Hello. My name is Danny and Im a television addict. You might dismiss my claim, thinking how can watching TV become an addiction? or Real addicts are gamblers or alcoholics, like my grandparents. Well, Im here to set the record straight: I watch an obscene amount of television, and there is nothing I can do to stop myself.
While I mostly enjoy shows that air during primetime, my viewing habits extend to other hours as well. If Im up early, nothing gets me ready for the day quite like Al Roker inquiring about the weather in my neck of the woods. When I come across an episode of MTVs Made, Ill drop everything to find out if fat Hillary will lose enough weight to hoist herself up onto that daunting balance beam. And late at night there is little Id rather do than await the verdict of a rousing Iron Chef battle to see who best utilizes that nights secret ingredient: zucchini. And I hate zucchini.
What is it about that glowing box atop my dresser that I cannot keep away from? Do I use it as a means of escaping the sometimes tedious requirement of colleges demanding social life? Am I living vicariously through my favorite characters, whose lives I wish to lead myself? Has my obsession with pop culture taken me hostage, forcing me to watch as much TV as possible, so as not to miss out on any new trends or watercooler conversations?
The answer to all of these questions is a resounding yes. But let us not dwell on the inner-workings of my psychosis. Let us not delve into the psychology of what hole in my life I think television fills. Let us not characterize my hours upon hours in front of the TV every day as a kind of social retardation. This will only corrupt the unabashed glee I get from my time in front of the TV (and probably also depress me).
And because there arent any meetings or support groups for people like me, Ive decided to vent my addiction in this column. Some might see this as self-indulgent, but my therapist has urged me to take something that he perceives to have become a problem and do something productive with it. (Okay, so maybe I dont have a therapist, but I probably should!)
Previously, I vocalized my love for VH-1s Flavor of Love, championing the returning New York. My adoration for her is partly despite and partly just because of how bat-shit insane she is. But whether you love her or hate her, everyone can agree that she shot herself in the foot on her yacht date with Flav. Not only did she forget to check her crazy at the door like she usually does when in front of him, but she made the even more grave mistake of wavering on whether to sleep with him one last time before he had to make his final decision.
New York talks a lot of game, but her thought process was written all over her face. A face only her dragon-lady mother could love. A face that looks like a testing site for Mary Kays rejected Ghetto Whore cosmetics line. A face okay Ill stop there. Anywho, knowing that her date was a complete disaster, New York decided not to whore herself to Flav, because if he were to pick Delishis, all that nasty sex would be for nothing. Here, she showed a surprising and never-before-seen ounce of self-respect, but it was ultimately just foolishness.
What she forgot was that what she and Flav shared, that even Delishis emotional connection couldnt touch, was their inexplicable animal attraction. Finally, New York realized that their sexual chemistry was the one thing keeping her afloat in the competition, and made the walk of shame back to Flavs bedroom to offer her body in a last-ditch effort to save face. (A face that just kidding!)
While their bedroom activities may have put her back in the running, it was not surprising to watch Flav reject New York for the second season in a row. And neither was VH-1s decision to go ahead with I Love New York, in which 20 or so men will vie for New Yorks affections. The question on everybodys mind is Where on Earth will they find people willing and eager to be in a relationship with this woman?! I myself cannot even begin to imagine, but I do know Ill be tuning in to find out.
