True confession time -- I'm probably the only person in America not directly related to one of the participants (I don't think you can really call them stars) who sat through all four hours of ABC's The Hamptons.

It started out as a voyeuristic thing. I'd look at the pretty places and pretty people, ooh and ahh over beach-houses and Baldwins.

Voyeurism got me through the first half hour. After that, I was actively rooting for the Hamptonites to die, rooting with a fervor I haven't felt since the finale of The Amazing Race. Lizzie Grubman, the blond uber-publicist who mowed down 15 pedestrians outside a nightclub? Steven Gaines, the bitchy writer who was too busy partying and name-dropping to actually set pen to paper, and who mourned his doggie's death by purchasing the "grief gift" of a BMW convertible? Josh, the smarmy, bandana'd, beer-swilling, weenie-burning, oxygen-huckstering, man-shaped glob of hair gel? Die! In fact, every time Josh came on screen to make another one of his pompus pronouncements, I'd be actively entreating the heavens to rain down VD upon him. (I think I reacted so badly to him because he reminds me of all the guys who were jerky to me in Hebrew school. I was complaining about him to my brother Jake, who, it turns out, went to college with him. I'm not sure what this means, but it freaked me out).

Anyhow, The Hamptons? Yuck. With the exception of the retiring police chief, the farmer lady, Robbie the dog and, unbelievably, Billy Joel and Christie Brinkley, every single person who got face time during the two night, four-hour spectacle was selfish, shallow, self-absorbed -- and, worst of all, boring. What happened to the waitress-turned singer? Evidently, she nabbed a boyfriend. We never learned his name. How 'bout the ingenue from Iowa who stumbled into a timeshare at Animal House? We get about thirty seconds of her saying the Hamptons weren't what she hoped they'd be. That's it. And some woman got her picture in Hamptons Magazine. The policeman retired, the farmer lady never reappeared, Robbie the Dog went on to his heavenly reward, along with a restauranteur, whose death might have had more impact if the filmmaker hadn't introduced him just five minutes beforehand, and then September 11 happened and rained on everyone's parade, and Billy Joel's daughter played a sad piano song, and it was over. And not only did I waste four hours watching this thing, I also missed opening night of The Bachelorettes on Ice (or, as we're calling them around here, the Bacheloritos).

But in better pop-culture news. My new hero? Thicke.