Washed-up actors and actresses see Hope at the end of Kirstie Alley’s Fat-Shedding Rainbow.

The line is long today outside of New York’s 10th and 54^th Street Dunkin Donuts, as once famous Hollywood stars push and shove their way through the line, searching for financial and media rejuvenation at the center of a dozen French crullers. I don’t have a camera or crew, just my notepad and pencils, pencils for poking the regular morning crowd out of the way. In front of me by four places is Josh Saviano, known to the eighties world as Kevin Arnold’s best friend Paul in the hit series The Wonder Years. Josh has porked up nicely, but only in the last few weeks, and only as a result of the shameless sheisterisms of Washed Up TV dud, Kirstie Alley. I’m able to knock over a middle-aged mom and a sickly geriatric, and in another minute I’m even with Saviano, who is more than happy to get some quotes down on my pad.

“Donuts are the best way,” he says as he pulls the crumpled bills from his pocket. “I mean, shakes are good too. But you got such a variety in donuts, and the coffee’s great here. The caffeine makes me forget how lethargic I’ve been feeling lately.”

“So why are you doing this to yourself?” I ask. Saviano pulls out a crumpled piece of paper and shoves it in my palm. It’s ripped from a magazine. Kirstie Alley smiling and bouncing in a full page Jenny Craig ad. Saviano shakes his head.

“I got sick of her on Cheers, and after that it was just dry heaves.” I nod in agreement, which seems to inspire him to continue. “I mean, all her movies, crap. And that show, that modeling show she had? Uhhh. How did that stay on for more than a day?”

“So now her plan is…” I pause.

“To use this weight loss thing as a big publicity stunt. It’s demeaning.”

“But aren’t you?” Saviano grabs the paper and glares at me.

“My last TV gig was an A&E child star five-minute segment. And before that, a TVography, whatever the hell that means, about the Wonder Years. I need this thing. Dexatrim promised me they’d get on board if I topped the three hundred pound barrier. Only a hundred to go.”

At this point the aisle clears and Saviano does not hesitate in bull rushing his way to the counter. He orders two chocolate glazed to eat while he orders the two other boxes and two 18-ounce coffees to go. It’s too much for me, and I back out through the hoard to an empty space a few meters away. But it’s not far enough. Mr. T saw me talking with Saviano and he obviously wants a piece of the action.

“Hey!” He calls out from across the street. “Did you see me in the off-Broadway production of the A-Team?” I casually hail a cab and try to act like I haven’t noticed him. But how can you not? He’s a walking pile of scrap metal. “Hey!” he screams as I quickly open the door. “I played Face! Remember? The good looking dude?”

I stop and turn, not able to resist the curious itch in my neck. “Okay.” I say calmly. “Who played you?” Mr. T is huffing and puffing from the run across the street. He takes a minute to catch his breath, and spends the next minute shoving a chocolate éclair into his mouth. “You too?” I ask in disbelief.

“Uh huh,” he mumbles through chocolaty crumbs. He swallows and wipes the dirt from his mouth. “Scott Hamill,” he says, and everything falls clearly into place.