The low point might have been the one hour I spent watching, actually sitting down and watching, an entire episode of Keeping Up With The Kardashians. If there is a reality show I always knew I'd never watch, it was this one. Don't ask me why these three sisters are famous, because I couldn't tell you. I had come accross photos and photo captions of them on celebrity magazine covers while in line at the supermarket, and always looked at them like I would at a beef jerky: Who would consume this and why?
Yet here I was, slouched on the couch, following the non-plot of their show as if any scene or any dialogue in it would deliver resolution and satisfaction. (If you haven't traveled this path, trust me, it doesn't.) In my defense, I could say I sat to watch it because my daughter likes it -- supposedly because of the fashion and the seemingly glamorous lifestyle they showcase on TV -- but I sat watching long after my daughter had turned her attention to something else (namely, texting on her iPhone, which is another story). So, while the sane me watched the demented me passively viewing this atrocity, a nasty suspicion started creeping into my semi-comatose mind: TV was overpowering me.
I looked at the apparatus. It is beautiful. I bought it earlier this year after my pre-historic, bulky, hugely three-dimensional box that weighed as much as an elephant finally gave out. After four days of void in my household, my daughter and I went to Best Buy and found an incredible special sale for a top notch plasma screen high definition something something that I think it's 36 inches, out of which the brightest images and sharpest sounds explode to fill our living room with more beauty, excitement and drama than that contained in the collective lives of my entire subdivision of 500 homes.
TV is good. It tells good stories, entertaining stories, imaginative stories, even instructive stories. But none of them are your story, your imagination, your learning, all of which you give up at least in part when you watch TV, even good TV. Get distracted, and the apparatus will make you watch three sisters you don't know and don't care about talk endlessly about the nothing that passes as their personal lives.
Tomorrow is Monday. Know what Monday is? The day for How I Met Your Mother. I love that show. When I see it in the program guide, it's almost as if my heart jumps. It has a fresh format: Each episode revolves around the life of five young professional friends in New York, narrated by one of them, Ted, who is recalling the events as he tells his children how he met their mother. Episode after episode we go through humorous situations with Ted and his friends, without yet getting to the part of how Ted actually met the future mother of his children. And you want to get to that part as badly as Ted wants to fall in love, get married and raise a family.
At the end of the show's past season some two weeks ago, the story line got closer to that critical moment, giving all the indications that she will become a character in the next season. How do they actually meet? How does he conquer her or fall for her or recognize that she's the one, after all the women we've seen him get involved with? Meanwhile, Robin, his lingering flame, is getting married to Barney, the perennial bad boy, even though neither one seems quite ready for it. Will they go through with it?
I guess I won't find out, not for the next six months anyway.
Ted, I'm really going to miss you. But I'm looking at the bright side. I'm also getting rid of the Kardashians.
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