“Do I look like a dork?” Sagal asks a saleswoman in the Harley boutique as he tries on a helmet and snug leather jacket. (“You are so conceited,” she replies, in a spot-on comment that should entitle her to a lifetime supply of answering-machine messages recorded by Carl Kasell.)
You can see Sagal and his premise coming from many miles away, making precisely the irritating jokes and wry asides you’d expect him to make. The effect — educational or otherwise — rests somewhere in a parched canyon between “Schoolhouse Rock” and a “Daily Show” segment; it is reminiscent of that h...
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