by Brian Yannish

Misadventures in TV smashing

I was going to make a difference. It was that simple, or so it seemed. I looked over at it. It wasn't very large or threatening, maybe 15 inches across and not more than 7 or 8 pounds. But its power was unassuming, and the problem was the fact that it existed in the first place. It didn't even display color -- a $10 price stipulation I wavered on at the thrift store. Besides, I figured Black and White was kind of retro and cushioned the blow of completely abandoning my campaign of asceticism. TV without color really isn't the same, or as good, or as interesting, I convinced myself. I had challenged myself to live without television two months prior, but then the experiment had been put on hold pending further research.

But this time I'd make the difference: I was going to smash my television. I had come across an announcement in the weekly paper about a local alternative bookstore holding a specially sanctioned event for TV destruction in conjunction with National TV Turnoff Week, an unrecognized holiday promoted by The Media Foundation, an oft-biting Vancouver based advertising watchdog. It was safety in numbers, I figured, a spectacle-induced camaraderie in watching screens splinter and lose their ability to transmit. This was something I'd be able to tell people with satisfaction and toss casually into "So what have you been up to?" inquiries. Now I had the perfect date, a time set to reclaim my mental independence. It sounded a little revolutionary, but even if I longed for an occasional bad sitcom to soak in, I'd feel way too defeated to actually purchase another of the devices. I told myself I'd do it.

I looked up at the clock, again. It wasn't turning in my favor (back, as I had hoped). I was feeling unsettled and anxious, sitting in the smooth plastic immovable chairs of the Municipal Court Building waiting to post bail. I had to be somewhere. My occupation at the time as a bailbondsman often made me play the waiting game, pitting my patience against the favor of the particular officer on duty who could wave me through or hold me up depending on nothing in particular. But neither luck nor the good will of the bonding officer who needed to sign for the release of our client was on my side, so I sat. The generic face of the universal school/state agency clock I remembered staring at painfully during high school just did what it always did -- move -- although this time I wanted it to slow down. I already ruled out the shower. I'd just go directly to my place, pick up the offending object, shatter it, and feel good about myself. Damn. I cursed to myself about why I took a job with a lack of determinable hours. Just as I was ready to give up, they called my name. I faked my requisite congeniality and rushed through the appropriate documents while secretly defiling the entire system with bitter thoughts and less than warm wishes for its operators.

I ran to my car, sped home, yanked the cord out of the wall and loaded the TV into the front seat. I was 15 minutes late already. I hoped the announced time was just a suggested meeting hour as I pulled into a parking lot across from the store and got out. There was definitely something going on. People were milling about behind the store. I scooped up my set and began to cross the street, but something wasn't quite right -- the stench of burning plastic was unmistakable. I stood and asked someone crossing if it was too late for one more. No camaraderie there. The hopes I had of casually strolling in with another prisoner for the sacrifice and winning acclaim of onlookers and supporters vanished.

The onlookers were crossing my way as I heard the sirens of approaching fire engines. Someone told me "You'd better get out of here with that," as if I was holding an un-tossed brick or Molotov cocktail. Apparently a healthily zealous smashing had involved burning too. A small sense of panic arose as I stood in the middle of the street, TV in hand. I felt like I had just stolen it and had better split before facing the cops. The media police sent by the international TV conspiracy were closing in, and I'd look pretty silly without my TV plugged in. I'd be sentenced by association to this tiny revolution. But I wasn't guilty of anything, except feeling foolish. It was then that I felt the most embarrassed about owning a television. A real revolutionary would have thrown it, but I quietly crossed back over the street in disgust.

I threw the TV in my trunk and drove off. I had missed my chance and I felt sickened. What the hell was I gonna do now? Go home and watch TV? My knee-jerk reaction to do just that after my grand scheme had fallen through frightened me. Sure, I fantasized about hurling the TV off my balcony some night, but I just didn't have the guts. I also didn't have a broom, and inevitably I'd probably have to sweep it up. My conviction just wasn't the same entirely on my own. I did celebrate National TV Turnoff Week though. The TV stayed in my trunk for ten days.

Six months later, I still have the small Black and White TV, but I've come to accept its presence. We still fight every now and then but we're not the bitter enemies we used to be. I'll admit it's nice to have around. These days even my fervor for swift Television Capital Punishment is all but faded. I guess I figure that if my will power were strong enough I wouldn't have to smash anything. So as the early nights settle in, the research continues. But deep down, I still believe it must feel really good to smash one.

Maybe next year I'll show up on time.