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Confessions of an addict: A power higher than any couch potato has mandated the switch to digital TV; the time has come to give in

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The Philadelphia Inquirer (MCT) - Hello. My name is Melissa and I am a television addict.

Highlights

By Melissa Dribben
McClatchy Newspapers (www.mctdirect.com)
2/24/2009 (1 decade ago)

Published in TV

For more than 30 years, I kept my addiction under control. I never subscribed to cable. I resisted my children's pleas for sets that did not have gray stripes quivering across the screen and a constant background buzzing.

I told them it was for their own good. Better that they should read books and play "Where in the World Is Carmen Sandiego?" on the computer and try to beat me at Scrabble (fat chance). But, I secretly knew, it was for my own good, too.

And now, I blame my relapse entirely on the FCC pushermen who threatened to put my rabbit-eared set on death row. Who scheduled to flip the Luddite switch and make it lapse into a permanent coma. Who made me call Comcast and Verizon and comparison shop for a Bacchanalian orgy of channels, delivered direct to my bedroom, living room and home office _ with a pernicious little device thrown in so that I can record shows when I am otherwise engaged and fill in every free millisecond of my life with passive, mind-rotting entertainment.

And Holy Guacamole, Batman! what a sweet rush it's been ever since that installation crew snaked those sinful white wires through my windows.

I grew up in the 1960s in a very strict household. My skirts had to touch my knees, every dinner had to include green leafy vegetables, and the thought of cursing? I never heard a four-letter word uttered in my parents' presence.

I swear.

On the television front, however, our home was a wanton paradise. My father may have derisively nicknamed our TV the "boob tube" and the "idiot box," but he always made sure we had the latest model _ lovingly encased in a wood cabinet.

Our taste was indiscriminate, and our appetite, bottomless. (I mean this in both senses of the word.) "Dr. Kildare," "Bonanza," "My Favorite Martian," "Concentration," "Sing Along With Mitch," "The Mike Douglas Show," "Get Smart," "What's My Line?," "The Donna Reed Show," "The Avengers," "Topper, That Was the Week That Was," "McHale's Navy," "Hogan's Heroes," "Laugh-In," "The Addams Family."

There was a price to be paid for so many hours sitting, hypnotized by cathode rays. I can recall all the lyrics to "Mr. Ed" and how badly I wanted Katy, the Swedish governess in "The Farmer's Daughter," to marry her congressman boss, Mr. Morley, but I can't remember where I parked my car this morning.

Determined to do better by my own children, I restricted the shows they could watch, and limited the number of hours. My son was particularly susceptible, so he was given a fixed number of "TV tokens" each week and when he ran out, it was, "Too bad, Kimosabe, go play with your Legos."

This year, with our kids years and gigabytes beyond our parental control, there was no more pretense. Our cruddy reception had no higher purpose.

We could tell ourselves that we were staying in the pop cultural loop by reading the New Yorker piece about a conference at Fordham University that explored Carmela's collusion with the patriarchy in "The Sopranos."

We could tell our friends it was more efficient to watch all five seasons of "The Wire" over five weeks on rented DVDs.

We could tell our neighborhood TLA store that we were dedicated to supporting our local merchants and would not forsake them for a DVR.

Or we could abandon our brethren _ the 6.5 million Americans still clinging to their Australopithecus TVs _ the dumb bunnies who couldn't tell an analog from a dialogue if their daily dose of "The View" depended on it.

And this is why I am here, making my confession. I am not proud of my behavior these last three weeks. I know I could have waited. Congress granted us four more months to stay in our small Eden with bad reception. By the summer, there might have been more choices and better deals.

And, of course, I could have just tried to score a converter box with one of those $40 coupons that the government mailed out via third-class post (figuring that if you've waited this long, you're probably nostalgic for the Pony Express).

The shameful truth is that I wanted 600 channels. I craved HBO. And I could no longer deny that I wanted a daily dose of "The Daily Show With Jon Stewart" more than my leafy greens.

Every night now, I scramble into bed, forsaking my daughter's requests to let her clobber me at chess. (She massacres me in Scrabble now, too. I blame my addled brain on my misspent youth. The chickens of "Green Acres" have come home to roost.)

With a delicious thrill, I pick up the remote, push the "on" button, select "list" on my DVR, and watch hour upon hour of "Monk." I no longer have to stay up until midnight on Saturdays to catch Seth Myers on "Weekend Update." I gleefully fast-forward through commercials, even though it's bad for the economy. I drop in on "Queer Eye for the Straight Guy" and when I can't understand what Tom Hanks says when he's talking to the soccer ball in "Castaway," I rewind and replay. And even though I feel guilty about dumping TLA, I like not worrying about when my DVD is due back.

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Because the movie was delivered through those iniquitous white wires, to my personal idiot box at no extra charge.

My children are appalled. They say it's a sickness.

They're right.

But if they want me to give up Jon Stewart and my other digitalized friends, they're going to have to pry the magic monkey paw from my hot, desperate fingers.

___

Melissa Dribben: mdribben@phillynews.com.

___

© 2009, The Philadelphia Inquirer.

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