Thief of Time

In college I had a friend named Phil. I liked Phil a lot. He came from a cool family, he made friends easily, he was super-talented and smart. In many ways I wanted to be Phil.

He was also the first person I ever met who lived without television. "Television is a thief of time," he'd lecture with his impish smile, and then go to his apartment to study Russian and drink dark, European beer.

Of course, Phil was right. I've lost entire weeks to television, and I mean watching reruns of bad television. I would be a trivia champ at Friends or Judging Amy. Lately, however, I've been weaning myself. As the shows to which I was devoted have left the air, I've been careful not to replace them. At the moment I'm a fan of Kathy Griffin's show on Bravo, but I can miss it. Not to mention that I could save some serious money if I gave up my cable. I could get more reading done. I'd probably have an easier time with my writing (which is actually progressing nicely, thank you) and I'd have time for new hobbies. I'd get out of the house more, which would mean more exercise. I'd probably be more sociable.

Yet, I just can't seem to get away from the television. I turn it on when I have dinner, as sort of a companion and before I know it, it's time to go to bed. But to be fair to myself I have managed to hold down a pretty responsible, high-stress job and complete a masters degree with honors.

In recent years television has been a non-demanding family in a time of my life when I could barely fulfill my own needs, let alone be attentive to anyone else. It made me laugh at times when nothing else could and it eased stress that might have otherwise only been relieved chemically. Like my cat, it has been a constant friend that only gave and asked nothing in return.

While my cat is older than my television, it's by only a few months. I bought it from a small Korean electronic shop on Belmont Avenue in 1987, back when there was nothing on the corner of Belmont and Clark street but real goth runaways and five-dollar hookers instead of the suburban wannabes who think their edgy because they spike their hair and paint it blue on Saturdays.

The television is 21 inches, with knobs -- no remote, thank you, that cost $189. That was big money for someone who was working two part-time jobs. My friend Val went with me and helped load it into a cab. I was also excited because it was my first color television. Imagine that. There are at least two generations walking the earth now who cannot fathom the idea of primitive life with only four broadcast networks and black-and-white screens. And I'm part of one of them.

The antennae has long since been lost, and without the cable there is absolutely no picture. I have several boxes and adapters that allow me to use modern television equipment with my antique television, but the picture tube has deteriorated to the point that only a direct feed from the cable registers. Watching tapes or DVD's is an impossibility. Every now and then I think about going out and buying new flat-screen TV, but I'm afraid I'd never leave the house.

Television officially became my friend in 1989 when I lay flat on my back for six weeks with hepatitis. I had salvaged from the alley one of those foam chairs that flipped out into a little bed and I lay on the dining room floor of my tiny studio apartment watching soap operas, living for the six-o'clock reruns of Cheers. I had enough strength to flip the switches and that was it. I had no family in town to take care of me and my friends were all working and doing shows. But the television was always there.

When I was unemployed and squeezing every penny, I still kept my cable.

In many ways I keep that television because it's a reminder of who I was and the bad times I've survived. It connects me to a time when a cheap TV really meant something, a tangible symbol of some success in a way that nothing else ever will be. I tend to hold on to things long past their real usefulness because they meant something. They're a badge of an era. I still have the little black-and-white my father bought for me to take to college.

But, as I get older I also become aware of the passage of time in a way I didn't before. The list of things I want to accomplish continues to grow and time seems to speed up. Something's got to give.

I may disconnect the cables from the TV and see how I fare. But of course there is always the Internet to take the television's place. I often wonder what became of Phil. I lost track of him after he graduated from Yale and starred on Broadway. I wonder if he still finds time to practice his Russian.