My hairdresser once told me a story of him watching television on the couch with his boyfriend and he got annoyed when his man stopped flipping through channels at Oxygen’s “Bad Girls Club.” He responded with something like, “You wouldn’t let these women into our house if they knocked on our door, so why are you letting these women into our house?” Touché.
It’s been said that what you do in the privacy of your own home—when no one is looking and you cannot be found out—that’s the guts of who you are.
I’ve called watching totally dumb television my guilty pleasure. And I have something to confess: I’ve watched marathons of this substance-less crap. Hours of grown women arguing about $50,000 sets of veneers and calling themselves “classy” to valley-girl sounding stylists acting as if they have the cure for non-Hodgkin’s Lymphoma and talentless hacks profiting from a sham marriage sponsored by Living Social. Bleh.
I’m now comparing this television drivel to fast food. The equivalent notion of being fully aware that you’re eating garbage, yet continuing to gorge, french fry after french fry. No more. I’ve purged my TiVo. I’m not buying into it any more. Not consuming it. I’m not saying it’s going to be replaced with documentaries on bird migration flight patterns on PBS or anything, but I might curl up with a good book (is anyone else STRUGGLING with Walter Isaacson’s Steve Jobs?), my addictive “The Wire” discs from Netflix and call it a day.
Up next in the proverbial tasteless pop-culture detox? My RSS reader loaded with salacious celebrity gossip, which has become beyond dull and uninspiring. Though, it’ll be tough to part with surisburnbook.tumblr.com.
It’s interesting that once you start the cleaning out process how much of it filters into other areas you might want to give an ol’ scrub to.