Admittedly dated, but illustrative, I think, of the thought process of a true TV hound...
How I Learned to Stop Worrying
And Let My Satellite Box Watch TV for Me
Gather round, my friends, and hear a tale of woe, best read 'round the fireplace, fortified by flagons of ale. But worry not: there is...or will be... a happy ending. Sort of.
It all started one day in spring 2003 when the suits at the TV networks made a decision so dastardly none would have dreamed even they would have been capable of it. You know who I'm talking about: these are the very guys and gals who delight in canceling our favorite shows just as we are so intrigued that we can hardly bare to wait a full seven days before we learn what happens next, without arranging to have us told what happened next, or even sending viewers a card of regret and sympathy. So what did they do this time? They scheduled a show I wanted desperately to watch, on four of the six broadcast networks at the same time on the same night! Sheesh! Now surely such a move is against federal anti-trust laws. But there they were: Angel, Jake 2.0, The O. C., and The West Wing, all on Wednesday nights at 9 Eastern/8 Central.
But it was another decision by these miscreant moguls that precipitated my night of agony. This one was to schedule the other three addictive shows one after the other on Tuesday nights, on different networks. Since the one thing ordinary DirecTV doesn't do for the subscriber is change channels, one has to be home to do it oneself to be able to record all three.
Now we switch scenes to our hard-working, obsessive-compulsive hero, who has stayed at work considerably later than he'd intended on a Tuesday night. It's 7:50 and he has been taping Gilmore Girls. If traffic will only cooperate, he has just enough time to get home and change channels in time to capture 24. But the gods who oversee traffic, alas, have other ideas. Instead of flowing at the speed our hero requires to complete his task, it flows uncharacteristically at the unreasonable speed limit of 30 mph, the speed limit.
Finally our protagonist reaches his destination without a googolth of a microt to waste. Having no time to spare to park with the curb on his right, he parks facing traffic, curb to the left. Dashing up the stairs, he manages to burst in the door of his cozy home, huffing and puffing, but only one minute into 24. Chances are he's only missed the "previously on" portion, unnecessary for the devotee that he is.
Tired, cold, and hungry, our hero (OH, for short) warms some Lean Cuisine gruel and curls up on the couch to watch what he taped a few weeks back but hasn't yet found time to watch. (He has more VCRs than anyone else on the planet.) The dark and the cold of the world outside his condo team with the contrasting coziness inside to prevent him from going down to park his car legally. Nine o'clock, and he switches channels, as planned, to Line of Fire, and at some point he drifts off into what will prove to be a self-deluded slumber.
Next morning, awake before the alarm, OH goes about his morning ritual. He can't quite bring himself to head off to work, though, before checking his previous night's taping. What's that, you ask? The wrong tape was in the VCR? The one with only 30 minutes left on it? Oh happy dagger! This is thy sheath; there rust, and let him depart this world absent the knowledge of his closest friends and allies' latest adventures!
Sobbing uncontrollably for an appropriate interval, OH finds consolation of sorts in knowing that he might be able to fill in the gaps with re-runs. So he goes about his business and proceeds to his trusty chariot, having quite forgotten the position in which he had left it. Driving along, he momentarily forgets his sorrow, when he notices a flapping sound coming from the vicinity of the windshield wiper on the passenger's side. Glancing in the direction of the offensive sound, he sees a white slip of paper, roughly the size of a dollar bill. Most likely one of his neighbors within a five-mile radius had heard his weeping, chest-pounding, and raiment rending, and had left a letter of condolence for whatever grievous loss he must have suffered.
Once parked, OH goes for the note. Uncomprehending at first, he finally realizes that the note is not from a neighbor, but from the friendly neighborhood parking gendarme, requesting a donation of $30.00 within the next fifteen days or a $55.00 donation thereafter.
Of course, a person of ordinary temperament would most likely consider these misadventures a wake-up call to give up a few hours of TV addiction. But was OH daunted? Certainly not-he's having TiVO installed tomorrow.
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