Shoot me.

I mean it. Take a big gun, fill it with hollow points and slam some of them puppies right into this pansy, panty boy cranium of mine. I can't bear the shame of this any longer. But first put a skirt on me. A nice pink one with doggies on it. Because I have a startling-I don't deserve to wear pants-admission to make. I watch The Antiques Roadshow. Sometimes twice a week. If I can submit one item in my defense, I don't believe I was breast fed enough. It is now a widely held belief that a significant amount of breast feeding is a vital factor in determining whether one is to go through life a panty boy or, as my granddaddy was apt to say, " one rough knuckle, hard ass, iron cast son of a bitch." I definitely wasn't breast fed enough. In fact, only ten minutes this morning!

Like most intelligent, gifted and emotionally accessible men, I was sucked into this wonderful show by my darling Money-Pit. I continued to watch because I was taken over by an idea. The idea was that in my garage, or in my Indian neighbor's garage (usually unlocked, god bless him) there might be some long over looked piece of garbage worth a ton of wampum! It is only through repeated watching of The Antiques Roadshow that I will learn to recognize one person's junk for the treasure it is. Exciting, no? And besides, it's damn entertaining.

The show's premise is basically this. Chris Jussel and his posse of antiques appraisers, travel from town to town like a band of double breasted gypsies, giving appraisals and estimating the value of items brought before them, as if they were telling fortunes and reading palms. I love it when some forty-five year old num-nut, half his shirt un-tucked and his mother trailing behind like a spaniel, prances in with a cast of Queen Nefertiti's left breast.

Num-nut: "Jesus! Is it worth that much?"

Fru-Fru Antiques Guy: "I've seen comparable items fetch that much at auction, yes."

Num-nut: "I had it in the basin of my toilet. Keeps the water level up so's it won't run all night."

Fru-Fru Antiques Guy: "On no, you don't want to get this wet."

Num-nut: "Guess I'll put a brick in there."

Fru-Fru Antiques Guy: "Or you could call a plumber, ha, ha."

Num-nut: "Can I have my breast back?"

Fru-Fru Antiques Guy: "Ha, ha, ha."

Num-nut "Hey!"

One of my favorite oft-mentioned subjects on the show is the patina. The patina, according to the dictionary (Funny, I knew how to spell patina but I had to look up dictionary) is the "sheen produced by age and use on any antique surface." It seems that nearly every episode, some fat whacker has wiped away his patina and screwed himself out of thousands of dollars. Let's say that Fat Earl from down the street has brought in his collection of nineteenth century left shoes. The exchange goes something like this. Fat Earl and the Fru-Fru Antiques Guy, henceforth referred to as F.F.A.G. for space considerations, are standing by a table piled high with shoes.

F.F.A.G.: "So, Earl, why don't you tell us what you've brought in today."

Fat Earl: "It's my granddaddy's collection of left shoes."

F.F.A.G.: "And what can you tell us about this wonderful collection?"

Fat Earl:: "They're all left shoes."

F.F.A.G.: "Ha, ha, ha. I notice they're awfully shiny."

Fat Earl: "Yup. I shined 'em up special."

F.F.A.G.: "Really. What did you use?"

Fat Earl: "Windex, 'course."

F.F.A.G.: "Well, Earl, let me tell you why that was probably not a great idea. Have you ever heard of the patina?"

Fat Earl: "Like the flower?"

F.F.A.G.: "No, Earl, that's a petunia. Ha, ha, ha, ha. But seriously, Earl, the patina is the sheen produced by age and use on any antique surface and it has a great impact on what we call in the antiques business, the val-ue, of an item."

Fat Earl: "Crap!"

F.F.A.G.: "Ha, ha, ha, crap indeed. This is a most impressive collection of left shoes. With the patina still on them, and if you had the matching right shoes to go with each of these left ones, I believe that at auction, these would have brought seven hundred and fifty kazillion dollars."

Fat Earl: "Oh mother!"

F.F.A.G.: "In their present condition. Just the lefties with no patina, my advice to you would be to put them back in the box and leave them on a street corner with a "Free" sign."

Fat Earl: "Well, I think I'll just hold on to them, for the sentimental value."

F.F.A.G.: "Because they remind you of your grandfather."

Fat Earl: "No, because they remind me of shoes, you jackass."

(Author's note: I've just been tapped by my beautiful Money Pit and asked if I wouldn't mind being more sensitive to Earl's weight problem. So where it says Fat Earl, please substitute, More To Love Earl. )

Before I started watching The Antiques Roadshow, I was as apt to wipe away the patina with some noxious, flesh eating solvent as the next guy. But now that I'm educated, I don't clean a damn thing, and I feel well within my rights to stagger before the television, screaming, "The patina, you friggin' idiot! How could you be so stupid?" That's interactive television.

One of the true highlights of the show is when some More To Love Yutz brings in a forgery. Now, you and I know that most folks lie, cheat and steal their way through life and that these people probably already know they've brought in a fake. To the credit of the appraisers, they are always very diplomatic about this sort of thing, and never accuse the jerk before them of trying to pull a fast one. I wouldn't be so nice. Tie some twenty pound test around his reproductive equipment and reel that sucker in like you’ve run out of beer and got to get off the lake fast. Some blubberous, unscrupulous moron with three eyes and nothing between his legs has brought in a Loni Anderson. Or has he?

F.F.A.G.: "She's lovely, really. But I'm afraid that's the good news. The bad news is, she's a forgery, and not a very good one. This is not a true Loni Anderson."

B.U.M.: (Blubberous, Unscrupulous Moron) "You must be kidding. A fake? No!"

F.F.A.G.: "Well, let's take a closer look. The first giveaway is these frankenstien-like sutures holding the head on. Someone has taken Loni Anderson's head and attached it to Pamela Anderson's body."

B.U.M.: "I can't believe it. I'm simply stunned. The man told me this was from the estate of the late Burt Reynolds."

F.F.A.G.: "Well, since only Burt Reynolds' career is dead, rather than Burt himself, I'd say that's a clue right there that something's not quite right. If this were a true Loni Anderson, in WKRP condition, you might expect to get, at auction, fifty bazillion dollars. Loni Anderson's head rudely attached to Pamela Anderson's body, maybe a fifty on a cold Sunday night in the projects, if you threw in beer. We've just seen too much of Pamela Anderson. There's nothing new here."

Chris Jussel, the host of the show, has a really huge honker. This guy's got a nose like Carl Malden and I keep wishing he'd say, "Your Patina. Don't leave home with out it." Jussel fills in the spaces between appraisals with little introductions and usually, at least one antique field trip. Speaking of Jussel filling spaces, you could probably fit my dining room table into one of his nostrils, but you'd screw up the patina. He's a smily sort of fella, but it's hard to see his smile because it's in the shadow of that monument. The most important part of his job is to tell you what city the show is coming to you from. It's important because if the Roadshow teaches us anything, it's that Americans are pretty much the same across the country. Some good, some bad, some butt ugly. Most of 'em as quick as warm bricks.

The down side of this enjoyable program is that, as the adage goes, a little knowledge can be a dangerous thing. Forced to browse antiques stores with my darling Money Pit, like some panty boy following his momma around, I can't tell you how many giant suburban women, three bellies stuffed into pink sweats, I've overheard quoting the show.

"Meredith! Look at the patina on this one!"

"Look at the patina on you, lady! Talk about more to love!"

Shoot me already. But watch the show. It's a hoot!

For more information on the show, check out PBS.

Careful now. It's public television. Friggin' subversives!

Daniel J. Barbeau maintains his handsome patina in the California Bay Area.

Got a problem? Email Danny at filmmonthly@hotmail.com