Christopher Lawrence

Despite what you might have heard, the sitcom isn’t dead.

I always assumed Disney’s young stars were grown in a lab.

Some things should never change. Albert Pujols’ swing. The creamy filling of a Double Stuf Oreo. The unexplainable glee of seeing people land on their heads on “Wipeout.”

They go with summer like baseball and Cracker Jack. Six-packs and barbecues. The binoculars you got when you were 13 and the divorcee next door’s liberal definition of swimwear.

When considering the decade’s most influential shows, you’d have to include “Survivor.” Because at this very moment, somewhere in the world, someone is being voted out of or off of a kitchen or a catwalk, a ballroom, a boardroom or a bedroom.

There will be no awkward banter between presenters. No fancy gift bags. And no Hugh Jackman musical numbers that make you say, “That’s the guy who plays Wolverine? Seriously? That guy?”

The first rule of “The Real Housewives of Las Vegas” is you do not talk about “The Real Housewives of Las Vegas.”

With the possible exceptions of whoever gets to eat the leftovers on Bravo’s “Top Chef” and anyone who comes into contact with Eliza Dushku and her leather pants on Fox’s “Dollhouse,” the best job on TV has to belong to T.J. Lavin.

After months of some pretty lackluster comedies and dramas, it’s finally here: Spring, when a young TV geek’s fancy turns to pilot season.

The notion that there are no second acts in Hollywood is ridiculous. After all, without second acts, TV episodes would come up a good seven minutes short.