Late night TV can be relatively hit-or-miss. For every classic "Home Improvement" rerun there are at least twice as many infomercials advertising products and services you would never dream of owning or using in your lifetime.

The thing is, no matter how hard you try to avoid those lingering feelings of suffocating yourself with a Ziplock bag brought on by those infomercials, it seems like you just can't beat the system. There seems to be a fusion between early morning syndicated family comedy programs and annoying adverts that you just can't avoid anymore.

Putting the ‘personal' in ‘personal ads'

As I drifted off into dreamland during a particularly interesting installment of my favorite Tim Allen program, a commercial-length infomercial particularly piqued my interest. It was for some sort of phone dating service: personal ads for the people too lazy, shy or uproariously ugly to do it the old fashioned way - leaving their homes.

However put-off I was by the fact that I wasn't getting my Tool Time fix I came to a stark revelation. Perhaps it was the haze of insomnia adversely affecting the synapses in my brain, or just me finally being realistic, but the first thing I did the next morning was give these fine people a call on my phone.

For just $2.99 a minute, I was instantly connected to hundreds of live singles in my area. Well, that was if I got past the 15 or so minutes I spent on the line with the frog-throated female operator who took down my every personal detail, from shoe size to my hair color to my credit card and social security number. They, in more ways than one I am sure, had my identity, but that was cool so long as I get to meet the woman of my every dream and desire.

At the 26-minute mark of my phone call, which simple mathematics tells me is already a $78.00 bill I'll be footing sometime in my near future, the smooth baritone of Barry White used as their "on hold" music was lifted and the operator informed me that she had found someone who lived in my area and wanted to speak with me. I was so excited.

The first fish to bite

After another three and a half minutes of "Can't Get Enough of Your Love, Babe," I was speaking to a real, live, non-frog-voiced woman. She identified herself as Pamela, a "fun, 5'9" taekwondo aficionado," or at least that is what she sounded like she was saying. I guess we had a bad connection, because I had apparently just announced that I wear adult diapers to the entire office. Nevertheless, I decided I would like to meet up with my soon-to-be date within the week. And so it was, I had my first date.

Low expectations lowered

$143.52 and one identity lighter, I met Pamela for a dinner at a restaurant of her choosing. We landed at Red Lobster, despite the 11 times I told her I hated seafood and that I'm allergic to well over half the menu. She didn't seem to care much, tearing into her snow crab leg-by-leg as I sipped my glass of water. There's nothing like treating your date to some oceanic cuisine and ending the night in over your head in credit card debt and snacking on a TV dinner.

So the date didn't turn out as I had planned. It happens, though. The world of dating itself is rather fickle. I was not about to give up. And if that meant the fine folks at AT&T busting down my door because my phone bill hasn't been paid in two months, then so be it.

This is not what I had expected. Granted, I was indeed meeting young, hot singles in my area that wanted to meet me, but none of them really met the feeble criteria I set forth for myself in the perfect woman. Heck, all I really ask for is a feminine haircut and all their digits intact, but some of these selections couldn't even provide that.

Realization and resolve

And so it was. I am the Franklin Roosevelt of social cripples. I suppose there is no easy fix to the heartbreak blues. You can't just meet the love of your life over the land-lines, no matter what those bikini-clad spokespeople tell you. I figure there's a tough decision to make regarding my future - I guess I could leave my home and attempt to strike up a conversation with someone who is actually interested in me for, well, me.

No matter what path I choose for myself, I figure I only have one date tonight: with Tim Allen and friends on "Home Improvement." And that really is enough for me.

The Daters:

Name: Pamela

About her: Smart, funny, perhaps deaf or hard of hearing in both ears. Enjoys crabs and crawdads.

Name: Tiffany

About her: Shaped like a teddy bear, and not the cute kind.

Name: Jones

About her: Always wore dark sunglasses and a trench coat. May be a spy.

Name: Busty

About her: Movie star. I never heard of any of her films, though.

Name: Sarah

About her: Cutest one of the bunch, but perhaps I'm just put off by hooks-for-hands.

Name: Charlie

About her: This "her" wasn't a "her" at all!

— It's nice to know that I no longer have to watch "Full House" reruns to get my Bob Saget fix. God bless you, "1 vs. 100."

— My Chemical Romance, Fall Out Boy, and Taking Back Sunday still are not emo, so enough pretending that they are.

— We can put a man on the moon but we still can't invent a fully functional Foreigner belt. For shame, inventors of Earth.

— Say what you will about the Gilmore Girls, but it is an entertaining program.

— Dear John Mellencamp: Stop making music.

— Eddie Murphy is up for an Academy Award, but after such quality films as "The Adventures of Pluto Nash," "Daddy Day Care," and "The Haunted Mansion," I'm not too optimistic.

— Hmm, $43 to see John Mayer at the Convo, or two buttons and some pocket lint to be see a handful of bands at the House. Choices, choices.

— Dear ESPN: I do not want to watch overweight gentlemen playing cards, tossing darts, or licking the salt off peanut shells. It is not entertaining.