I recently had a two-night stay at a local hospital. My roommate had his TV on the whole time—24 hours a day, no lie—and often tuned to police procedurals and forensic files drivel that probably contributed to my headache and fever (actually, that turned out to be a mild case of pneumonia).
The layout of the average hospital room is such that there’s little hope of creating your own space without going into total recluse mode. In other words, even if you close the curtain as far as it will go, you’re always going to be able to hear whatever it is your roommate is watching. It often doesn’t matter that the intent of the combination call bell and TV remote with speaker is to keep it at a reasonable volume by your ear. The guy in the other bed had his raised to strikingly audible levels. I never complained, other than the time he knocked the speaker/remote/call button onto the floor while sleeping and the volume became ridiculously loud practically next to me.
Anyway, back to the subject matter of what was often on his screen. I realize that I was under no obligation to peek over and watch, but it was pretty hard not to. I could have turned on my own TV and listened in a more considerate and commendable way, with the speaker next to my ear, but that would have created a cacophony of sound that probably would have made my headache worse. So I just laid in my bed, tried to ignore what was going on next door, but occasionally sneaking a peek.
By the time of discharge, I sensed a change in the way I looked at the world. And I had confirmation that a lot of what passes for entertainment on TV is nothing more than dramatized, sensationalized accounts of people behaving badly. Garbage television. Viewed the same way as slowing down to take a look at an accident on the interstate.
Oh, there’s always the forensic pursuit, in which viewers are supposed to find some redeeming value, and which can be fascinating, but their whole reason for being strikes me as that of a fire company arriving in time to save a cellar hole.
I don’t really care how the crime is solved. What looms larger for me is that the crime happened at all, among people who, more often than not, really don’t have it all together, who are unhappy for numerous reasons, who have a deficit of coping skills, whose worlds are small, who are ignorant and stupid and driven by base desires they never learned or were taught how to handle. It was depressing, after a while.
As we drove away from the hospital, and through various neighborhoods, I was evaluating the likelihood that something like what I was watching could happen there, or around the next corner. Someone with a devious plan to collect on an insurance policy, someone else with unresolved jealousy or anger issues or mental illness, with depravity and evil in their heart.
These “shows” aren’t just shows. They’re intentional efforts at drawing us in, with little consideration for quality and content. They are appealing to some lowest common denominator, some prurient interest. The fact that a crime is solved is almost immaterial, an inconsequential aside. So much brain power and sleuthing and stupid luck are involved in solving heinous acts that should have never happened in the first place, much less made their way to a TV screen. A steady diet of such rot could make one lose their faith in humanity, start seeing monsters behind every tree.
3 Cents' 