Christopher Lawrence

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.

Maybe it was MTV back in the day with its three-minute bursts of Cyndi Lauper and Lionel Richie. Or it could be the fact that the meat we eat has been injected with more questionable substances than Barry Bonds during his prime. But somewhere along the way, our national attention span has come to rival that of a fruit fly on spring break after its fourth beer bong.

In the past couple of weeks, new shows have been popping up like sensitive balladeer types on “American Idol.”

From the beginning of “Kings” to the end of “Battlestar Galactica” and the angels battling demons on “Supernatural” in between, the notion of a higher power has taken on a more-prominent-than-usual place on my TV.

If you’ve ever found the perfect groove in your couch — the kind where the cushions and pillows align so perfectly you wouldn’t even consider getting up for anything less than two-thirds of the Kardashian sisters on your doorstep holding a reasonable mortgage and some In-N-Out — then you know what it’s like when the phone rings.

It has love and war, “7th Heaven”-style religion and “Gossip Girl”-style scheming, and the mother of all intimidating actors in Ian McShane.

Everywhere you look, there are signs that people are doing whatever it takes to make ends meet.

You’d think being Satan’s right-hand man would come with a few perks. Untold riches. Supermodels underfoot. Maybe a job in the Yankees’ front office so he’d feel at home.