The Costs of Television

Simple calculation: Say that you watch 1 hour of television a night, perhaps with 2 hours on a Sunday. That makes 8 hours of television a week (one entire work shift, for comparison). In a 52 week year, you have then watched television 416 hours.

Corollary 1: In 24 years, you will have amassed approximately 10,000 hours of television time. According to Malcolm Gladwell's theory of expertise, 10,000 hours is the practice goal for becoming an 'expert' at something - piano, drawing, a field of science, etc. Therefore, by maintaining the television practice above, you will lose out on the chance to be an expert at something in your life time (perhaps even two to three somethings).

Corollary 2: Let's say you don't want to be an expert at something, and you merely would work the extra time per week. In a minimum wage job in Michigan, you might make 7.40 USD per hour. After taxes and other deductions, let's say that gives you 5 dollars in spending money per hour, which over 416 hours gives you 2,080 USD per year extra. Since you're working rather than watching television in this scenario, you might also realize the cost of cable as spending money each month, which at a minimum could be 20 USD/month * 12 = 240 USD. Therefore, you stand to come out 2320 USD above the cable watching scenario. Being a wise consumer, perhaps you decide to pay off debt with this money.

Or, perhaps you decide to invest it. Investing 2320 USD per year for 40 working years at an annual return rate of 5%, which isn't too crazy to assume, would amass you an extra $296,000.00 upon retirement.

Think about television and how it impacts your life. Of course, my calculations can't include the real value of relaxation, laughter, or social community which television foster. However, I hope this can serve as a strong message that we often do things without fully considering the alternatives (and there are many more in the television case I haven't covered here).

Sanctuary yet Mausoleum

Breckinridge is a small town just far enough from the middle of the Michigan mitten that it can't claim it as fame. The clean, main corridor of town consists of a number of shops perched copse like along the shores of the M46 car-flow. I take my seat in a corner of its main diner at a table spotted with red and white overlay shapes that remind me of boomerangs. Music from the 1950s plays in the background, with the firm expectation that it will bring some life to this place. I watch as an old man and woman sit down between me and the door. They are framed by the noonday sun and appear as shadows in my view, silhouettes with no features but the bowed backs and sparse hair of age. I strain my ears to detect their conversation, but the only sound I am rewarded with is the dull hum of do-wop leaking from the speakers. They conduct their meal in silence, and though I cannot distinguish their features, I imagine they scarcely make eye contact. Have these autumnal spouses moved beyond the stage of speech's usefulness, even beyond the stage of emotional connectivity? I imagine that once you have shared every memory worth sharing with another, you must become a creature which benefits only from a shared present, or the twinkling of a shared future. But here, at this table, I believe I see a new stage of companionship. One where the twinkling future has been cast aside as unreachable, since the end of their time here looms so close it must seem self-evident. One where the present, in communique, is naught but a series of misfortunes of friends, of banal family occurrence, or of the foggy recitation of the morning news, things better left unmentioned for the sake of good humor. And, of course, one where the past is so well known that to share it again would be offensive to one's mate. What I see is the terminal stage of a relationship, when nothing beneficial remains but the sharing of silence, the building of either an agony or an anticipation, the object of which is unclear or unwanted. This is a shared and living death and, to me, the most frightening but also most revered part of a union. As the couple rise to leave, I cannot help but think they have been slowly enacting their funeral here over toast each morning for the last several years, with no one to witness it or pay respects but the wandering strangers who find this place, a quaint sanctuary yet mausoleum.

Sharing Yellow Wallpaper

From May 11:

I was pleasantly surprised to find a woman, sitting alone in a restaurant reading, much like myself. I was seated next to her, and she pleasantly introduced herself and her passion for books. I was so moved out of association, that I gave her the copy of The Yellow Wallpaper I had bought only moments before. She, like an enthused child at her birthday fete, thanked me profusely and began digging in. I cannot help but feel the warmth of kindred society.

My challenge to you, reader, is to carry something with little monetary, but with great artistic, value with you for the sole purpose of giving it away. Enrich someone's day through the act of parting, and find that what you give out is far outweighed by what you gain.

Sadistic Time Macine

Mowing a long-unmowed lawn is a bit like traveling in a sadistic time machine. I find that the things which are spat out the clippings chute are fairly indicative of past occurrences, the more painful versions of tree rings. As I round the corner, and feel the inevitable sting of detritus on my legs or miscellaneous shards in my eye, I can't help but observe: "Wow, that was the half decayed bottle cap from a pint of Jack Daniels my roommate enjoyed a bit too much of last October." "That feels like a stray calcified pickle from the subway sandwich carelessly thrown from a passing school bus in the parking lot next door last December," or even, "I could have sworn my pride was around here somewh...oh, there it is. Right in the kisser." Next time, I'm outsourcing.

An old man, balding, sits heavily...

I float between cafes and restaurants, oft with no companion but my books. What I see, hear, and feel in those community lifesprings becomes the subject of my writing. I appreciate your willingness to gaze upon my interpretations.

May 11, 2013

An old man, balding, sits heavily against the picture window framed backdrop of Ann Arbor afternoon. In front of him lay a collection of china saucers, plates, and a tea cup, which he slowly raises to his lips to sip, tentatively, as if the heat of the Frisia brew could suddenly increase at any moment. His eyes betray nothing of boredom, of enjoyment, or of sorrow, but simply gaze observantly down at the traffic flux below. His shirt, a light pink which is neither wrinkled nor ironed, is contrasted with the dark slacks which just barely cover his ankles. He shifts slightly and places a hand at the side of head, as if to say, this existence is a headache, but then again perhaps to say, the weight of my mind needs support. Across from him sits not an energetic child, nor the companion which most men his age have settled with, but rather his briefcase and a windbreaker, stacked in such a way that if hit just right by the slowly fading sun, it would seem the caricature of a good friend, slouched over an empty table setting. Perhaps the placement was intentional, or perhaps the man is thinking his own placement lonely or cruel, in this stifling room where he cannot enjoy tea with anything but the work papers or cold electronics or miscellany in the bag. Something in my soul resonates with this man, past or present or future unknown to me, and as his flesh becomes bound to my memory, I wonder if perhaps I see myself, purposelessly supping in a naive place, alone and disenchanted, watched by a curious mind who can think of no novelty but to contemplate my incompleteness.