Eating a bowl of ice cream in front of the TV was our nightly habit. My mom loved to mix Pepsi and vanilla ice cream to create a tall frosty float. It's been a long time since we've shared our common love of sweets (although her sweet tooth's demands far eclipse my own).
My television habits carried forward into adulthood. Today I'm a recovering TV-aholic. Good genes may have saved me from the consequences of too much ice cream, but I inherited the TV junkie gene. No matter how bad the movie, I'll watch it to the end. How could I sleep not knowing? Now I resent the years lost to the mindless pacification of the big-eyed box. Some call it relaxing. I call it an utter waste of mental energy.
Mental pablum.
The unthinkable happened a couple years ago: I relented and agreed to install cable television. That's akin to placing a mini-bar in each room of a recoverying alcoholic's house. But the kids love Disney Channel, and my wife loves Food Network. Now Rachael Ray is part of our extended family. Emeril too. I've lobbied unsuccessfully to ban big-eyes from the house. What's comforting background noise for some is a flame to moth-me. Why can't I just ignore it?
Times have changed. I watch little television these days. As you probably guessed, another activity has taken its place. But one show has managed to draw me in:
The premise is pretty simple -- viewers follow the hourly events of one harrowing day in the life of Counter Terrorism Unit agent Jack Bauer. Some parts are quite a stretch. Their techs can crack a computer in 15 seconds flat, Jack can get from one side of LA to another in twenty minutes. This season is about terrorists using a stolen nuclear bomb to attack the US.
Can't beat the escapism of a nail-biting thriller. Sometimes the potential reality of the scenarios they depict are more frightening than the storyline itself. I'm hooked. Don't look for me to be online next Monday at 9pm.







