The 20 lost years
In the first 21 years of my life I watched perhaps 10 movies and zero TV shows.
In fact it wasn’t until I was 20 years old that I learned what a TV show was, or that it existed.
The only one I’d heard about before was 24. I’d overheard some males talking about it – something to do with explosions and happening over the course of 24 hours.
The first show I watched I found accidentally on the internet one night in the apartment I shared with a stranger in Brooklyn. Across the street a mobile police tower blinked blue light through my window all night. The show was a reality competition on CBS where they chose a new actress for The Young and The Restless. In what would become a signature move, I watched all the episodes in one night.
I was like a vampire who had tasted blood, and nothing was going to stop me from getting more. Only I wasn’t sure how to get more.
If you haven’t been convinced yet, it’ll be hard for you to fathom the depth of my ignorance. No one in my life watched TV. CBS meant as little to me as FKG or GMO or GPO or NBC. They all meant nothing. I didn’t know what channels were, or networks or cable or prime time or daytime or The Simpsons or South Park. I still don’t know because almost all the TV I’ve ever watched has been on the internet.
Back to that summer in New York. I watched the few full episodes of Survivor and CSI: Miami available on CBS. Somehow, I ended up finding the show Cold Case on YouTube. The episodes were divided in to 10 minute segments because this was when YouTube still had the 10 minute limit.
So I watched all of those on my Dell computer in the guest bedroom of my brother’s house during a very shitty time of my life, which had almost nothing to do with the fact that by then, I was living in New Jersey.
I also knew that this was the beginning of my downfall; that whatever was prompting me to spend hours watching low-quality YouTube videos of actors unearthing dead bodies – and enjoying it – would strip me of all virtue, discipline and probably humanity.
Over the next few years, TV was my escape and my self-sabotaging tool. I stayed up through nights of binge sessions and then stumbled through the days. I watched and I watched and I watched, hoping that eventually I would grow sick of it, confused that it was something so detrimental and something so necessary to me, sure that it proved the folly of my life choices while opening me to all the worlds I was so hungry to know.
I haven’t stopped watching Netflix and I lament the wasted hours.
But at the same time it’s incredibly frustrating to me that no matter how much I try I can’t make up for those lost years. It’s not that I feel deprived, it’s just that there are so many moments where it keeps me apart. So many “What, you never watched The Wire? Gilmore Girls? Sex and the City?” moments. I’m not sure how to explain that while they were watching All American TV, I was translating Yiddish texts about the various ways keeping Shabbat reveals the hidden truth in the natural fabric of the world.
So I just shrug, or maybe launch into an autobiography.