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The Book’s The Thing

February 26, 2007

In Which I Admit My Hypocrisy, and Top That Off With a Really Embarrassing Admission

If you’ve paid any attention to my past rants (and if you haven’t WHY NOT?), I’ve always been pretty consistently down on TV as an unacceptable way to spend time. Whine, whine, whine, “people don’t read enough because they’re always watching stoopid TV.” What are they thinking, don’t they all see? They’re ruining their brains!

Now it’s time for me to come clean. I’m Lisa, and I’m addicted to ‘24.’

It started out pretty simply. Realizing I’m a pop culture illiterate (embarrassingly so) I decided to watch one episode, to see what everyone seemed to think was SO GREAT. Nine times out of ten that gives me a reason to sneer and feel superior, because I’m so almighty immune to TV addiction. Blah, blah, blah.

But then one episode became two. Then “just one more” made it three. Suddenly, there were frantic calls home (since I take my daughter to theatre classes on Monday nights and can’t be in front of the TV) to my husband with the plaintive cry, “DON’T FORGET TO RECORD 24!!!” (sub-text, “Or I’ll harm you”).

I’m not proud. No, not proud at all. I can admit when I’m beaten.

‘24′ has definitely left a mark on me. It’s given me a new edge of paranoia I haven’t had since 9/11. Though embarrassing to admit in public, the entertainment value’s just way too high not to tell you my story about how this program has gotten into my brain, leading me to act irrationally paranoid. Either I don’t have enough of a monitor on things that should be kept quiet, or I’m just way too fond of a good story to know when to shut up. The jury’s out on that one. Here’s my story, in all its weirdness:

I was awoken out of a half-sleep a few weeks ago (the most recent episode of ‘24,’ in which a nuclear bomb was detonated in Los Angeles, still obviously on my mind), by a horrific noise outside. It sounded like a jet cruising right down the street, so low I thought (in my bleary state) it was crashing. Not one to panic alone, I woke my husband with the dire tale about the jet that was quite obviously doomed. Right here. In Algonquin. Where, of course, every terrorist dreams of striking. We heard the the horrible sound repeated, this time with the flash of orange light any rational person would associate with the crash of a jet airliner in close proximity. Right? RIGHT?! That’s completely rational.

Pulses pounding. Hearts racing. Then it hit the both of us, pretty much at the same time.

“Umm. It’s a snow plow.”

Horrific noise. Flashing lights. Not terrorism, but a snow plow.

At least I know my fight-or-flight response is well-honed.

Now, the family makes sure to let me know when a plane’s crashing outside. Coincidentally, that seems to happen pretty unfailingly on snowy days. I think that’s mighty considerate of them, don’t you?

posted by Lisa at 1:00 am |

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