‘The Day My Television Died’

There is at least one area in which my tastes stray from the norm: entertainment. This is probably because I don’t get out a lot.

Time was, when I had a monstrous, colour T.V. that barely left space in the room for viewing. We were constant companions - grew up together. Television simplified life for me. It regurgitated meaningful “real life” moments in half hour segments, performed on command and never failed to entertain while educating. Every waking minute my T.V. hummed, buzzed and flashed whatever C.B.C, N.B.C., C.F.T.O., or A.B.C. deemed profitable. Through this A.V. medium, I was introduced to S.C.T.V., M.A.S.H. and of course, J.R. If not for T.V., I doubt that I ever would have learned the alphabet.

Then, one day, the impossible happened: my T.V. died. A sudden and untimely death: I had expected at least another five years together. That’s when I remembered a 60 Minutes program which warned of a new, executroid concept allowing manufacturers to protect their financial marketshare. It was called “planned obsolescence”. No longer would America build better when all they really had to do was build more. According to my T.V., time was running out and I had refused to listen. Ironic foreshadowing: my television had predicted its own demise.

A thirty dollar visit from the T.V. repair human confirmed the worst. A picture tube-ectomy was required with a direct payment of only $450.00. Outrageous! I suggested that he hold me for ransom instead.

After that incident my entire life altered dramatically. My old song and dance pal was transformed into a table and then finally a treasure for the trash. Its cycloptic eye never to blink again.

With an enormous amount of time on my hands, I went through a severe, initial period of withdrawal. To simply survive I began distracting myself with new activities. I went back to school which led to a new habit called, “reading” and I even started talking to the man in my house a couple of times.

But then I realized my kids were going to start attending the ex-television viewers’ black market and party guests would snub me once they discovered that I didn’t have a clue who Rambo was. My self esteem was beginning to dissolve. It almost faded to black. My darkest hour came when I learned that no one ever throws out their stale box of bicarbonate of soda: you pour it down the sink. People just don’t think to pass along this vital information in everyday conversation. It’s not that they’re malicious. It’s just that they naturally presume that you are, you know, informed.

Under social duress, I finally returned to a normal life within the scope of Middle America – well, almost. I bought a portable, black and white T.V., still without cable or satellite dish but I did get a VCR so that I could tape programs now and edit out commercials later.

Having gone so far, I naively believed that I might even venture out to a movie theatre. Realizing that my personal media centre- the television- only bleeds in black and that I refuse to subsidize the highly popular, slash ‘em, pound ‘em, turn-them-green-with-terror kind of film which usually reproduces itself annually, I chose to see “Peggy Sue Got Married”. The film critics rave, “Best Picture of the Year”. Its censor board rating: Parental Guidance. Obviously, my kind of film.

What I didn’t anticipate was the advertisements before the film. They’re something the theatre chain labels, “Coming Attractions” but they’re still commercials. I never knew people would wait in line 45 minutes, pay $6.00 a piece and then sit through at least eight minutes of advertisements without complaint. Not only that, but the tree commercials shown on this particular evening offered snippets of micro-paced, blood gushing gore from feature films which are all rated “restricted”. One film was lucky enough to be designated, “Warning: Brutal Violence”. That one should bring the public out in droves.

By the time the feature film started I half expected Peggy Sue to be dragged out in a gunny sack. But as I said before, I don’t get out a lot.

I’d like to believe that I’m not part of the greater minority when it comes to being offended by this kind of treatment. I’d like to believe that lots of people would choose to send this article to the Cineplex Odeon Corporation so that they would review their advertising policy. I’m tired of paying for commercials and I really don’t like being terrorized. But I’m sure I’ll get used to it. After all, I’ve just started my reintroduction to my old friend the T.V.