In television, vintage years occur only once in a blue moon (1957, 1958 1961, 1964-66), and this ain’t one of ’em. No Sgt. Bilko, no The Untouchables, no Naked City. For TV ADDICTS everywhere (six to eight hours of viewing per day... minimum), it’s gonna be a dismal season. For weeks prior to September’s disappointment, the boob tube beamed forth rays of hope (“you’re gonna like it a lpt” and “sbperseason”) until fotal mindrot set in. Subliminal cuts were effectively used to twist the TV moron into watching Matt Helm (a fate worse than nodding off to Name of the Came). The word was out: WATCH THESE SHOWS QUICK CUZ NEXT WEEK THEY COULD BE REPLACED BY HEE-HAW.

A transfusion might put a f,ew sparks into this year’s set-up (overlooking a complete overhaul). But the best thing to do with television when it’s so messed up is to LEAVE IT. Any fool knows that it takes 6-10 episodes of a series to officially announce its life or death (assuming it ain’t Fay, ten minutes of which is enough to prounce it D.O. A.), and sometimes even duds can trick ya. Originally M*A *S*H* crept into success when nobody was watching, whereas Paul Sand stiffed while everybody raved.