[ No. 18 ]

TV sucked my brain

by Ishmael

Television ate my brain. Here's how it happened.

I was ten when I first saw a television set. We were on a stop-over in Athens on the way to Australia. It was a rainy day and I was lounging around the hotel foyer. Droning away in the corner was a box with tiny black and white people in it. I was amazed. What was even more miraculous was that they were moving around and talking! I didn't know it then but I was watching my first ever episode of "I Love Lucy" -- dubbed into Greek.

Soon after we arrived in Melbourne and there was Lucy again. By sheer coincidence the same episode was playing on Australian television, only this time everyone was speaking English. I was thunderstruck. I thought Lucy had flown all the way to Australia (probably on the same flight as me) and learned to speak the language in record time. 'Who said Greeks have baked beans for brains?' I asked myself.

Ever the curious cat, I decided to find out what was going on and, to my mind, the best way to go about it was to look behind the TV set, where Lucy obviously resided. Imagine my horror when, instead of little people, I was confronted by a tangle of wires and electric cables. 'This is truly a brave new world', I thought.

Do I buy all the shtick about television being bad for you, that it's preaching the end of civilisation as we know it? Sure do, baby! I'm living proof that it does all those things and probably more. It's an evil, breathing box in the corner and it's sucking up your brain as we speak. David Cronenberg predicted it all in his film "Videodrome" (1982), so I know it's true.

But I was truly lost to the world when I first saw the 60s comedy, "Bewitched". I had a crush on spunky Samantha, the witch, the size of Roseanne's underpants. The trouble was Samantha was already married to Darren, a mortal who wouldn't allow magic in the home. In every episode Samantha's spitfire mother, Endora, would cast a spell on the despised 'Derwood', as she called him, and Samantha would run around saying, 'Mother!' in an exasperated voice. Whenever they wanted to spice things up a bit, Samantha's mischievous twin cousin, Serena, would pop in for some major mayhem. I, of course, lapped it up like a kitten in a dairy. I walked around the house twitching my nose and mounting broomsticks. I knew that if I practised hard enough, one day, I too could shag Matt Dillon or zap my creepy Maths teacher into a raw sewerage farm.

Not long after, I fell for Barbara Eden playing a sexy genie in "I Dream of Jeannie". Well, truth be told, it wasn't her I fell for. It was her bottle. I wanted a bottle just like it. And I loved the way she turned into a puff of smoke to get in and out of it. I was determined to live inside a bottle, too. I collected bottles of every shape and size for years and pretended there was a genie inside waiting to do my every bidding. Problem was friends thought I was doing kinky things with all the bottles stashed up in my bedroom.

I was twenty-one when I realised that life was just not like that. If you wanted things done, you had to do them yourself Ð- the hard way. I was devastated. I probably still haven't recovered. No wonder I can't deal with reality.

And you know how people always drop a clanger in soapies and walk out the door to dramatic music and stares? Well, I still do that every opportunity I get. Just the other day I said to my seventy-one year-old father, "Papa don't preach. I'm having a baby.' And walked out of the room. He nearly released his bowels. I can't help myself. It's like this behaviour's been grafted on to my brain and I can't shake it off. In my head, I'm always making a grand entrance, with tinny music and over-the-top sparkly clothes that soapy stars love to wear. If someone pisses me off, I blow them away with my laser beam like the Daleks did in Dr Who. 'Exterminate!' I drone to myself. 'Exterminate. We are a superior race.' And if anyone challenges my authority, I scream out: 'Whaaaat! Do you know who you're dealing with?' Just like Ren did in that episode where he became more of a megalomaniac than he already was.

I suppose you've notice how it's female stars who influenced my view of teleworld. Well, the Daleks are hysterical enough to be women. And Ren was sleeping with Stimpy so they don't count. It's not like I'm a cross dresser or anything, but the women were and are infinitely more exciting than the men. In teleworld men are mere props. They're like male ballet dancers, a mere cod piece to support the female stars who pirouette their butts off. Sure the men do dastardly deeds like take over rival companies, rape the occasional wench, or land an out-of-control meteor, but over all they're a pretty forgettable bunch. And the way these people dress! Puhleaze guys, get a wardrobe consultant. Or maybe that's the problem. They all look like they're being dressed by a breathless LA swish. All that hair and sparkles makes them look like Ginger from "Gilligan's Island".

So there you have it. I was a lost cause. I had a television set in my sitting room, kitchen, bedroom and toilet. I even had one strapped to my wrist. But since attending the Telewatchers Anonymous meetings, I'm a man with a mission: I want to save you from the idiot box. Take it from me: Don't watch "South Park" tonight because television is baaad! Okaaay?