I have a confession to make. It isn't an easy one. I will certainly be
ridiculed by peers and colleagues and bring endless shame to my family for the
secret I've been keeping. But it's time to come clean.
I own a television.
Wait. That is only a partial truth, and if I am to make a proper confession, it
must be a complete one, frightening as my veracity may be.
I own two televisions.
Apparently, this makes me a very bad person. I know this because lately it
seems every interesting, educated, attractive, breathing person I've met has
made a point of telling me, at some point within the first nine seconds of our
meeting, that he or she does not own a television.
Now, mind you, these home-electronics revelations do not come about as a result
of anything I've asked. I have never, upon meeting someone, inquired, "Plasma
or flat-screen?" Nor have I wondered aloud whether his or her VCR is separate
from the monitor, or one of those sure-to-break-within-four-minutes-of-purchase
all-in-one things (confession, revised: I own one of those).
And yet people appear compelled to reveal with stunning speed -- and, more
irritatingly, excessive pride -- that their homes are not equipped with
televisions of any size or satanic sort.
How, exactly, am I supposed to respond to such a piece of information, coming
as it does from someone I've only just met and who, aside from this deficiency
(meant, of course, to be perceived as an attribute), seems quite a normal
person?
I have experimented with various rejoinders:
"You must read a lot."
"You must have a lot of sex."
"You must not know who Kelly Ripa is."
All are met with pitying expressions. In fact, the mere idea that my house
(confession, slightly tweaked: it's not even a house. It's an apartment. But
it's a duplex, and I swear the televisions are on separate floors) is home to
not one but two boxes of doom inspires looks that seem to say, "You
poor, glaze-eyed little monkey. You must not know who Charles Dickens is."
But in fact I do know who Charles Dickens is. And I know who Slobodan
Milosevic is. I can name the 50 states (for extra credit, I might even be able
to place them on a map). I have stood on four of the seven -- indeed, I know
there are seven -- continents. I appreciate good food and red wine. I went to
the symphony last week, and to the ballet the week before. I have friends.
But I also know who Simon Cowell is. I covet Carrie Bradshaw's wardrobe. I have
seen, in triplicate, every episode of The Brady Bunch. I can tell you
the difference between Maternity Ward and A Baby Story, and that
they both appear on TLC. I cried when NYPD Blue's Bobby Simone died
(though that was mostly at the thought of not seeing Jimmy Smits on a regular
basis). And I can look you in the eye when I say that I did, in fact, watch a
soap opera, quite religiously, for my entire high-school career.
So what is it about my owning a television that inspires such horror, such
pity? Is it the useless trivia that's no doubt swirling around the outer
reaches of my brain during every waking moment (hell, it's probably clattering
about when I'm asleep, too), clogging up space that could be given over to some
more-useful purpose? The fact that every moment spent in front of the
television is a moment I could be using to climb Mount Everest, run a marathon,
learn Swahili? Am I somehow less interesting, less smart, less funny, less
attractive, because I'm partial to a Friends rerun before bedtime?
When I was growing up, most of my friends were allowed to watch as much
television as they wanted, as long as they finished their homework and did
their chores. My sister and I were limited to two hours of TV-watching a day,
no negotiations, no exceptions. My sister, bless her clever heart, would turn
the television off during commercial breaks so as not to waste a precious
minute. (Now one of the smartest people I know, she only recently bought a
television, after several years of living without. There is a tapestry draped
over it most of the time.)
I'm not saying I advocate excessive television-watching, especially for kids,
who are working through the most important years of growing, learning,
discovering the world. But, Jesus. I like my television. I like both of
my televisions. And I don't think that makes me a bad person -- maybe just
slightly more prone to wanting a $400 pair of Jimmy Choos.
So if I meet you at a cocktail party, go ahead and tell me how you don't own a
television, have never owned a television, will never own a television, till
death do you part with your complete works of Charles Dickens. I'm sure you and
your TV-less home will be very ha --
I've got to wrap this up now. Will & Grace is starting, and I can't
miss it.
Tamara Wieder, who will not let you watch The Sopranos at her house
just because you're too high and mighty to own your own damn television, can be
reached at twieder[a]phx.com.
Issue Date: October 11 - 17, 2002