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Fall '99: "Cold Feet"

When one becomes lost in a snowstorm and succumbs to hypothermia, the overwhelming experience is one of being numb and confused. I bring this up not because I want to continue the torture-by-cold leitmotif introduced by my colleague Gregg Wrenn, but because watching Cold Feet gave me the mental equivalent of hypothermia.

Amidst a blizzard of bad acting, flat dialogue and clumsily executed scenes, I had the sudden flash of clarity that precedes brain death. It was triggered by one of the scenes in the show's pilot episode: a naked man was sporting a rose blooming from an orifice many of us normally associate with fertilizer, singing a Frank Sinatra standard. Badly, I might add. I blinked in logy incredulity. I thought, "This is why the programming geniuses at NBC cancelled Homicide: Life on the Street? This is a sixty-minute-long shampoo commercial. I'd rather watch Paul Falsone, Supercop than this tripe."

And that's how I realized I had finally succumbed to mental hypothermia. Damn you, Cold Feet, damn you.


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