Early Sunday evening I turned on the Emmys for a couple of minutes and saw Megan Mullally winning for best supporting actress in a comedy. ''OK,'' I thought, like a cop ushering rubberneckers away from an accident. ''Nothing to see here. Let's move on.''
OK, so I was curious about some of the other winners, but not curious enough to overcome a weekend's worth of weariness, which found me heading bedward at about 9 p.m. And, having looked at the list of winners this morning (as well as knowing the DVR holds the ceremony itself), I am glad I opted for rest.
Mullally over Elizabeth Perkins of ''Weeds''? Nope. ''24'' as best drama? Nope again. ''The Office'' for best comedy is fine -- but if that's the case, why did the Emmys for best comedy writing and directing go to ''My Name Is Earl''?
Because it's the Emmys, of course. And asking them -- or any other entertainment award -- to make sense is like asking how Jack Bauer manages to cover so much ground in so little time. The answer will defy logic, and people happy with the result won't care.