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Confessions of a TV Addict
A Cautionary Tale
By Greg Coyle

As I grew, TV grew with me, adapting its reliably competent view of the world to match my age and white, middle-class demographic. It was a perfect relationship, like Crissy and Janet’s. I provided the tabula rasa, while wisemen like Aaron Spelling and Sherwood Schwartz delivered all the answers, guidance and slap-your-ass hilarity a young boy could need. I believed we would grow old together, just as the cast of "The Cosby Show" had, though a bit more gracefully, I hoped.

But, then, much as will happen, usually around minute 14 in your half-hour dramas, something went wrong, horribly, horribly wrong. [Cue the doomsday music (try the theme from "Night Stalker")]. It was just like what happened with David Banner when he first became the Hulk, only I stayed the same color and could still complete a sentence. What was it, you ask? I realized that TV, once my partner and friend, had at some point become my master, much as Cagney had come to control Lacey in the later episodes. It had nefariously worked its canned laughter and satisfyingly predictable plot lines into my very heart, supplanting all else.

First, I started thinking about television when I was away from it, at school, say, or having a burst appendix tended to. What trenchant moral lessons was I missing? It killed me to think that by failing to see the most recent episode of "Love Boat," I might be operating at some disadvantage in the world. And I missed my TV friends. What were Ralph Malph and Richie and Potsie up to, I wondered. I wished I could call Tootie or Jo or Natalie, or, most of all, Blair, who could’ve taught me the facts of life any day. I wanted my WKRP.

And this was just the beginning. In time, my family became less interesting. They simply could not compare to the Seavers, the Keatons, the Bradys or the Bradfords. I always felt that had we been a sitcom, we would’ve been canceled faster than "Hello, Larry." I mean, look at us. We didn’t have an irascible but lovable butler or a wacky housekeeper or even a diminutive, wisecracking black kid. And without any of those, we were, in my eyes at that time, no better than a Richard Chamberlain mini-series (read: not good).

Relationships also became difficult for me. None of the girls I met could compare to Daisy Duke’s down-home, seam-stretching siren song, or Ginger’s pouty, all-hands-on-deck purr, or, let’s not forget, the junk Betty Rubble had in her trunk. When my friends were taking dates to the neighborhood Skate King for cheese fries and hand-holding, I chose to stay home to be with the gals of Hee Haw.

TV had, with the patience of Eddie’s father, begun to cut me off from the real world (a term that I only recently discovered predates the Ellis-Burnam program on MTV). It was even insidious enough to begin recasting my very memories. For example, was it me that drove a truck and had a chimp as a sidekick, or was that B.J.? Was my name Fish, and was I a sour, arthritic New York detective? And you can imagine my embarrassment when I asked my Mom how my Aunt Bea’s angina was doing.

I needed help. I had a decision to make, not unlike Judge Wapner. Either I cut down my dosage to just watching public television, or I gave it all up, cold turkey. Since that wasn’t much of a choice, I gave it all up, every last deliciously pre-packaged, focus-group-tested second of it. And I mean cold turkey. This included magazine shows, news programs, cartoons, variety shows, sit-coms, dramas, even dramadies. All of it. This meant no more "Alf," no more "Empty Nest," no more "Carter Country," "Chico and the Man," or "Benson." Sayonara to "Golden Girls," "Knight Rider," "Mr. Belvedere," and "Silver Spoons."

This, then, began a period of painful and protracted withdrawal. I couldn’t sleep for fear of being visited by Sulu or Sergeant Schultz. I couldn’t eat as it reminded me of the delicious meals Mrs. Garrett used to make for me. Or was that Arnold and Willis? See what I mean? Thank God for all the free therapy I received watching "The Bob Newhart Show" and "Dear John." Who knows in what Radio Shack I would’ve barricaded myself without that help?

But still I stumbled. I would find reasons to go to department stores and dally in the electronics section. I would dress as a pre-teen just so I could watch the TVs playing in mall stores like Mr. Rags Ltd. and Earisistables. Once I even dropped into a retirement home and watched back to back episodes of "Murder, She Wrote," saying I was waiting for my PaPa.

At the same time, I vainly searched for something to replace my old friend. I tried radio, only to find that my imagination had been too badly stultified as a boy to appreciate sounds without pictures. From this, I tried reading, but do you know there are no pictures in most books? I tried magazines, too, turning to flipping the pages at such a speed as to approach the look of moving action. But this only gave me blurred vision and a headache from all the cologne samples. Finally, on a friend’s advice, I tried movies and live theater. The first proved too expensive, the second too complicated, and both suffered from the lack of a laugh track.

That was exactly five season openers ago now and I’m getting better. Slowly, the Fonz and Goober and Rerun, and all the others, are receding into the past. I’ve learned to sleep more, and, as it turns out, drink more. I’ve reconnected with family and made new friends, most of them real. I go places now and do things. Two years ago, for example, I went to New York and saw the big screen in Times Square. Last fall, I was lucky enough to attend the World Series, getting great seats directly across from the Jumbotron.

So, it’s good. I’m not saying I don’t have relapses -- I do. One particularly bad episode occurred last year when I saw Mr. T. in the Ronald Reagan airport and, in my best George Peppard, said, "I love it when a plan comes together," and he told me to go screw myself, so I ran home and proceeded to watch a 72-hour "Jeffersons" marathon and cry myself sick. I felt so dirty afterward. But these bumps are natural, or so my sponsor assures me. I know that in the end, it’s all about taking things one day at a time, one day at time, which, come to think of it, was actually a pretty good show...