I have a theory, (just a fancy word for an informed opinion, and I'm full of those, ain't I?).

   During the days and weeks following September 11, 2001 we sat, as a nation, transfixed to our boob tubes. Only, then, there was nothing boobish about those tubes. I personally watched brave, smart Ashleigh Banfield on MSNBC, but there was certainly no shortage of heroic men and women willing to stand in front of cameras way too close to "Ground Zero" so that we might experience, as close to first hand as possible, the sheer annihilation of our comfortable lives. Like watching the proverbial train wreck, we couldn't look away. Though we knew we should.

   So we watched, day and night. Afraid of what we'd see; afraid of what we'd miss. In fear something more would happen; in fear it wouldn't. We're humans. We're wired that way. A fact that didn't escape the collective consciousness of the suits that run the entertainment conglomerates that had become, only temporarily, our information conduits.

   As the months crawled by we gradually became enured to the endlessly looped images of people-filled planes becoming huge fireballs as they exploded into steel and glass monoliths causing them to crumble and disintegrate; to the vision of bodies free-falling and the dull, sickening thud of those bodies hitting awnings and pavement; to the churning steam shovels and bulldozers clearing the mountains of steel, concrete, paper, bone-and-flesh fragments; to the tears and agony of loved ones vigilantly posting flyers begging for whatever shards of information they could glean. And that emotional hardening became an increasing indifference to those images being blasted at us and we began drifting away from our sets. Tuning out. Another fact that did not escape those suits.

   In our growing sense of relief, we ventured out into an ever-brightening reality. The feeling that we were no longer safe in our own homes, cities, country faded and we began to resume the very public pursuits that defined our lifestyle. Restaurants, theaters, parks, museums, shops, all experienced happy upswings. We were back to our lavish routine. This, too, did not escape the suits. But this one meant we were actually not even close enough to our television sets to turn them on, and this was more than those suits could handle.

   Under cover of darkness, in stretch limos of course, they retreated to an extravagantly outfitted bunker, (suits can never be too insulated), 80 stories beneath a mountain in South Dakota, to plot their own return. To figure out how to get all those male, female, young, old, fat, thin, black, white, yellow, brown consumers back in front of their sets.

   One suggested they secretly urge the government to start a war in some far off, barren land where they could "embed" reporters with the troops and feed us live shots of this manufactured conflict. Lord knows, he opined, our president is nothing if not impressionable and aware of what a fabulous p.r. opportunity a successful incursion would be.

   But the others scoffed, as only suits can. They went around the table, one by one, pitching increasingly worse ideas, (like televising a coup, an assassination, or democratic elections in a former dictatorship), until they came to the head of TON, The Oxymoron Network, (the sixth network), who could barely contain himself. "What was it that kept them glued to the tube?", he asked, "What made them not turn away?". And they all agreed it was the live-as-it-happened not-knowing-what-might-be-next feeling we all got from watching post 9-11. So he said, "Let's invent a new reality!!", (an oxymoronic statement if ever there was one - god, he was good), and they breathed a collective sigh.

   "We should give them some kind of competition where the participants would have to engage in all kinds of ridiculous activity that could hurt or even kill them; in which they might have to eat, or do, things they'd never otherwise do; after which the last ones still alive and at least semi-healthy would win a large cash prize, a spouse, or some other such valuable incentive!". And they all cried tears of joy, for they knew they were saved!! And "Fear Factor" and "The Bachelor" were born, and registered electronically with the WGAw, right there and then from the bunker!!

   Next up - Part Deux - "The Reality of Reality TV" and why it has actually killed off so many actors, writers, and crew members, and how they can be resuscitated.