TV: All It Kills Are Brain Cells

I cannot live without television. A quick browse of the DVR in our house will reveal 18 separate shows that we record, and that’s not including things that air daily like the Daily Show, Colbert Report, or PTI which I watch more days than I don’t. That number also doesn’t account for at least half a dozen shows that are currently between seasons. And then there’s the hours and hours of sports I absolutely must watch. I couldn’t get by without my Yankees and Giants, and to a lesser extent Knicks. Given all that, it will come as no surprise that by hook or by crook, even after I crossed the border, I was going to get myself American Television.

And as always, by “I” I don’t mean I. I am incompetent. But the LR talked to some of her coworkers who informed her that it was very possible to get Direct TV, even though we’re on the wrong side of the border. It’s not, technically, actually, really, oh, what’s the word, legal. But, its apparently common practice enough that companies…well company, specialize in it. So, as we were moving into the new house a very nice gentleman with a Direct TV truck pulled up and went through the processing of drilling holes in our walls, and climbing up on the roof to set a satellite…all so that I wouldn’t miss a minute of American Idol.

The installer was a very pleasant man, a local from the area. Now granted, when you say local things get kind of confusing. Was he Mexican and commuted across the border to work in the US each day so he could spend the day driving into Mexico from the US in order to set up American TV in Mexico. Or was he perhaps an American citizen by way of being born here, despite his Mexican parents and family. You’ll notice I assume that he is not an American of many generations, and that is because he told me that he is a big fan of the Mexican national soccer team, and more than what your papers say, the country whose soccer team you root for determines your nationality.

How, you might ask could I possibly know that much about my satellite TV installer. Well, as most of my conversations do, it started with me answering the question, “Where are you from?” Clearly my skinny pale Jewish figure, while dashing and breathtakingly handsome does not allow me to pass for a native. It turns out that the TV installer of either Mexican or American origins had visited New York to watch Mexico play there in the World Cup. All in all we had a very nice chat.

I’m sure then he thought he was being quite encouraging when he said to me as he was leaving. “I don’t understand why some installers don’t want to come down here. Tell your girlfriend not to worry about it. It’s still a city with lots of people, just stay away from the people doing all those things you hear about and you’ll be fine.”

I’m sure this was supposed to be comforting. I’m flattered that he assumed I wasn’t worrying, being all manly and stuff. Although I suppose it’s possible he looked at the 17,000 channels I was ordering and assumed I was planning on never leaving the house, which is true. But seriously how messed up does a place have to be that the cable guy feels the need to reassure you when you’re moving in. Suffice to say the encounter did not leave me feeling relieved. But on the bright side at least I could watch my Giants lose yet again this weekend.

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