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Now
five years old, DirecTV is the current DBS-industry leader.
DirecTV mini-satellite dishes range in price from around
$99 to $149, not including installation. (Add an additional
$99 if you don't want to install it yourself.)
There
are 10 different DirecTV packages, from Total Choice (more
than 95 channels for $29.99 per month) to Total Platinum
(over 185 channels for $80.99 per month).
For
a complete list of channels, visit DirecTV on the Web at
http://www.
directv.com/.
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I'm a TV addict.
I like it so much, in fact, that every month I fork over more
than $80 to DirecTV, a satellite company that beams 185 channels
into my house, 24 hours a day. While all of you were out over
Labor Day weekend, enjoying the waning hours of summer, I
stayed in. I didn't take calls, I didn't have friendly visitors,
I didn't use the Internet. I never picked up a newspaper,
let alone a book. It was supposed to be an experiment. I needed
to find out if man can survive by DirecTV alone.
Saturday,
Sept. 4--Before Internal Exile
4 pm: I load up on provisions. Chips Ahoy, a bag
of Tostitos and a can of cheese dip to keep them company,
two cans each of chili and Campbell's soup, one Swanson
fried chicken TV dinner, ground coffee, a 12-pack of Pabst
Blue Ribbon, a fifth of Dewar's Scotch and three packs of
smokes.
11:30 pm: I spend my final evening of freedom cavorting
with friends and colleagues. One earnestly hugs me goodbye
as if I'm going to the chair. "Just approach it like the
making of Apocalypse Now," he says. I have no idea
what he's talking about--yet.
Sunday,
Sept. 5--Day One
10:45 am: Things start poorly. This was supposed
to be fun--a chance to escape the frantic pace of city life,
lie on my couch all day and watch whatever the hell I want.
But I've only been sitting here for 45 minutes, and I can't
find anything to watch. With over 185 channels to browse,
there's nothing on--and even if there were, it's nearly
impossible to keep focused on one show. The Discovery Channel
features a program on alligators, but I'm feeling nonviolent.
The Game Show Network offers Tic Tac Dough reruns,
but there's not enough coffee in the entire Pacific Northwest
that could ready me for Wink Martindale. Beverly Hills
90210 marathon on FX? There's never a right time for
back-to-back Shannen Doherty, though I do pause just to
make sure her eyes are still off-center. Do I have to play
my trump card before the first hour is up? One final glimpse
at Shannen and I'm off to MLB Extra Innings, all baseball,
all the time. For $119 bucks a year, DirecTV blesses baseball
fans everywhere, giving them around 35 games a week. I decide
to get an update on Mark McGwire and Sammy Sosa's home-run
race. Both men come up empty today.
1:35 pm: The Sundance Channel, Robert Redford's
24-hour ode to independent cinema that mostly screens festival
rejects that never got distribution, rescues me from baseball
overload with Grey Gardens. It's a claustrophobic
documentary about a crazy old mother and daughter who never
leave their decrepit old mansion. The film never ventures
outside of their house. Despite the two women's obvious
insanity, I'm jealous. At least they have each other.
2:15 pm: Grey Gardens is hitting a bit too
close to home, so I surf between the documentary and Food
TV's biggest stars, Two Fat Ladies. These two soft-spoken
English women make an interesting contrast with the psychos
in the mansion--and apparently one hell of an omelette,
too.
2:30 pm: They're still nuts, though, and I need
stability. M2--you can always fall back on M2. Since the
original MTV has become populated with game shows and oversexed
teen programming, M2 has taken the baton and actually shows
videos 24 hours a day. Right now, a satellite dish
is the only way to get M2 in these parts. It's almost makes
the steep monthly price worth it all by itself. The Cure
cheers me up.
3-3:30 pm: DirecTV's "Menu" feature has become my
personal organizer. One press of a button, and I have a
list of all channels and their programming, divided up into
time segments. Not only have I temporarily planned out the
remainder of my day, but the rest of my week is also secure.
5:45 pm: I decide to try to watch an entire movie
without touching the remote. But selecting a movie proves
nearly impossible. I have 37 movie channels, plus an entire
block of pay-per-view channels. I have connected my phone
to my satellite box and, for $2.99, can order any available
movie without budging off the couch. The amount is just
added to my next bill. I decide to save some money--only
Varsity Blues looks appealing, and I'm not that hopeless
yet. I settle for Next Stop, Wonderland, a free film
on STARZ!.
7:30 pm: My first TV dinner since college. The fried
chicken's not bad, but blue-light dining hasn't been the
same since they retired the aluminum-foil casing.
8 pm: Without a dish, I'd be watching a Simpsons
rerun on Fox right now. Unfortunately, satellite television's
major flaw handcuffs me. Thanks to the 1988 Satellite Home
Viewer Act, digital-broadcast satellite providers don't
offer local network programming. ABC, CBS, NBC, FOX and
PBS are all blacked out, and if you want to watch them,
you need an old-fashioned, rabbit-eared antenna. According
to several news reports, Congress is working on repealing
this act, and I should be able to watch The Simpsons
sometime in 2000. I'm sure once it works out the budget,
Congress will get right on it.
8:15 pm: Wise-ass Keith Olbermann, anchor of cable's
Fox Sports News, cracks a Grateful Dead reference
in the context of PGA golf highlights. I laugh for the first
time since seeing Don Johnson playing the King in Elvis
and the Beauty Queen on Encore's Love Story channel
some eight hours ago.
9 pm: Having exhausted half of my beer supply, I
switch to Dewar's. Sweet liquor eases the pain and makes
HBO's Sex and the City, perhaps my guiltiest pleasure,
go down easier. These four self-obsessed bimbos deserve
to be alone in Manhattan for the rest of their whiny lives.
10:20 pm: After 10 pm, Cinemax becomes Skinmax.
I watch a couple of sex scenes and switch back to HBO. The
channel is showing Breast Men, a dramatization based on
the doctors who created the silicone breast implant in the
'60s. A coincidence? I don't think so.
11 pm: I'm lonely. I can't get through to QVC to
make a bid on a Beanie Baby, so I decide to try to call
the Trinity Broadcast Network. They've been talking about
a Christian film they've produced called The Omega Code,
starring Casper Van Dien and Michael York. I want to ask
them when this is coming to Portland and how they had landed
Michael York. The woman who takes my call replies that she's
not watching the show because she's too busy answering phones.
I ask why they bother listing the phone number at the bottom
of the screen if they can't answer questions. She asks if
I'd like to make a donation.
11:30 pm: It's one those rare discoveries that satellite
TV needs to offer more often--Listening to You: The Who
at the Isle of Wright Festival on Encore True Story.
Pete Townshend rocking in a white jumper, churning out classics
from Tommy, gives me an energy boost.
1:30 am: I've been flicking randomly for hours.
Why do all videos on Country Music Television look like
karaoke shorts?
Monday,
Sept. 6--Day 2
11 am: Wake up and immediately douse my eyes with
half a bottle of Visine.
11:15 am-2 pm: Labor Day equals Marathon Day on
satellite television. Court TV, obviously seeking ratings,
serves up 15 hours of Cops; two channels of ESPN
give me six baseball games, instead of the usual three;
the Jerry Lewis-less Telethon holes up on WGN; and Animal
Planet's Emergency Vet gives sadomasochists ample
opportunity to enjoy watching pets in pain. I start drinking
and pray that I fall asleep early.
2-2:30 pm: Depressed and already delirious, I gaze
longingly at the Weather Channel. America is experiencing
beautiful holiday weather. I, on the other hand, have my
shades drawn.
2:45-7 pm: I've hit rock bottom. I come across MTV's
Real World: Honolulu marathon. I try to skip past it
but keep hitting the "Go Back" button. I'm trapped. This
show is like heroin: You know it's bad for you, but it's
so numbing, and it's easy to get hooked. One episode leads
into another, and so on. Amaya and Colin hook up romantically
around 3:30 pm. By 5 pm, he's feeling suffocated and just
wants to be friends. Meanwhile, Ruthie, an alcoholic who
likes to strip in public and drive drunk, is about to be
booted from the house. I long for Ruthie right now, and
if I could, I'd offer her my place to stay.
7:30 pm: I've started arguing with characters on
The Real World: "So, Ruthie wants a drink? What the
hell is wrong with that?" When you start talking aloud to
the Real World characters, it's time for genuine
company. I call for Chinese take-out. Tony, my delivery
guy, is the first person I've seen in two days. I tell him
so, and he laughs nervously. I get the message; fighting
the urge to invite him up for a beer, I over-tip.
8:00 pm-midnight: My attention span
is shot. No matter how many channels exist, man cannot exist
on TV alone.
*click*
Backstreet Boys in concert on the Disney Channel.
*click*
Championship bull riding on the Nashville
Network
*click*
Home & Gardening Television (HGTV) presents
Fabulous Ceilings
*click*
Ah, American Movie Classics is showing a wide-screen version
of Ocean's 11. Sinatra, Martin, Davis Jr., Lawford
and Bishop. The Rat Pack makes for perfect late-night drinking
company. The film's laid-back plot concerns a bunch of military
buddies who mount simultaneous burglaries of five big Las
Vegas casinos. The boys have a great idea, and it's planned
out perfectly, but in the end it fizzles and the cast looks
like a bunch of walking corpses. It's a timeless story.
I can relate.
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Willamette Week | originally
published September 15,
1999
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