Thursday, 4/17/97 Just say off: Confessions of an ex-TV addict
Video junkie learns just how much precious time, life can be wasted
on televison
One of these days, Alice, one of these days … The boob tube,
the idiot box, the fertile loam of couch potatoes. Marshall McLuhan
called it a "cool medium." Newton Minnow called it the "vast
wasteland." About two years ago, I called it quits. I found myself,
once again, in the midst of the breakup of a major relationship and
therefore, by necessity, in the midst of the major appliances
section of my local department store. My shopping list and cart
overflowed with critical consumer items: cappuccino machine,
blender, toaster, psychotherapy (actually, for that last item I’d
have to search elsewhere, but wouldn’t it be nice if Bloomingdale’s
sales people could help you pick out food processors and
anti-depressants all at once?). The thrill of victory, the agony of
defeat … The last item on my list was a television. I wanted a
good one – no, I wanted the best one, the best one ever made, ever,
personally delivered to my house by Norio Ohga (Sony’s
chairperson). And I wanted it to be laden with features conducive
to transcendental viewing experiences. I wanted
picture-in-picture-in-picture-in-picture; 5,000 channels; surround
sound so good that it actually gave Cindy Crawford some semblance
of stage presence; a screen so big that I could lie down on the
floor and look up Teri Hatcher’s skirt. And most importantly, I
wanted to get me one of them pizza-box-sized remote controls, one
powerful enough to change channels on every TV in my zip code, one
that emitted enough infrared to get the attention of nuclear
missile detection satellites and make the folks at NORAD think that
some yahoo in the Hollywood Hills had just launched his own
personal ICBM from a backyard silo. We can rebuild him, we have the
technology … Saying good-bye to someone with whom you’ve lived
for over five years has a way of affecting your mood for a spell. I
soothed myself with the notion that watching a lot – I repeat: a
lot – of television would help make the transition from boyfriend
to simpering loser somewhat less traumatic (Prozac was still just a
twinkle in Eli Lilly’s eye). And, by God, if I was going to spend
all my waking hours in symbiotic catatonia with a TV, it had better
be a good one. So with Sisyphean determination, I maneuvered my
dumpster-sized shopping cart into the Home Entertainment Department
and lo, a vision was revealed to me. (By the way, the term "Home
Entertainment" is an ironic one when you consider it
etymologically. "Entertainment" comes from the Latin inter (among)
and tenere (to hold), "to hold among," an interesting phrase in the
context of television’s captivating hold on its viewers.) The story
you are about to hear is true … This aforementioned vision had
more to do with timing than any other factor. It was March 1995, a
blot on the calendar seemingly appropriated from us humans to
accommodate us voyeurs with the slather of what came to be known as
"O.J. One." I reverently strode, like every other supplicant before
and after me, toward the apse of the TV section, to its high altar,
that special area where they keep (hushed tone) the big screens. A
sales consultant saw me coming from a mile away, the slack in my
face, the bulge in my pocket (my wallet), and the reflection of
O.J. in my retinas, and unhitched the velvet rope like St. Peter
would to Lassie, so I might come unto the light. You dumbass … I
stood there in utter awe letting the electronic mosaic suffuse into
my being. I was home. I slurped back an unanticipated dose of
surplus drool. "Couldn’t I just pitch a tent here?" I asked the
sales consultant only half-jokingly. Viewing the gross of talking
heads before me, I finally knew what spider vision was all about:
Heaven. Then the Little Voice spoke: "Do you really need this? How
many hours of your life are irrevocably gone from your life because
of this insidious contraption?" I screamed back, "Shut up, shut up,
I say! This is none of your business. Get out of my head! I want my
TV!" Lest you think this was silent "inside-your-head" type of
screaming, it wasn’t. I frightened a couple of shoppers back to
Home Furnishings from whence they came, but what the hell, they
were just going to get in my way. A three hour tour … But the
voice … the voice … . How many hours had I indeed lost to the
tube? I schlepped my cart into a quiet corner and headed out into
the discretionary income dispersal center (the mall) to a
bookstore, to the reference section, to an almanac, to the section
on "Entertainment and Culture." I read the data on "Weekly TV
Viewing by Age." I did the math. I wanted to puke. If I were the
average television viewer, I, at my tender age, would by now have
watched over 35,000 hours of television. (Thanks to Neilsen Media
Research for that happy data.) There are 8,760 hours in a year,
subtract 8 hours per day for sleep and it works out to 5.5 years. I
was 34 at the time. That’s 1/6th of my life sucked away! And for
what? Was my life any better? Was I any smarter? Could I even
remember what I’d watched the previous night? Boss, boss, de plane,
de plane … I wondered what I could do with 32,500 hours if Mr.
Rourke just handed them back to me? How many degrees could I have?
How many languages could I speak fluently? How many musical
instruments could I play? If I had spent only half of those hours
making minimum wage, I’d have an extra 80 thou in the bank. How
much would my free-throw improve after eight million practice
shots? To boldly go … (By the way, that’s a split infinitive.) I
decided to try an experiment, to abstain from watching TV. No more
"Beavis and Butthead," "Ren and Stimpy," or Connie and Dan, no more
"Live at Five." From here on out it would be nix at six. No "ER,"
"Friends," or Jenny McCarthy. Not even "Seinfeld." No "Seinfeld,"
you ask? How could I be a functioning member of society without
being able to contribute to those sparkling Friday morning
round-table discussions of the previous night’s exploits of
Seinfeld, et al.? J’accuse! Movin’ on up … I could untie the
little knot of furniture focused on my Sony. I could call Century
Cable and tell them where to put it. But more importantly, I could
put terabytes of brain storage to better use. Edward R. Murrow
said, "Television in the main is being used to distract, delude,
amuse and insulate us." I was really tired of it. Happy trails to
you … I didn’t just stop watching TV, I stopped owning a TV. As I
mentioned, it’s been two years now and I can now say with certainty
that dumping my TV was one of the single greatest things I have
ever done for myself. I gave myself an incredible gift: time. Can
you imagine opening up a birthday present every year and finding
within it a gift certificate good for 1,000 hours of life? If you
are an average viewer, that’s what you’d get out of the deal.
Submitted for your approval … I was curious to find out what it
would be like to miss televised coverage of the next major-media
event. I didn’t have to wait long. In the flash and shock wave that
accompanied a terrorist’s home-brew of ammonium nitrate and diesel
fuel, my question was answered. I never saw one second of video
from the Oklahoma bombing scene. I missed the network loops of
liquified bodies, uncomprehending faces, and scorched infants. I
was spared viewing ad infinitum the smoldering carcass of what had
once been a place where people went to do business, meet friends,
and drop off their children. Instead, I read about it in the paper.
I wondered if my take on this hideous episode in the immediate
lives of thousands, and in the less immediate lives of hundreds of
millions would affect me less than it had affected everyone else
simply because I didn’t watch it replay after replay. You think you
need TV to know what’s going on? You just read my words about
Oklahoma; you tell me. Do you think I missed out on any of the
critical aspects of the event by opting for something other than TV
as my news source? Where’s the beef? … No one can say with any
certainty, but I think I experienced, more or less, what everyone
else experienced … maybe more because I read about it. Instead of
getting my news in catchy three-minute video clips from people who
would lose their jobs if they suddenly went bald or put on 20
pounds, I read the considerate words of correspondents. As far as
I’m concerned, missing out on the TV coverage had no relevant
effect on my awareness of what happened in Oklahoma. None. And now
for something completely different … I’ve discussed ad nauseam my
rejection of television with friends and acquaintances and I’m
always amazed to find that no one seems to watch any TV. Most of
the people I’ve spoken with on the issue say something that amounts
to: "Oh, I never watch TV." This statement concerns me because it
means one of three things: a) they’re watching TV but don’t realize
just how much, b) they realize how much but don’t want to admit it,
or c) there are others out there picking up the slack. Remember,
the Neilson numbers are averages. If the average is three hours per
day and I’m watching zero, then somebody out there is watching six.
Ouch. And that’s the way it is … Dump your TV. Here’s a one word
tip: defenestrate. Tie a rope around it and drag it behind your
car. Give it to someone you hate. If these measures seem a bit
severe, or it’s not really your TV to trash, then try this: Just
say off. April 24-30 is International TV Turnoff Week. It’s
sponsored by an advocacy group called Adbusters (Check out their
page: http://www.adbusters.org/). Don’t let the goofy name get in
your way; this is where their hearts are: "We spend more hours
watching nature shows than experiencing the real thing; more time
laughing at TV jokes than making jokes ourselves; more time
experiencing TV sex than actually touching another human body."
Turn off your TV for a week, April 24-30. Try it, you’ll like
it.