I can't write any more. For days I've been wondering what about my life was ever interesting enough to put into words and drop into the ether, because it certainly doesn't hold any remotely interesting material now.
Or maybe that's just the cable talking.
For more than five years I have eschewed the brain-candy jar of cable television, preferring instead to rely on any number of tin-foil and 9-volt battery antenna combinations to watch the one or two shows I allow myself to get addicted to every season. In a pinch, I could always run to Char's house or when I was living in the barracks, I could spend the evening stalking the remote control in one of three common areas waiting for someone to drop it so I could pounce in time for Alias or whatever. It was inconvenient, but not enough for me to pay fifty bucks for a hundred channels when I only wanted to watch two. I was busy with other things, and I admit I took a sick sort of self-righteous pleasure in advertising the fact that I didn't watch TV. Which was entirely true, but not, as I thought, because of my intellectually virtuous high standards of entertainment. It turns out it was just because I had sucky reception.
My cable addiction started innocently as most things do. Since I was getting the internet/cable bundle, I opted for the additional digital video recorder at the bargain rate of only five dollars more per month. I'd save that much in videotapes in the first month alone, I reasoned. And if I needed further convincing, I reminded myself I'm starting classes again soon, and DVR would let me keep tabs on Lost and CSI without sacrificing mid-week homework time.
As soon as the cable guy left, I couldn't resist parking my butt in front of the TV with the Star-Trek like remote control. I played around with the buttons, zoomed up and down the TV guide channel a few times, and looked for something to record "just to test it out". I programmed the unit to record Ellen DeGeneres and tore myself reluctantly from the screen to go to work. That night after watching Ellen, I realized – bonus! – I could record Top Model while watching something else, and then watch that after I finished watching Lost! And if I recorded Lost, I could slo-mo through it later to look for hidden clues! Then the next night while watching CSI, I could record Alias in case I ever forgave J.J. Abrams for killing off Vaughn enough to watch it again! Then I discovered I could tell my DVR to record all episodes of a particular show, so I could be assured of never, ever missing an episode of…well, anything. I had the uncomfortable feeling I was getting in too deep, but a few episodes of E! True Hollywood Story convinced me a cable addiction was small potatoes compared to Meg Ryan's issues.
I knew I was in serious trouble when I started looking at my upcoming three-day weekend as a chance to spend some quality time catching up on MTV, but I managed to drown out that annoying voice of reason with the ill-fitting soundtrack to the season premier of Related (did anyone else notice the weirdly chipper music during the 'my boyfriend of six years just dumped me' scene? Is it sad that I'm asking that question?) When I wasn't sleeping or cooking dinner, I watched a dozen episodes of MTV's Super Sweet Sixteen (good lord, those are some rude-ass kids!), scoured the TV Guide for the last two episodes of American Princess and recorded every rerun of CSI, Law & Order: SVU and Cold Case I could find. When I ran out of things to watch, I tuned to the Military channel and educated myself on Paris Island Drill Instructors, F-18 Hornet pilot training and life on aircraft carriers while putting together three bookcases and unloading twelve cartons of literary entertainment without once noticing the irony. I ignored the blank, silent screen of my abandoned laptop by channel surfing via picture-in-picture and programming my DVR to record anything interesting that might come up on VH1 while I slept. I felt moderately guilty for not taking the time to at least update my blog, but I reasoned that if I wasn't girl-fighting my best friend over a guy, solving a murder case or reporting the latest Brangelina stats, what was left to say? What could possibly be going on in my life to compare to glamazon fashions faux-pas, witty comebacks from precocious kids and the fascinating train wreck of a seriously painful band audition?
I briefly considered jotting down a funny story about an overfed cockroach I found on my floor, but it's almost 7:30 and I still have to program my DVR for Tuesday night TV.
And I don't even know what's on.
Is Jimmy Jet your hero?
