Boob tube

by RAF KATIGBAK

There are a few things I am not proud to have spent my money on: the mood ring I bought for my high-school girlfriend that I ended up presenting her as a friendship ring when she broke up with me—on Valentine’s Day; the small fortune I’ve spent on my obsession with the Sex Machine on Ste-Catherine and St-Laurent—as a socio-technological survey of man’s relationship with Plexiglas, of course; and then there was that bottle of bleach I bought to flush out my friend’s washing machine after using it as a receptacle for a stomach-load of vodka, gin and burritos—last week.

But for every shame-tinged item I’ve shelled out bucks for, every do-it-yourself clap test, every replacement sewing machine that was drunkenly mistaken for a toilet, every home eyebrow-waxing kit, there is one item that tops the lot: a shameful little black box called cable television.

For the longest time, my roomies and I had done just fine without TV. We were living that Montreal new bohemian lifestyle that was obsessed with “cool” things like reading underground comics, doing crafts, talking shit about art and making music, maaan. We were happy in our old media bubble and sometimes we’d fire up the old 16mm projector and screen whatever thrift-store find we managed to dig up that week. For us, television was like getting a real job or paying rent on time—it was just something that OTHER people did.

In fact, we were proud to say that we didn’t really own a television. I mean okay, we had one, but it was only for hooking up my old Atari and watching acceptably underground things like Bollywood VHS tapes and bootleg video art. When people would drop references to reality shows, we would politely reply, “Oh sorry, we don’t know what The Bachelor is, we don’t really OWN a television.” In reality we were saying, “Fuck you, I am better than you and your pop trash.” Then we got cable and got knocked the fuck off our high horse.

I don’t know what possessed us to get it, but it probably had to do with the special introductory offer from the cable company. We laughed it off and, as a lark, we accepted. It was like a dare, just like the time we all went out dressed like jocks and picked fights on Crescent street. We’d have a good laugh for a minute and cancel when it wasn’t funny anymore. We gave ourselves a month.

Then, a strange thing happened. One evening, we were flicking through the 100-some-odd channels and fell upon one show that entranced us like a grim highway accident. We discovered a show. Sorry, not just a show. But THE show. And we started fiending for it like crack.

What show, you ask? I’d like to say it was something educational on like, the Learning Channel, or the History Channel or IFC or something that expands your mind, but it wasn’t. Rather, it was the surreal 10-car pile-up with big breasts, fake lashes and a weave called I Love New York. For those of you not familiar with the show, the premise is simple. A woman (actually named New York) looking for true love naturally does what any woman would do: invite 20 men to live in her mansion and hold a contest where they all vie for her affections. This, of course, is not a new concept, but the cast of characters they chose for this show is absolutely mind-boggling.

I can’t explain my love-hate relationship with the show. But I think it’s the obviously calculated drama, paired with the sheer insanity of everyone on the show, coupled with the feeling that I was actually watching the disintegration of Western society in small, 30-minute chunks every week. It was an unnatural disaster of epic proportions.

But it doesn’t stop there. My love for TV has grown exponentially since then. This is thanks in no small part to the spin-off show called A Shot at Love With Tila Tequila. Have you guys seen this? Ho-lee shit. It’s like I Love New York with singles vying for the love of one girl, but there’s a twist. Wait for it… she’s bisexual! So there’re guys and girls competing against each other… and making out with each other… and sleeping in the same giant bed.

Of course I know this is a fleeting seasonal romance, like the love between New York and Tango in the first season, but for now, on days when you’re snowed in and it’s minus-80-million degrees outside, it’s fun. Maybe I’ll get rid of it when the snow has melted. Or maybe not… oh the shame.

Riff-Raff@sympatico.ca