Welcome to The $treet, folks. I'm $tee, I'll be your tour guide. Over here we have one Darren Star, creator of Sex and the City, among other shows. And over here we have one Fox Network, a network desperate for another Ally McBeal-esque hit, but sexier (And younger. And hipper.) -- particularly after losing Beverly Hills 90210 and Party of Five at the end of last season. A network, like all other networks, trying hard to figure out a way to reclaim some of the viewers away from the HBOs and Showtimes, but forced to do it without the swearing and the titties. And over here is a young cast of mostly white actors who the network hopes possess a likable balance of smarm and charisma. And over here is your tour guide $tee, already crying. And the show hasn't even begun. I don't know, folks. I've got a bad feeling about this. Fuck it. Let's go downtown...

Obligatory stock ticker shot. Dramatic sound as the title is shown. I understand why the "$," but really, is it a good idea to follow in the footsteps of Vega$ and particularly Arli$$? I'm not $o $ure. So we get an upside-down shot of that annoyingly three-named actor Tom Everett Scott, the loveable scamp from That Thing You Do!, lying on a bed watching the financial news, making pained expressions. The camera swivels, and...ah yes, a woman slides up his naked body from under the covers. Okay, Network Suit lesson one, kids. If you're going to make a show about something as actually boring as the stock market, don't waste even a second before equating it with sex. How do we do that? Fuck it: first shot, blowjob. Ba-bing! So the American Werewolf in SoHo annouces that he has to leave, and his lady friend responds that "the market doesn't open for three hours." Huh. It's pretty bright out for 5:30 AM. "The market's always open somewhere," responds Charles Martin Smith. So we immediately set up that she's not just a subservient blowjob giver as awkward exposition reveals that she's a banker who works a ninety-hour week. When she hypothesizes that the whole reason he wants to marry her is that she makes even more money than he does, he responds, "What a lucky girl I am." She is so excited by the expedient character development and the way she's managed to hold the sheet over her breasts the entire conversation that she cackles hysterically and throws a five-hundred thread-count pillow at Hans Christian Anderson; he punishes her by jumping on the bed and kissing her with his morning stank-breath. Oh, I forgot, wealthy young pretty white people don't get halitosis. My bad.