Late to the party. (By about 24 hours.)

I’m pretty pop-culturally savvy. My mother will vouch for my encyclopedic knowledge of television, movies, and music. (Of course, my mother thinks The Matrix was about mathematicians, so it’s possible that judgment may be relative.) I’m familiar with most of the popular films and TV shows, I know more than I should about the IMDB profiles of most working actors, and I am more likely to recognize a celebrity’s voice on a commercial than I am to recognize my own car in a parking lot.

Still, over the last five years, there was a huge cultural phenomenon to which I never paid much attention: the television show, 24.

I knew the show was good – smart people had told me so – but when it first started, I never had time to catch it. Its distinguishing gimmick is that every episode takes place in real time; each hour on my television is an hour out of Agent Jack Bauer’s day, and 24 episodes in a season constitutes one day in his life. Interesting. But by the time the show started gaining recognition and praise, it was far enough along that I didn’t feel I could catch up properly, and I hate feeling like I’ve missed something. I’m a little OCD that way. So I ignored it.

Well, until this week.

DVDs have been a technological godsend to television shows in general, especially the sequential ones, but never has a television show been more exquisitely suited to a technological format than this one. I get to start from the beginning! The very thing that kept me from 24 in the first place – the utterly dependent chronology and mythology, and its inaccessibility in network broadcast schedules – is now an enticing draw, a crack-like temptation to just watch one more episode, because I’m almost done with this disc anyway, and couldn’t I just round it out to an even episode number, and if I don’t find out what happens to Kiefer’s daughter in that van, I’m going to dream about it tonight.

Oh, have I not mentioned Kiefer Sutherland yet?

The Kief has been stealing scenes in movies since I was born, and has quite a following of devoted Brat Packers and Young Gunners fanning themselves with their copies of Lost Boys and Stand By Me. While I’ve always appreciated the guy’s acting chops, I’ve never really inducted him into my harem, because I just don’t see it, and his voice has always creeped me out.

Lately, though, as I’ve watched him tear around L.A. in various states of distress that never seem to muss his flawlessly frosted hair, perfecting his “I’m just a family man!” look of anguish that morphs into quiet rage that becomes bitter determination that evolves into a delicately brow-furrowing expression of ache, somehow managing to find a way to change clothes about 13 times in the space of 24 hours, it suddenly occurs to me: “Huh. What do you know? He’s a MUSILL.” So I think I’ll allow Kiefer onto my Boyfriend Bus, but he might have to sit in the back for awhile.

Watching an episode that takes place in real time is neat, but it makes me feel like the laziest sloth that ever sprawled out on her couch. In the space of fifteen minutes, Kiefer has managed to meet a guy, size him up, get suspicious, distract him with a well-presented bluff, find a tranquilizer gun, MacGyver himself a little tranquilizer gun carrying case out of a three-ring binder, weigh the consequences, shoot the hell out of this guy’s leg, and somehow conceal the unconscious body in an office made entirely of glass. Meanwhile, in exactly the same amount of time, I have managed to stare blankly at a glowing box for awhile, find the perfect fulcrum point for balancing my remote control on my hip, and develop a craving for Cheez-its.

By the time an entire episode is over, the Kief has usually managed to unearth four conspiracies, discover two secret identities, kill or maim a couple of people (which, of course, he feels just terrible about, because he’s kind of a swell guy), nearly die at least twice, give the batshit-crazy eyes to roughly half the population of L.A., and set a new record for the number of times one person can say, “If you touch my family, I will hunt you down and kill you,” and still sound like he’s so not kidding about that.

Honestly, I’m exhausted just watching him. I need more Cheez-its, just to sustain myself.

I am currently nearly halfway through Season One. This puts our characters at a point in their day just approaching lunchtime, and while they’ve had several conspiracies, at least three explosions, countless murders, one suicide, six kidnappings, and a terrorist coup, I have pretty much toasted a bagel and wondered about the molecular structure of bubble bath.

Luckily, my disinterest in the show before now has kept me from paying any attention to talk of significant plot points in any of the previous seasons, so I have no idea what’s going to happen, and my suspense is pretty genuine (although I totally called that twist about Alan York right from the beginning of Episode 1). Yes, I am aware that there are new episodes of the show airing every week, and no, I do not plan to watch any of them because weren’t you listening before when I talked about my OCD?

So, fellow 24ers, here I am, late to the party, but no less enthusiastic. Please do not talk to me about plot points from seasons past or present, because if you ruin this for me I will come over there and break all your pencil tips in a malicious manner. Now, if you don’t mind, I have an online rental queue to fill. I am so behind.