One Last "24"Theory Before the Season Ends

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The more I think about, the more I think my superfluous theory that Mike Doyle might replace Jack Bauer as 24's action man, taking orders from Bauer as CTU director, the more I think it might happen. A worse scenario would have Doyle playing Robin to Bauer's Batman. Either way, I have no doubt the Doyle character will play a more prominent role in Day Seven. The producers of the series said earlier this week that there will be changes next season, but kept mum regarding any details. We do know 24 is going to go at least another two seasons, and it's obvious, after watching Day 6, it's in dire need of some retooling.

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Day Six has two hours left for Bauer to save his nephew, kill all the bad guys, find some sort of closure with Audrey and save civilization as we know it from annihilation. Of course, he'll do it, with at least ten minutes to spare, just enough time for the denouement and the teaser for Day Seven. If it goes anything like the rest of Day Six, it's going to defy any semblance of logic. FOX promises an ending that's totally unexpected, though.

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Maybe the lack of logic this season is the key to Day Six. From the moment the Chinese released Bauer to CTU, nothing has rung true. Maybe there's a reason for that. What if this is all happening in Bauer's mind? What if the reality is he's still in that Chinese prison, being fed all kinds of psycho-meds in an attempt to break him? That would explain a lot of plot inconsistencies. There are a lot of Freudian things going on, too — Bauer's father, brother, nephew, even Doyle — are all different faces of Bauer.

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Could it be? Naaah. I don't for a second think this is how the writers are going to paint themselves out of this corner. Besides, it would shoot my whole Mike Doyle theory out of the water.

When Sly Stone Took a "Stand!"

Some things are simply not open for discussion. Debating the merits of Sly and the Family Stone’s groundbreaking Stand! is one of them. When it was released 38 years ago, America was embroiled in an unwinnable war, racial tensions were high, governmental corruption was rampant, the voices of change were wafting in the breeze and it seemed the world was about to blow at any moment.
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Wait! That’s 2007—my bad.
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“Political correctness”—a term that’s never made any sense to me—had yet to be coined in 1969. If it had been, I have to wonder if Stand! would have been released, at least in its original form. Let’s face it—if the song had been called “Don’t Call Me the N Word, Person of Caucasian Persuasion,” it just wouldn’t have resonated with the same impact.
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It wasn’t that they were going for shock value back in the day of Sly and the Family Stone. It was more a matter of understanding that in order to ultimately defeat an evil, it’s sometimes necessary to attack it unafraid. With Stand!, the band released a manifesto of peace and understanding whose message is every bit as important today as it was in 1969.

It’s like this: Stand! is probably the most life-affirming album to emerge from the sixties. Its message was simple: rise above whatever life throws at you. A line like “there’s a midget standing tall/ and the giant beside him about to fall” (from the title track) pays homage to the underdog in all of us. “Don’t Call Me Nigger, Whitey” was among the first songs to tackle festering race relations, and did so in such a darkly satirical way, accentuated with vocoders and anguished beats, that it rendered racial slurs utterly impotent. It wasn’t an angry song so much as it was a more aggressive version of the band’s constant cry against discrimination from any quarter. Next to it, “Everyday People” seems almost contrite, though certainly no less heartfelt. The constant in almost all the songs here rings of self-determination, most obviously in “You Can Make It If You Try.”
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Sly and the Family Stone walked the walk they talked. They were racially and sexually integrated at a time when it was unheard of among touring bands. Women weren’t relegated to just vocals—they were playing instruments with the guys, black and white, jamming together in a psychedelic soul show the likes of which had never been heard before. It was a new sound that mixed soul, James Brown proto-funk, acid rock, gospel and blues, stirred it all together, and invented a recipe that shaped the face of funk’
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On Stand!, they pretty much laid the groundwork for funk as we know it today. “I Want to Take You Higher” and “Sing a Simple Song” are powerhouse raves, replete with shoutouts, symbiotic polyrhythms, slap bass and primal beats that still make the blood race and the feet stomp. People took notice, from Clive Davis to George Clinton, and a new genre was born. They called it “psychedelic soul” then, and every body from the Isley Brothers to Diana Ross and the Supremes wanted a piece of that new sound. I think it’s safe to say that Parliament and Funkadelic, not to mention the various incarnation’s of Prince, would have been very different acts had it non been for the influence of Sly and the Family Stone.
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Drugs and internal conflicts are usually blamed for the dissolution of the band’s decline and dissolution a few years after the release of Stand!. There’s probably some truth in that, but I think deeper issues were at play, too. The muse of creativity is fickle, and frequently peaks early. Orson Welles, though he had a lengthy career, was never able to top his early triumph Citizen Kane. With Stand!, Sly and the Family Stone mad the perfect album at the precisely perfect time. That’s hard to replicate, much less surpass.

Whatever frustrations or addictions led to the band’s demise aren’t nearly as important as what they accomplished with this album. They took a chance and embraced their convictions, and they did it in such a damn funky way, we just had to listen. You don’t get that kind of daring often, and certainly not in our walking on eggshells world today. But that’s why Stand! endures as one of the all-time most important rock albums ever, and it’s why Sly and the Family Stone will always be remembered as one of the great bands.

The Deeper Tones of Peace

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Perhaps it’s indicative of the global climate in which we labor that the mere mention of the word “peace” elicits a spectrum of emotions, from tranquility to rage. We throw the word around, using it in conjunction with “victory” or “surrender”, as if one had anything to do with the other. In the process, we’ve almost succeeded in rendering the word “peace” another casualty in our headlong march to a politically correct, colorless world.

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That’s partly why Santana: Hymns for Peace, Live At Montreux 2004 is one of the most engaging live performances to be released on DVD this year. At first glance, the title is a bit of a misnomer, since this is a concert that is anything but somber. This is a celebration of peace as it applies to the universal healing power of music. There’s no overt political agenda here—it’s more a cleansing of the soul, and the inevitable party that ensues as a result.And what a party it is.

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Carlos Santana had been planning this since 1988, when he and sax master Wayne Shorter found themselves touring with the Miles Davis Band. They began to envision a tour that would also include Herbie Hancock, Chick Corea and other musicians who envisioned a world of shared cooperation and aspirations on a global level. It would be 2004 before the dream was realized. Miles Davis had passed on, but Santana still clinged to his dream. So when Montreux Jazz Festival organizer Claude Nobs, gave him free reign to do what he wanted at the Jazz Festival in 2004, the dream reached fruition.

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On 15 July 2004, Santana and a few of his friends played a concert that redefined live performances. It lasted for over three hours, and watching it even now, the mind boggles at how tight it is. First, there is Santana’s band itself, a formidable lineup that works seamlessly between Latin, African, jazz and soul rhythms, augmented by the vocals of Andy Vargas. They’re the backbone of all the performances in the concert, with Santana’s inimitable guitar stylings providing a unique flavor to all the proceedings.Had it only been Santana and his band performing, it would have been a memorable show.

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But this was designed to be an event celebrating peace and freedom, as interpreted through music. The tour wouldn’t happen, but they could deliver the inherent message in one show. To that end, Santana’s band was augmented by a number of guests of legendary status—Wayne Shorter on sax, Herbie Hancock on keyboards, John McClaughlin on guitar—and that was only for the warm-up piece. Within minutes, they’re joined by a stellar array of luminaries such as Ravi Coltrane, lending his sax as counterpoint to Shorter’s phrasings, and Chick Corea melding his Fender Rhodes seamlessly with Hancock’s keyboard stylings.

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What’s most amazing about this DVD is how it transports the viewer into the spirit of that night. One by one, guest performers join the lineup, their enthusiasm for the message obvious by sheer virtue of their delivery. Angelique Kidjo’s Afro-jazz vocals are complimented by the soul-laced renderings of Patti Austin and Barbara Morrison, with Chic singer Sylver Sharp adding a dose of funk to what is an incredibly silky female vocal ensemble. Before it’s all done, Steve Winwood and rapper Sam Totah (who leads the performers in a fiery hip-hop infused version of “Give Peace A Chance”) have joined the stage. It’s not so much a concert as it is one glorious jam session.

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Given the context of the show, it’s not surprising that some of the songs have vaguely political overtones: i.e. Bob Marley’s “Get Up Stand Up” and Marvin Gaye’s “What’s Going On”, but they’re performed in such a celebratory way that they become testaments to the enduring power of the human spirit. In fact, the entire show succeeds in doing what it sets out to do—it celebrates the universality of inner peace as a means of world salvation. The fact that it rocks nonstop for three hours doesn’t hurt one bit.

Farewell to the King

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Tonight marks something of a milestone in the history of television. After nine seasons, The King of Queens airs is final episode, and with its conclusion, a chapter in situation comedies is closed.

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Airing on CBS opposite ratings juggernauts 24 and Heroes, it’s unlikely the demise of The King of Queens will be regarded with much more respect than a backpage obituary. It could have been saved, perhaps — placed in a different timeslot as it had been on more than a few occasions in the past — but it opted to go out with a modicum of dignity. Sometimes, you instinctively know your time has come.

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.Nonetheless, it’s been a good run for The King of Queens. Debuting 21 September 1998 (the same night Will and Grace premiered), The King of Queens ends its reign as the last live-action sitcom to have originated in the 20th century. That in itself says something. As much as the world seems to have changed in the 21st century, the series demonstrated that our core values — or at least, our sense of humor — haven’t radically altered since the early days of The Honeymooners. In fact, both series touched a common nerve in the American psyche.

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It wasn’t necessary to follow The King of Queens slavishly, any more than it was to follow The Honeymooners or I Love Lucy or Dick Van Dyke. Like the characters in those earlier sitcoms, Doug and Carrie didn’t change much from episode to episode. You could drop in on them anytime, and know without asking that Arthur was still living in the basement, that Carrie was still trying in vain to keep the household sane, that Doug was never going to grow up and they’d still be doing the same thing with a different twist next time you dropped by for a visit. That’s the way the world worked in old school sitcoms, and that’s why we remember them. They provided us with an odd sense of stability.

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That’s not to say that The King of Queens leaves us without resolution. Secrets are revealed left and right — secrets we heretofore never knew existed. And though it appears that Doug and Carrie will end their reign in divorce, the finale offers twists and turns to rival its network competitors. It might be a good day to finally invest in a TiVo.

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I won’t mourn the network passing of The King of Queens overmuch. I see it more as passing into an eternal life of syndication. Still, I have to wonder where the future of the network sitcom lies.

Traveler Moves at a Breakneck Pace

The pilot episode of Traveler (sneak preview tonight on ABC, 10 PM, EST) hits the ground running—literally. Sirens blaring in the streets of New York, we see two young men running desperately, from what we don’t know. They retreat to a hotel room, where the TV newscast is giving updates about a terrorist attack, listing them as the suspects in this act of domestic terrorism.

The camera moves in for an extreme close-up of a book on the table-- Jack Kerouac’s On the Road. . .

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Starting a story in the middle of the action is rarely a bad idea. It may be a cheap shot, but it immediately engages the audience with a sense of “what did I just walk in on?” It’s called misdirection, and the creative team who helm this series are no strangers to the concept. Directed by David Nutter, best known for his work on the X-Files and Without a Trace, this pilot episode is paced more like a feature film than a TV episode. The script by David DiGilio (Eight Below) is taut as a kettle drum, tantalizing the viewer with well-placed, but murky clues in all the key moments,flashing back and forward in the action that would defy logic were it not for his deft scripting.

It all begins with a simple prank. Three grad-school buddies embark on what is supposed to be a cross-country last hurrah road trip before entering into their workaday futures. But when one of the trio, Will Traveler, convinces Jay Burchell and Tyler Fog to rollerblade through an iconic art museum in New York City, the first leg of the road trip takes a very twisted turn. An explosion rocks the museum, and Jay and Tyler suddenly find themselves prime suspects in an act of domestic terrorism. Worse, they gradually realize that their friend Will Traveler set them up to cover up his own involvement in the bombing.

Traveler takes the premise and runs with it. In so doing, it calls into question the nature of loyalty, patriotism and love, and wraps it up in the fabric of well-placed paranoia. If the pilot is any indication, this looks to be a series fraught with twists and turns to rival 24 or Lost in its heyday. We already know more than the protagonists in that we see that nothing is as it seems. It offers enough tantalizing hints to keep us going through the summer. If it can maintain the pace it set running out of the gate, it may very well end up being a must-see come fall.

After tonight’s sneak preview, Traveler begins its weekly run May 30. I suggest you watch tonight’s head start. You’ll be the talk of the water cooler.

The Exies End Their Exile

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It's been well over two years since the Exies released an album, and truth be told, they weren't greatly missed. They were one of those bands that seemed always on the cusp of success, what with landing soundtrack deals on a couple of Playstation and XBox games, and being an opening act for Motley Crue in 2005 ( a dubious distinction at best.) But they were unable to crack that sound barrier that would make them stars. After three albums, two of them on Virgin, it looked as if the Exies were done. Virgin dropped them, and the band began to disintegrate. Original guitarist David Walsh and drummer Dennis Wolfe decided it would be a good time to jump ship.

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Vocalist Scott Stevens and bassist Freddie Hererra soldiered on, though, and after reuniting with guitarist Chris Skane, they set about to resurrecting the Exies from the ashes of oblivion. What results is their fourth album, A Modern Way of Living With the Truth. It's not only their best effort to date--it stands apart from the current crop of LA bands.

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While their earlier efforts weren't terrible, they didn't do much to distinguish the Exies from other bar bands with a record deal. For the most part, they sounded like they were working the room. The songs on Inertia and Head For the Door showed promise, but failed to take that necessary leap of faith, and presented nothing challenging.

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The hiatus has done the band a world of good. "Exies" was always shorthand for "Existentialists", but A Modern Way of Living With the Truth is the first work the band has produced that actually reflects that stance. Oh, it still has that polished LA hard rock sound that gets airplay, but this outing sounds more sincere than contrived. They've emerged from their self-imposed exile rejuvenated, tighter and with a sense of purpose that simmers through the three chord structures. This time, the Exies mean business, and they're taking no prisoners.

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It takes some chutzpah to open what is ostensibly a hard rock album with an acoustic ballad, yet "The Leaving Song" sets the tone for what follows, if not musically, then certainly lyrically. Most of what follows (and this, according to the band) are songs about coming to grips with the past, while seeking the best for the future. There's nothing particularly earth-shattering in that approach-- themes of uncertainty have always been a mainstay of rock. What the Exies bring to the table, though, is a post-grunge sensibility to those themes. The result is often blistering, as in "Lay Your Money Down," with its rant against materialism, and sometimes plaintive, particularly on "Stray." "Different Than You," the first single from the LP, aptly demonstrates the band's new-found strength, with its staight-ahead, grinding guitars, solid bass and pounding drums (courtesy of "Hoss"). But its on their reworking of Talking Heads' "Once In a Lifetime" that the Exies prove beyond doubt they're a band to be reckoned with. The lyrics are the only reference point to the original tune, with the new version being a haunting acoustic tune punctuated with buzzsaw guitars in the chorus.

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The Exies stumbled on their early efforts-- it happens. But with A Modern Way of Living With the Truth, they've finally found their voice. I think we'll be hearing a lot more of it. This is a guitar band that rocks without pandering. We need more voices like that.

Before We Wore Black

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Behind me, clouds boiled darkly, scarred here and there by jagged patches of light, constantly shifting by the whims of the wind. A storm was approaching, bearing the dregs of the past and heralding in an undreamed future. The wind hurled tiny needles of refreshing rain into my face as I hurried on to meet Elke at the bus stop, from where we would be ferried to the train. That part of the plan proved fruitless, as the storm had other plans, and I found myself flashing back to another time. . .

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It was a stormy May morning in 1985, and my wife at the time had just gone into labor. I couldn't help but smile to myself as we drove the Cutlass to the hospital, directly into the approaching storm. From what I'd been told, it was a day not unlike the morning I entered into the world some thirty years earlier. Margeaux would enter the world with a dramatic flourish, after all. . .

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The light rail train moved almost silently, shielding us from the storm without as we made our way through the concrete corridors of Dallas. The train was crowded, packed with an odd combination of weary office workers still strapped to laptops, street hustlers just beginning their workday, and assorted laborers, vagabond tourists and sullen city dwellers. Nobody talks much on those afternoon commutes. Elke and I were no different. We sat across from each other, exchanging nervous smiles and clasping each other's hand. I couldn't know what thoughts were racing through her head at this point. The daughter I'd been trying to find for 18 years was waiting just a few stops down the line. . .

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There was no happier man in the history of the universe than me when I first held Margeaux. I was in the delivery room when she emerged, and except for the doctor and the nurse, I was the first one to hold her. Imagine an ocean flowing over you, drowning you in the unknown, suffocating you, then releasing you you into a universe you could never have imagined, where an infinite future beckons. Imagine all that happening in a moment of touch, and you have a vague idea of how I felt when I first held my daughter. . .

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Light rail trains don't lurch to a stop--they glide imperceptibly to their destination, and if you're not paying attention, you'll float right by. The storm had subsided, but the gray skies against the skyscrapers of downtown Dallas--a hodgepodge of gargoyles, urban statuary and pale blue glass towers--only enhanced my odd sense of noir-ish ennui. I should have been nervous--I'd only reconnected with Margeaux two weeks earlier, and we'd only spoken via phone. It all happened so quickly that I didn't even have a current photo of her. She told me she was a bit on the goth side, and that she would be wearing black. That couldn't be too difficult--Elke and I would most likely be wearing black, also. After all, it simplifies laundry. . .

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We laughed a lot during those first few years-- at least, that's what the photos indicate. They're all full of bright colors and smiles, typical of happy dreams. The marriage was going south even then, though. The divorce was messy, I was blindsided, and despite court orders, Margeaux vanished from my life for a while, gone to parts unknown. I never gave up hope, though, and neither did she. . .

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The wind whipped in all directions as Elke and I raced to the Greyhound bus station. The storm had put us behind schedule for what would be the singlemost momentous event of our lives. She was rushing headlong into stepmotherhood, I was about to meet my baby daughter all grown up, and somewhere in that bus station was Margeaux, who I just knew had to be wondering what the hell she's gotten herself into. . .

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Enough flashbacks raced through my head to fill several books. I wondered what flashbacks Margeaux had on her bus trip. And I wondered what was going through Elke's head. . .

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Once again, storms turned out to be a salvation--Margeaux had come in from West Texas, and ridden the storm all the way. Some things never change. Elke and I, somewhat bedraggled but nonetheless for wear, were waiting as the bus pulled into the station. It was a cacophany in the Greyhound station, but we made our way to what had to be the bus from West Texas. Elke saw her first--"That's Margeaux!" she shouted, even though she'd never seen her before. (She said later it was the lips.) I looked up, dumfounded. . .

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Beauty, I know, is subjective. But when Margeaux first emerged from the Greyhound, time stopped for me. Her hair was raven black now,and draped over her shoulders, accentuated by twin ponytails, but I flashed back to her auburn tresses when she was three. Her eyes were accented with black eyeliner, making them even larger than when she was a baby. She was wearing a black jacket and indigo jeans, and I couldn't help but chuckle-- it was hardly goth. . .

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Margeaux and I had already made a pact we wouldn't cry when we met--and we didn't. But when we hugged, eighteen years of uncertainty were washed away in a nanosecond. She had heard tales of me, most of which ended in my demise. And I, considering her age wondered if she had been shipped off to Iraq, among other outcomes. Neither of us ever gave up, though.

She found some of my Blogcritics writings, and wondered if that guy might be her father. I searched for her, and thanks to the unique spelling of her name, found her in a martial arts forum. The hunt, as it were, was on..

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I had just come back from lunch when a co-worker told me I had a call. "Your daughter's on the line," he said. I took the call upstairs. The voice on the other end was faltering, nervous. "I think I'm your daughter," she said. . ..

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That was two weeks earlier. Now, I was hoisting her luggage as we made our way home. We didn't talk a lot-- there would be plenty of time for that once we unpacked. For now, the smiles were enough. We'd brought three umbrellas--Margeaux chose the black one.

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It didn't really matter. The storms had passed to the east, and the future lay ahead.

The Secret of Cinco de Mayo

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As an Irish boy from Texas, I'm usually more amused than perplexed by what passes as St. Patrick's Day in Dallas. I know, I know--everybody's Irish on St. Patrick's day, but that still doesn't explain why a large percentage of the populace paint themselves green and wear New Orleans juju beads and drink copious amounts of Guinness on public thoroghfares in the wee hours of the morning. Okay, the Guinness part I understand, but I don't get the connection between St. Patrick and the Hulk.

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If everybody's Irish on St. Patrick's Day, then everybody's Mexican on Cinco de Mayo. Coronas stand in for Guinness, we all become experts on Mexican cuisine and we all find another excuse to get soused. At least we don't put green dye in the Coronas. I'm not knocking it, mind you--it's a nice little party. It's just that we gringoes don't quite get it.

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We like to label Cinco de Mayo as Mexican Independence Day, which it isn't. Mexico declared independence from Spain 15 September 1810. Cinco de Mayo commemorates the Battle of Puebla, 5 May 1862, in which a heavily outnumbered, ragtag force of Mexicans, mostly Mestizo and Zapotec Indians called Zacapoaxtlas, defeated the French army of Napoleon III. It was a short-lived victory, since the French regrouped and eventually put Maxmillan in power in Mexico for a few years. Still, the Battle of Puebla is one of those inspirational events that speak to the universality of the human spirit.

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It's fitting that Cinco de Mayo is celebrated more north of the border than it is in Mexico. At the time of the battle, the United States was embroiled in its Civil War, and the French viewed it as an opportunity to stop the Monroe Doctrine's manifesto of one country that spanned the continent. They were already funding the Confederacy in an attempt to slow down the United States' westward expansion. While it may be a stretch to hint that the Battle of Puebla had a hand in saving the United States, it can't be denied that Mexico slowed France's empirical dreams that day. Today's world could be very different had it not been for what hapened Cinco de Mayo 1862.

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All of that being said, it's no small wonder that Cinco de Mayo today is a day of celebration and festivity. I think it's important to remember that we Americans are not an island unto ourselves today. We've had a lot of help through the years, often forgotten because the measures are often small and forgotten in the mix of the Melting Pot. Cinco de Mayo reminds us we'd be a very bland country were it not for the spice of bravery.

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When Rock Critics Go Bad

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My daughter Margeaux and I were in the Asian Arts Center the other day to check out an exhibition by contemporary female Vietnamese artists. That's not completely true-- we went there, as we do whenever she's in town, because of its quiet, understated beauty, and the solace it offers from the hectic pace of downtown Dallas. This exhibit was new, and a pleasant surprise, with works ranging from jagged portraiture to delicate brush and ink renderings that captured the breeze dancing on brooks better than any photo ever could.

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When Margeaux views a piece, she quietly inhales it, letting it wash over her to interpret it according to her own life experiences. She never attempts to second-guess the artist's original intent, and she has no patience for those who do. That explains why when the volunteer tour guides appeared from nowhere, we hastily retreated to the second floor of the Center, to further peruse Chinese and Indian antiquities in a more meditative environment.

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In a roundabout way, it also explains why Radiohead:OK Computer (A classic album under review) reduces OK Computer to a fanboy exercise of pretensiousness.

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It's been ten years since Radiohead released OK Computer, and depending on who you talk to, it's either the seminal canon of all rock music, or a paranoid post-industrial Luddite's vision of a bleak future. The truth is, it was neither. . . and it was both. At the time, I really thought that Radiohead was potentially the Pink Floyd for the new millenium. Ten years later, I realize they're a footnote, albeit an important one, in rock history. And while I still maintain it was one of the most important albums of 1997, that's all it was. Tom Yorke and company have moved on with their lives.

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The makers of this documentary, however, have not. What we have here is a collection of Brit rock critics dissecting every lyric, every chord, every note in some instances, in a vain attempt to elevate the album to a Work of Art. It's a valiant effort, but not a very compelling argument. They take each song on the album, inject it with their personal world visions and come to the conclusion that it's a work that's way too heavy for mere mortals to grasp.

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It's the sort of thing that gives rock critics a bad name. Albums like OK Computer stand as seminal works only because they add something to the subconscious vocabulary of pop culture. It came out at the right time, much the way Green Day's American Idiot or Pink Floyd's The Wall or any number of rock albums did. They spoke to a moment in our culture--nothing more, and certainly nothing less. For critics of questionable credentials to place any album on a pedestal from which hinges the course of civilization is to do a disservice to the artist, the listener, and to the whole business of constructive criticism itself. Yet, that's what these pundits attempt to achieve on this disc.

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Radiohead: OK Computer (a classic album under review) adds nothing to enhance the listening experience of the album. It may be of interest to the diehard fanboy, but for the rest of us, it's a stodgy, academician take on a work best left to individual interpretation. It's the sort of disc that makes me understand why Margeaux has an aversion to museum tourguides.

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Is Mike Doyle the New Jack Bauer?

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I've been a diehard devotee of 24 from Day One (no pun intended.) For five seasons, I gleefully accepted every leap in logic, every defiance of time and space, every torture scene (I'm thinking all of Day Three's plotline here) that they could throw at me. I never waivered from my devotion to Jack Bauer, no matter how preposterous the plotlines became. After all, the writers were working on the fly, and even they had no idea where it was going. You have to get behind that kind of moxie.

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After the ratings triumph that was Day Five, it was screamingly apparent that 24 would be around for a while. Sure enough, FOX guaranteed it at least three more seasons, and made Keifer Sutherland an executive producer of the series. It also became increasingly obvious at that point that the series was about to jump the shark.

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Let's face it: Day Six has been an almost incomprehensible mess, full of plotlines that sprouted like weeds, and were discarded just as quickly. It's as if the writers realized they'd painted themselves into a corner when they shipped Bauer off on a slow boat to China at the end of Day Five. From the moment Day Six opened, with Bauer released after 20 months of Chinese interrogation, nothing felt right. Within two hours, he got a designer haircut and a shave, (presumably debriefed while he was being groomed) and set about to doing what he does best: killing bad guys in creative ways. And that was all in his first couple of hours of freedom.

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Sure, other things have happened--nuclear attack on LA with 12000 casualties, failed coups, dueling terrorists, near-martial law in the US, paranoid romantic intrigues at CTU--but they were treated as minor annoyances. Bauer got all that cleaned up with six hours to spare--plenty of time to thread a new set-up poised to place Mike Doyle center stage next season.

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I'm not privy to CTU memorandums or FOX board meetings, but in my own private spoiler world, I'm almost certain that Rick Schroder's Mike Doyle will be the new 24 action figure next season. That's not to say Bauer will disappear--he may become next season's CTU director, a position befitting a TV series executive producer. Bauer's days as a renegade lone wolf world savior are almost certainly over, though. He's getting a bit long in the tooth to make it even remotely believable. It's time for Sutherland to pass the torch to younger blood, ala Bruce Willis.

Bauer can still be menacing, even in a desk job.

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The Mike Doyle character came out of nowhere this season, a sort of young Jack Bauer whose dedication to CTU was beyond reproach. While other characters in Day Six come across as plot devices with no discernible motivation, Doyle has been fleshed out as the season progressed, so that now we see him as a man with a shadowy past who keeps people at arm's length as a defensive mechanism. We know he's a student of comparative religion, that he is not above bending rules in the name of the greater good, that his dedication causes him to be reckless on occasion, that he will get his mission accomplished come hell or high water. But most importantly, he's playing Robin to Bauer's Batman.

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When I add all that together, and couple it with the fact that both Bauer and Doyle are blond, grimace at inappropriate moments and have similar tastes in street-fighting clothes, it's not a major leap of faith to see Doyle as Bauer's heir apparent. It makes sense in other ways, too. Schroder has time to grow into the stress lines that are part of Bauer's character. Since there is a bit of a similarity between the two, his presence wouldn't have a jarring effect on audiences. Since he's mysterious at this point, the series writers have a new sphere in which to work. And as the new world savior, he could serve as the perfect foil to a more seasones, wiser, more beauracratic Bauer.

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I could be wrong, of course. This is 24, after all. Doyle could be killed off next week. WWIII might break out, making Day Seven a post-apocalyptic snooze. I sort of doubt it, though. One thing is certain though. CTU is too small for two blond bad boy world saviors.