When I was a boy, I could watch television for eight hours at a time, twelve in a good day. I would tell time by my favorite programs, keenly aware of the elements in them that defined the culture for which I lived. Morning for updates, noontime for serious, daytime for gossip and drama. 5pm gets sober, 6pm gets nervous, 7pm gets exiting, while after ten means danger.
As I grew older, I realized the best hours of television were between 3-4am. These are the times when all you have is passion, grit and madness. Primal. Illusive. Solitary. These are the times when live Weather Channel reporters get wacky and delirious, when Public Access Television delves into their deepest, darkest corners and even re-runs become too good for the likes of you.
Whenever on a long trip and budget allows, I will find the smallest town over 500 on the map, on the most remote sector of my direction. I will find the old highway off the glitz strip and search for what looks to be the oldest, cheapest and most forgottenly American motel. I will find a feast for both the body and the mind, and revel in the luxury.
It will likely be a Monday, or will feel as though, and they will have something guiltily extravagant to buy at the local service station. A bottle of wine, pop magazine, or Polish hot dog, perhaps. Lady Luck on my side, the Taco John’s will still be open. If not, I will order a quesadilla to-go from the 24hr roadside dive, to accompany what would hopefully be a Molotov cocktail of wine, smokes and that shiny pop magazine.
Once returned, I take off my shoes with a deep victorious sigh, create an appropriate pillowed nesting zone, and finally grasp the wand- the taser- zapper- and clicker of wonder--- powering up the box that once gave me so much joy as a boy. We will laugh and cry, stare and zone, think a befuddled thought. Baseball highlights will loop to my heart’s content, Star Trek or Quantum Leap will sooth and amuse, and a local Big Band will play summer picnic socials on Channel 4.
But it all waits in anticipation for that glorious hour between three and four.
You will find that most major storms in the Midwest occur during these mystery hours of the night, when only a streaking semi truck dare challenge the rounds. The wind will howl and a loud CRASH will jar you from a dozing haze. You’ll crack the door and peer outside, only to see your jalopy in the lot and a skinny black cat slinking around the corner, barely crevicing the neon light puddle cast by your motel marquee. You’ll feel a sharp cringe of paranoia, realize you’re a mad man in a lonely place, and then the Television will take you in. The love and compassion of a room of lost relatives. The love and compassion of a world you may never meet.
Take me in Television, take me in.
confessions
Daniel James 2011
As I grew older, I realized the best hours of television were between 3-4am. These are the times when all you have is passion, grit and madness. Primal. Illusive. Solitary. These are the times when live Weather Channel reporters get wacky and delirious, when Public Access Television delves into their deepest, darkest corners and even re-runs become too good for the likes of you.
Whenever on a long trip and budget allows, I will find the smallest town over 500 on the map, on the most remote sector of my direction. I will find the old highway off the glitz strip and search for what looks to be the oldest, cheapest and most forgottenly American motel. I will find a feast for both the body and the mind, and revel in the luxury.
It will likely be a Monday, or will feel as though, and they will have something guiltily extravagant to buy at the local service station. A bottle of wine, pop magazine, or Polish hot dog, perhaps. Lady Luck on my side, the Taco John’s will still be open. If not, I will order a quesadilla to-go from the 24hr roadside dive, to accompany what would hopefully be a Molotov cocktail of wine, smokes and that shiny pop magazine.
Once returned, I take off my shoes with a deep victorious sigh, create an appropriate pillowed nesting zone, and finally grasp the wand- the taser- zapper- and clicker of wonder--- powering up the box that once gave me so much joy as a boy. We will laugh and cry, stare and zone, think a befuddled thought. Baseball highlights will loop to my heart’s content, Star Trek or Quantum Leap will sooth and amuse, and a local Big Band will play summer picnic socials on Channel 4.
But it all waits in anticipation for that glorious hour between three and four.
You will find that most major storms in the Midwest occur during these mystery hours of the night, when only a streaking semi truck dare challenge the rounds. The wind will howl and a loud CRASH will jar you from a dozing haze. You’ll crack the door and peer outside, only to see your jalopy in the lot and a skinny black cat slinking around the corner, barely crevicing the neon light puddle cast by your motel marquee. You’ll feel a sharp cringe of paranoia, realize you’re a mad man in a lonely place, and then the Television will take you in. The love and compassion of a room of lost relatives. The love and compassion of a world you may never meet.
Take me in Television, take me in.
confessions
Daniel James 2011
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