That's right. Just 10 days.
It doesn't sound so bad. You still get the broadcast networks. You still get entertainment.
I, a self-confessed TV junkie, was recently forced to go 10 days without cable after my service went down. The cable company promised they were sending someone out to my place to check it out, but it wouldn't be anytime soon. So I was stuck with broadcast TV for a while, like it or not.
This raised a question: how badly do we really need cable TV? And how did this tube-addicted TV writer cope for a week and a half?
I'm disappointed but collected, flipping through the 20 channels I still have--about 400 times. Sitcoms devoid of the com. Suddenly Susan reruns. Infomercials for rotisserie grills.
However, I have videocassettes with episodes of Band of Brothers on them. Whew.
Frustration. UPN. Rotisserie grills again.
So it's back to Band of Brothers. I'm starting to salute people at work.
Emmys night. I have to work until 3 a.m. Nothing but CBS. Hmmm. What was I worried about in the first place? I can do this.
Monday Night Football on ABC. Broncos at Raiders. Watchable.
I'm literally amazed. This is getting easier.
No, this is getting disturbing. I realize I'm growing dumber. No FOX News. No CNN. My coworkers talk about Afghanistan and I just nod. They mention a Taliban-controlled town named Candy Bar--or something like that--and the nodding continues full-force.
I'm in dire need of some real info. Award-winning coverage. I get home and flip to the local news and learn that a guy in the next county caught a really big snake under his house.
Wednesday. Good. West Wing.
Now here I can learn what the president's up to. It's just as good as real life, right?
Insanity looms. I fear for my mental health.
Ah, salvation. Survivor. CSI. ER. An embarrassment of broadcast riches.
This whole cable-free situation isn't so bad. I can catch reruns of The Real World later on. HBO's bound to show Bagger Vance again. (Wanted to see that one for some reason. Charlize, probably.)
And if anything big does happen in Afghanistan, I'm bound to hear about it somehow. Perhaps in the first ten seconds of the local news, before the "Mr. Food" segment.
Lookin' good. Lookin' real good. Charlize good.
Friday: Dear. Freakin'. Lord.
Providence (ouch). Reba (never). That's Life (unfortunately, true).
My remote's batteries are experiencing core meltdown.
I flip by that religious channel that nobody watches and see a motherly nun wearing a pirate-style black eye patch. Surreal. Unsettling.
It could be the whole lunacy thing setting in, but this rotisserie grill guy is on to something. You set it and forget it. Brilliant. The best that broadcast TV has to offer on a Saturday night. I'm so lucky.
Rotisserie grills. I wish I could just climb through the screen like that girl in Poltergeist and learn how to operate the "flavor injector."
Sheer lunacy. Brainwashed. Just nine days ago I was a normal guy.
Sitting on the couch, defeated. Uneducated and behind the times. Credit card charged with four easy payments of just $39.99 each.
My thumb hurts.
Frightened by a public-access nun--wondering what happened in Candy Bar--I sit and wait for a knock at the door, nervous about what's slithering below.