I've changed the locks on my front door, bought a bulletproof vest and adopted a pit bull in preparation for this moment: I'm about to slam Oprah Winfrey.
Criticizing the Queen of All Media is like poo-poohing apple pie or using the American flag as a dishcloth. It's simply not done.
My hesitation stems partly out of fear (I imagine, as most people do, that Winfrey has a secret squad that makes sure that every nonbeliever will automatically have his or her phones tapped and taxes audited), but it's mostly out of respect.
In an industry dominated by white males, Winfrey rules over an empire built on the empowerment of women and minorities. Her program, the highest-rated daytime talker in history, long ago banned transvestite midgets and cousins who marry each other to focus on more serious subjects. Her book club has done as much to encourage reading as the light bulb. And her commitment to giving is unprecedented -- and I'm not just talking about passing out free cars to members of the studio audience.
But Winfrey's generosity and goodwill come with a catch: her ego.
Nowhere is this more evident than in "Oprah's Big Give," an intriguing idea for a reality series that's overshadowed by Winfrey's personality. The concept -- 10 big-hearted participants compete to see who can orchestrate the most successful charity drives -- is, in Winfrey's own words, "designed after my own heart."
To accentuate the point, she's all over the first episode, even personally calling all of the chosen contestants with a series of wacky accents that trigger mass hysteria to those on the other end of the phone. She kicks off the actual contest by asking the players if they are ready for their "very ... first ... CHALLEEEEEEEENGE!" once again demonstrating the ability to turn ordinary sentences into over-the-top arias.
Minnesota native Nate Berkus is introduced as the host, even though he doesn't utter a word until the last 10 minutes of the first episode.