TV Schmeevee

I am not one who watches a lot of TV. For one thing, the chance of me wrestling the remote from Cupcake is... well, remote. Control of the remote control just means so much to her, it would be no contest. She would win every match, especially since she wouldn't be shy about using a chokeslam or a diving elbow drop to back up her claim to the device.  (I would use the term “controller freak”, but I have to sleep sometime.)

Worse yet, besides, apparently, watching WWE, she favours cop shows including about 12 different versions of Law and Order and CSI. As well, she watches... I'm almost embarrassed to say it, but she watches reality shows. In fact, her dream show would be to have David Caruso win all the marbles in “Dancing With the Stars”. (He could use the marbles, too, considering all the ones he's lost playing intense detective types.)

“Wouldn't you call your stupid  'Myth Busters' a reality show?” Cupcake says in defense. “You claim it is educational but all they do is blow stuff up. You call that entertainment?” “Well, yes, actually, I do,” I had to admit. “Did you see the one with the hot water tank blowing through the roof of that house? It was AWESOME!”

Cupcake ignored my outburst. Not like her at all. “You look down your nose at my shows but a lot more people like my choices than yours,”  she pointed out primly. “Apparently, you are the aberration, not me. Again. You say I have all the taste of tofu-flavoured jello but this is coming from a guy that listens to CBC radio, for crying out loud.”

Despite our differences however, to humour her and perhaps soften her up for connubial goings-on later, I will occasionally watch a show with her on our loveseat, (A misnomer if ever I heard one. It should be known as a “keep your hands to yourself” seat). I even let her pick the show although I always am careful to shut my eyes to the gorier bits on CSI. I am not as desensitized to bloody carnage as hardcore CSIers are. Watching slow motion bullet penetration of spleens and whatnot makes my stomah feel like I've eaten too much Halloween candy.

Granted, unreality shows are even worse. Programs like “Big Brother” and “Survivor” seem to me to be designed solely for the purpose of satisfying a certain segment of the population that are into voyeurism and gossip. They scratch the itch of our collective inner Gladys Kravitz (Hey, Abnah, there's weird things going on at the Stevens house again! Abnah! Wake up!) in all of us. You can almost imagine viewers of this sort of show watching the episodes through horizontal blinds just to get that “nosey neighbour” thrill.

On the plus side, I guess, it's better for the inquisitive minded to dissect and study the entrails of fake relationships, “faux-mances” and artificial environments, as in “Big Brother” rather than the relationships of their own neighbours, friends and relatives. Mind you, hoping that gossiping about TV characters satisfies the gossip craving is like hoping indulging in pornography will satisfy carnal cravings. The prospects of either one working are about as good as the chances of me figuring out “The String Theory” in quantum physics, or even more unlikely, successfully dieting.

I must say there are two sides to watching shows like “Dancing With the Stars” or “Battle of the Blades” (okay, I will admit I found the thought of Ti Domi figure skating to be more than just slightly intriguing). On the one hand, the outfits worn by the shapely, attractive, barely clad female skaters and dancers almost makes it worth the inane judging and commentary portions of the shows. The biggest downside, however, is when I am tolerating the show as best I can and my son comes in the livingroom to question my masculinity. “Jeez, Dad, you're watching this? Voluntarily? Did you forget your kahunas in your other pants?” he'd say, guffawing in cruel mirth. It forces me to consider the moral ramifications of post-natal abortion. Like when they're 24 years old.

Nonetheless, despite the fact that I find most shows she likes either disturbing, disgusting or simply disinteresting, I watch a bit of TV with her as often as I can tolerate. She does things for me which she has litte interest in, other than pleasing me. Ironing my work wear, for example. Catching an hour of inanity, occasionally, is the least I can do, and never let it be said I didn't do the least I could do.

And there are some positives to watching the old “boob tube” besides getting to say the word “boob”. I get to keep current on all the best commercials which are my favourite part of any show. Plus, I get to pig out on munchies as “Family TV Night” has always been an orgy of lax dietary responsibility, to put it charitably.

Besides, everybody knows you can get a man to do absolutely anything if he thinks it's foreplay. Even watch TV!