My Confession

I have a confession to make. I don't really know how to do this. It is so very hard.

Something has happened that I am not proud of. It is something that is distasteful. If you had told me that I would find myself in this position even 1 year ago I would have either laughed in your face, or I would have, O.K. I would have just laughed in your face, and laughed, and laughed, and laughed (place a heavy sigh of whimsy here).

It happened over the recent Chanukah-Christmas-Kwanza-Boxer Day-New Year lull of about 8-10 days that takes place at the end of every year. They say that the idle mind is the playground of the devil. Lots of times they will follow that up by asking, "Do you want to get funky with me?" This is not one of those times.

They say that you should never tempt fate. They say that you should never trouble trouble, 'til trouble troubles you. They say the neon lights are bright on Broadway. O.K. I am putting up a wall. I have to break that wall down and just come to terms with that which is a reality now. I need to make a confession.

During the afore mentioned holiday vacation, I found myself at home alone. I was bored. I was lonely. I was depressed. I was hopped up on hot apple cider; from a mix, not from scratch. I was, how do you say in English, eh, eh...

So, I'm sitting there by myself making sure that my couch didn't float away ('cause they will, you know), and I'm flippin' through my vast selection of basic cable channels, and by some strange turn of events I find myself watching the Oxygen Network. That's O.K. I'm secure enough with my masculinity to watch Oxygen without fear that I will start crying at the end of movies, or that I will start getting the urge to knit, or bake peanut butter/oatmeal cookie bars with real pistachio frosting and little dark milk chocolate sprinkles served with cherry chocolate mousse in an edible chocolate bowl. And stuff.

I'm watching the big "O", as I said, and then all of a sudden, I realize that I'm watching "Rock of Love" with Brett Michaels from the band "Poison". I was a bit shaken at first. I steadied myself and tried to remain calm. For those of you who don't know, "Rock of Love" is one of those reality series you may have heard about. The show revolves around the idea that Brett is tired of the long and lonely road tour life filled with groupies and endless nights of extreme partying across this great land of ours. Therefore, he has had summoned a bevy of beautiful, and obnoxiously trashy little rocker sluts who are shallow enough to wait their turn to do anything Brett, or the producers of the show, ask of them in an effort to slide their twisty, well traveled bodies into the position of being Brett's "Rock of Love" (read - hiatus whore).

I was repulsed by every minute of every show that made up the entire 12 hour marathon. By the time I realized my repulsion, I was already 6 hours into "Scott Baio is 46 and Pregnant". By that time, of course, it was too late. I spent more hours than I could keep track of watching reality series, after reality series. I watched them all. The Flava-flav show, "My Fair Brady" with the now grown Bobby Brady. The Flava-flav spin-off - "Who Loves New York?" with the aspiring crack - ho nick named "New York", and more. Many, many, more.

As I said, by the time I realized what was happening, it was too late. I was hooked. I was Addicted. I was chasing the reality series dragon with a big fat rubber necked monkey on my back. I tried to tell myself that it was OK for me to watch because I wasn't like other viewers. No. I was watching because I was amazed and disgusted by the endless parade of uncouth, tasteless, sociological misfortunes of creation that feed the broadcast media gristmill. Not only that, but I, as a marketing/media professional, had an obligation, if not a duty, to study this genre of entertainment and demystify the secrets of the outrageous market strength it now commands. It was the others, the millions of mindless sheep out there in TV land who were fans of this drek (Yiddish for sh%t ), not I.

Before I knew it I was watching marathon after holiday marathon of reruns of these dirty little entertainment abominations. Jerry Springer didn't even get me aroused in the least any more. I needed hardcore reality smut, and lots of it. I didn't have enough cable channels to ensure a constant feed, so I went to a fiber optic provider who assured me that they had the good stuff. And they did. And I devoured it like there was no such thing as bandwidth. I bathed in it.

Then, it happened. I knew the day was coming when the holiday respite would end and the world would fall back into its regularly scheduled groove, but I repressed the urge to cut myself off, or even to back off the huge dosages I was administering. I hit rock bottom two days after New Years when I was scheduled to join back up with those who run the timeless race of rats and make the Earth actually spin. I was scheduled. I was expected. My body even managed to arrive at the initial destinations, but my mind, the treasured CPU that had always negotiated the paths of logic, intuition, even my abundant wit, was nothing more that grey mushy matter burning and yearning for a fix, a taste of reality series out takes even. I will tell you now that I even scraped a few quick scenes off of "Cops" when no one was paying attention. I'd switch over to the Public Broadcasting Channel's Nightly Business Report with a sigh of relief, like I'd been looking for it. Late at night, however, I'd keep the sound low as I cruised the seedy reality series channels. Oxygen, MTV, VH1, I knew them all. And they knew me, and were there like a long lost lover with arms wide open and a full hit of the stuff, Baby. That was all that mattered. The stuff.

I tried to kid myself into thinking that I could kick by only watching shows like "Intervention", and "Celebrity Rehab", but it was a dead end road, Man. I knew it deep down inside. It even got to the point where I didn't even pause as I flipped through the channels to see what episode of Star Trek, or Gilligan's Island was running. Yes, my need for that R.S. rush was more powerful than even Uhura, or Ginger.

So, that was it, and there I would have remained if not for the cultured observation and consternation of my girl friend. I was sitting there one day, a shell of my former self, when she walked into the room and said, "What in the hell are you watching? Are you kidding me? Get the hell off that couch right now! I'm turning off this mind drain and you are becoming a human again." I tried to negotiate, but it was no use. She was on to my ways, and it was a good thing too. They tell me that I would have been licking up stray presentations of "Extreme Wrecks and Crashes" by the end of that week. At that point, very few have ever come back. I am one of the lucky ones.

I guess that is what this confession is all about. If I can save just one poor sap, an accountant, a realtor, even (I can't believe I'm saying this) an attorney, I suppose, if I can save just one from the living hell I came through - then it all will have been... It all will have been a living hell, but it will make me feel a little less dirty. Just a little.