So, there I am last night, watching the premiere of The Apprentice: Los Angeles — yes, I watched it on Monday because my Sundays are booked with Desperate Housewives. Despite the fact that Housewives is a shadow of its former self I still watch it on Sunday nights and CNBC is nice enough to repurpose The Apprentice: Los Angeles on Mondays (and various other times throughout the week, check your local listings). And I promised myself that I wouldn’t discuss it at all, except to say that I watched. So, thank you CNBC for running the show in several different timeslots so as to better accommodate my hectic viewing schedule.
I also sat there and saw How I Met Your Mother, but I’ve already made a futile attempt recently to harangue you into watching that bad boy, so I’m not going to spend too much time reminding you that How I Met Your Mother is one of the funniest shows on TV, and that you’re missing out. You should be watching this program. There is no reason no to. Seriously.
What I would like to discuss, now that I’m done discussing that which I do not wish to discuss other than to say that I’m not discussing it, is a discussion I recently had with myself.
You see, early last week I noticed my right hand was twitching from time to time, mainly my thumb. I kept singing theme songs to myself. I kept checking TV listings over and over and over again. It turns out, I realized, that I am a TV junkie and I was jonesing for a fix.
That’s when the conversation with myself started. Why do I need TV, I asked myself, does it provide solace, does it provide comfort, does it provide something which my life is lacking on a day to day basis? Was I not loved enough as a child? Can’t I be spending my time doing something “more valuable?”