On Grief.


Today I have lost a dear friend, a confidant, a companion. My television died this morning. Even after much introspection, I still find myself embattled in a bitter struggle to find words which would capture or convey how much he meant to me. Language, like life, can be so cruel, so fickle. Cursed the power surge which so quickly stole him from my life! Although it need not be stated forthright, he will be sorely missed by all of those who shared his radiant warmth.


My wonderful Phillips-Magnavox™, I still remember with great fondness the day mine father brought him home from Sear's. Oh, how my younger siblings and I rejoiced! as we kissed goodbye the old shabby set with the wood paneling, and made a place in our homes and hearts for this new set, this beautiful Phillips-Magnavox, or "Phil" as he came to be known.

It has become fashionable as of late to proclaim that one does not watch television with much frequency. "I don't watch much TV," they say, with the not-so-subtle subtext being that they are too busy, too important to be idle long enough to watch television. I cannot help but be skeptical towards these people and their self-righteous claims. What then, I ask, do you do for leisure? "I exercise," says the girl with the love handles. "I read books," says the guy with the Maxim subscription.

There are a number of people on this godless planet who regard television as nothing more than a plastic box with wires, projecting colorful pictures onto a glass screen. Phil was so much more than that. He was personal theater. Into my life and my home he brought drama, comedy, music, competition, suspense-- he shone brightly with so much of what it means to be human, yet held no heart beat, drew not one breath, and boasted only basic cable. A great miracle, to be sure, if he is truly just a plastic box.