only about Jack Bauer when you hear those words) and a group of accidental tourists who are having a lousy time in a tropical paradise.

These shows are pure escapist fun, but at some point the inevitable questions of plausibility -- however faint -- assert themselves. How much of this has sufficiently believable roots that it can maintain its hold on us? Well, I'm here to tell you what sounds reasonable in each show, and what has the merit of Joey the Acidhead's ravings.

Heroes
A lot more believable than you might think at first glance. Let's face it, a lot of what is being touted on this show as enormous evolutionary leaps forward is pretty pedestrian stuff. So far, our heroes have been a hot chick who can talk a guy into doing anything (whoa!), another hot chick with incredible mood swings (never seen that before! Suck it, Darwin!) a powerful politician who flies about the country recklessly indulging his libido and a teenage girl who insists on showing off her injuries, which turn out to be nothing at all, really. The villain in this world is a sinister nerd who keeps getting what he wants by pretending to be somebody else. I'm looking real hard, and I can't see anything here that is new under the sun. OK, so there's some unassisted flying by a couple of characters. And one guy can crack open a skull with just a wag of a finger, but, hey, I ran into plenty of assistant principals who had similar skills when it came time to enforce the school code. So I say this show is not that many area codes away from a normal day for the rest of us.

24
Let's see, in the Bauer-verse the United States has suffered about 20,000 deaths from terrorist attacks, yet there has been no overthrow of the government. Granted, most of the deaths have taken place in Southern California, so maybe the rest of the country thought the carnage was part of some TV drama or game show. But it still beggars belief to imagine that Americans would react to persistent WMD threats with calm, steely resolve and faith in leaders. The hero is Jack Bauer, whose badassness I have previously discussed, and he's a totally implausible character. No mere mortal can hope to be Jack Bauer. Like, he never takes a sick day! For instance, he gets stabbed in the shoulder during a torture session this season, and apparently all he needs is a bandage and ibuprofen to get over it. No neurosurgery, no months of rehab. I mean, c'mon! There are people out there who would take a sick day if they have a hangnail. About the only thing that's really plausible on 24 is the drinking on the job and the bureaucratic ineptitude. (How many times has CTU's security been breached? Apparently, all you need to get a CTU password is a note from your mother and a photo of the president.)

Lost
Totally implausible for one reason: these people have been castaways for at least a couple of months now, and they haven't gone all Donner Party. I'd believe the show if there was more cannibalism.

A DESIRABLE BODY

Why is the possession of Anna Nicole Smith's body worth this much of a legal melee? Is there some hope that her grave will become some sort of shrine that lures pilgrims? Is there some chance that small-breasted women will flock to the grave, in the hope that they will miraculously become double-Ds? What is the big deal?

The ruling by the judge today was newsworthy in part for what did happen: the judge playing to the camera like the ham actor he is. It was also news worthy by what didn't happen: The judge did not decide to use the wisdom of Solomon and have the body cut into enough pieces to go around among the suing parties. Given the circus atmosphere of these proceedings, that omission is something of a surprise.

CAT PEOPLE

I have often heard friends and other strange sorts of people identify themselves as "a cat person." That has often struck me as a vague way of saying, "I like cats." so for the sake of linguistic clarity, ask yourself these questions before saying, "I am a cat person."

1. Have I ever brought a cocktail party to grief by obsessively playing with a ball of yarn, skittering about and getting hopelessly tangled?

2. Have I ever shown my romantic partner my appreciation by running into the house with a dead squirrel clamped in my jaws and then deposit the unfortunate rodent under the bed?

3. (For guys only) Have I ever, ah, marked my territory in my new girlfriend's apartment?

4. Have I ever begun running about the house like a madman for no apparent reason?

5. Have I ever leaped onto a bookcase when a dog walked into the room?

6. Have I ever ruined a dinner date by standing over the restaurant aquarium and trying to snatch the fish out?

7. Have I ever slept all day, rising only to eat and sneer at those who care for me, and then stay out all night? (This can also be a sign of being a "teenager person.")

Answering yes to any two of these means you need to stop seeing an internist and start seeing a veterinarian for your annual checkup.

VALENTINE'S DAY

No other holiday arouses such scorn as Valentine's Day, and rightfully so. Its proper symbol is not some pre-diabetic winged infant but instead the scheming fortune hunter, an oily ne'er-do-well who beguiles us out of our money and happiness with false promises of romance. By the time the day is past, some of us have been reminded of our loneliness, some have discovered that they have unsuitable partners and some have put on about 10 pounds eating chocolate. But I think most of us are so pissed off or disillusioned that we might realize that maybe Al Capone was on to something in the way he celebrated the day.

Still, the day is there -- erupting red, heart-shaped balloons that proclaim "you're still the one!" and other lyrics from wretched '70s songs -- and it must be celebrated. But how? Well, by buying something; Discover says that men spend an average of $128 on Valentine's Day. But what to buy?

So I went to the mall to see just what the merchants were peddling. The ones in the kiosks were selling Teddy Bears; lots and lots of Teddy Bears that offered more kitsch than cute. These are the bottom-feeders of Valentine's Day gifts, the ones that show a guy remembered to get his sweetie something but didn't let it cut in too much into xBox time. These bears are just about completely useless -- no woman in her right mind is going to give it up because of a Teddy Bear -- but they do have one redeeming virtue: When that moment comes that you have pushed your girlfriend to the breaking point and she wants to turn your guts into a souffle, she will focus her rage on the Teddy Bear instead. Better that its synthetic innards be strewn about her apartment rather than your intestines.

At the other end of the spectrum were the jewelry stores. Nothing says "I love you" quite like diamonds. Even a mere $100 purchase says "I love you enough that I will put off buying that copy of Blonde Fury: The Invasion of the Psycho Nymphs computer game for at least a week or so." And a more substantial purchase will assure her that you won't have enough money for the strip bars for quite awhile, which will make her even more happy. Yes, diamonds are the best way to go. Besides, most jewelry stores offer a 90-day money back guarantee on all purchases. The sellers know that the diamonds will last forever, even if the love won't.

Then there's Spencer's Gifts, a store that reduces Valentine's Day to its core: sex -- demystified, trivialized sex. At the front of the store was a display rack featuring all sorts of novelties, but two stood out. The first was a chocolate strip checkers board game. Its purpose was to throw a different flavor into foreplay as each winning move allows one to eat chocolate and watch his/her partner disrobe. Sounds naughty and exciting, no? Well, turning foreplay into a game is a huge mistake, especially with Type A people. Some people won't concede defeat under any circumstances and will insist on best two out of three instead of making with the passion. Trust me, lean on this game and you might not wind up having sex. You're just going to be playing checkers.

The second eye-catching novelty was a man's guide to performing oral sex on a woman. "Make her scream like she never has before!" the packaging blared. Well, gee whiz, that's not too hard. Any guy can make his girlfriend "scream as never before" by blowing off her birthday to go to Wrestlemania with the guys. Or by saying, "Well, I've been banging your little sister now for about a month ..."

But off to the side was something that left me agog: A book titled "Cookie Sutra." In it, the sexually adventurous reader could find the positions of the Kama Sutra depicted by gingerbread characters. This is so wrong on so many levels I just don't know where to begin.

Perhaps the mall, however, is not the best place to find that special gift for that special someone. For instance, there are flight services that offer airborne amours for those who find the bedroom too pedestrian. Specially designed cabins that offer the ambiance of a New Orleans cathouse and discreet pilots will take willing lovers aloft for a ride in the clouds that will be truly memorable. But this is fraught with peril, and not just from the pilot mixing too much booze with his LSD. Imagine the following scene: A man and a woman lying on the bed in the back of a small plane. He's got a ridiculous leer on his face, and she has the look of all-too-familiar disappointment. "Ah, Bruno," she says, "again we wind up in the same dismal place: you, sated from our all-too-brief tryst; me, mired in frustration. Perhaps I have not clearly told you what my needs are, perhaps I have not been emphatic enough. But now I will be as clear as I possibly can be." At this point she opens the cabin door and pushes the unfortunate Bruno out the door, shouting, "I think our relationship needs to go in a different direction, you loser!"

Wondering about buying an article of clothing for your honey? Fortunately, you have the AskMen.com Web site to turn to, where you can find this nugget: Another fashionable gift is a sexy dress she can wear for the Valentine's Day dinner. Keep it sexual by insisting that she leave her underwear at home. OK, player, let's think about this one. You are going to demand that your girlfriend go commando during the depths of winter. Sure, she might be remarkably complaisant and fulfill your fantasy. But she will remember that you took a romantic holiday and turned it into something resembling the frigid misery found in One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich. You will pay for that. Oh, yes, you will pay.

So perhaps the easiest thing to do is stick with the basics: Flowers and chocolates. After all, I've never heard of a man suffering a concussion from a bouquet of roses.

WHAT FANS WANT

In terms of bloated spectacle, the Super Bowl has long been of gargantuan scale. It has evolved from a three and a half hour game into a 12-hour festival that embraces every form of diversion short of setting wolves upon small orphans. The fare usually has been slick, glitzy, a little overdone and conventional -- sort of like a Vegas show at the 50-yard line.

But for about 10 minutes during the pregame for Super Bowl XLI, things took a detour straight into Bizarroland. Cirque du Soleil, the circus group based in Montreal, took its act onto the turf and proceeded to give a show that was supposed to somehow interpret the soul of host city Miami. After about two minutes, I began to wonder whether members of the Miami Chamber of Commerce were committing ritual suicide in their luxury suites. The performance featured acrobats in costumes that appeared to be based on Underoos. The acrobats used a swinging device to vault themselves high into the air for the crowd-pleasing flips and contortions. On the ground, there were clowns (at least, that's what I think they were) mugging and gibbering furiously for the camera. I guess they were supposed to capture the passion of football fans, but instead they looked like homeless people off their meds and in football attire. So in short, Miami is a city where people bounce around in their skivvies, much like my 7-year-old nephews on a sugar rush, or wander about sports jerseys looking for Haldol.

If we were living in the era of city-states, that performance would have led to war between Miami and Montreal and hideous carnage. Or maybe the two sides would have just catapulted acrobats at each other and pantomimed violence. I don't know.

The point is that for those 10 minutes on Sunday, the creative types had been allowed to snap their tether and run amok. They offered a show that might have been breathtaking under the Big Top but was weird in a football stadium. In short, it was not what football fans want to see before a game.

And what do football fans want before a game? This question came up several years ago on a Florida Gator message board where I lurk, and here is a paraphrase of one answer: "An alligator driving an Abrams tank onto the field with nekkid cheerleaders dancing on the outside of it!!!"

You might think this was said in jest, but given its enthusiastic reception, I'm going to start trying to teach an alligator to drive a tank. There might be some money in that.