Boob tube

I’m officially retarded. Last night, during a civilized dinner with some friends who were all debating on which wine went better with the lamb, I was anxious to find a convenient excuse to go home. No, I didn’t realize that all my friends were fake. Maybe fake oenophiles but that’s about it. I just really, really, really wanted to know what was going on with Veronica and Logan.

Yes, I am hooked on Veronica Mars. It’s not really that embarrassing if you actually get to watch the show and realize that its creator Rob Thomas is the ultimate post-modernist. He is self-reflexive, self-referential and makes being a teenager seem much more exciting not mention drrrty. It took a lot for me to get hooked on that show. Bea and Tanya, my officemates at the STAR, have been gushing about the show since season one. I couldn’t see how it could be worth my worthless time. It took the advice of someone with the same garden variety of self-importance as me to finally bite the bullet. Stephen King admitted in an article that against his own will he was slowly drawn to Veronica Mars’ world. If the man who wrote It, Misery, and Thinner could find conflicted joy at seeing a fresh-faced blonde who looked like she belonged in a Noxzema ad unlock her classmates’ parents’ secrets, I was none the better.

The show is all about bad packaging: A cheesy title like Veronica Mars starring a chick named Kristen Bell written by a generic Rob Thomas showing up on UPN is not exactly what warms your loins from the outside. But it’s produced by Joel Silver – hello, Miami Vice! That’s where the opium is. Anyway Veronica Mars is just one of my many fascinations. The fix for the anti-socialite. You name it: Cold Case, Without a Trace, Grey’s Anatomy, Scrubs, Entourage, Seinfeld, Queer as Folk, The L Word, CSI (all three of them), Law and Order and pretty soon a DVD set of E! True Hollywood Story is coming my way through Amazon. The ultimate goodbye-cruel-world package. I’m the total TV slut.

It is the golden age of television. I mean look at the movie industry go south. It’s golden boys Mel and Tom, anti-Semitic, homophobe and gay alien respectively, have become pariahs. All the summer movies were trailer movies. All the directors and big producers have moved on to the smaller screen. And the only decent movie to come out this season (The Devil Wears Prada) is directed by the man of Sex and the City and Entourage, David Frankel.

My friends think it’s sick. I can’t even watch TV like a normal person anymore. I need to watch at least eight episodes of something a day. The other night I saw 20 episodes of Sex and the City despite having an 8 a.m. meeting the next day. Even if I sprinkled Unisom into my mouth like Tic Tacs to knock myself out, they were counteracted by Carrie and co. I have even memorized which floating actor guested in what episode. I can guess borrowed episodes, meaning an episode from another season that was slightly revised to create a "new" episode (it happens really). And for every moment in life, whether it’s an embarrassing incident in the public toilet or a case of verbal diarrhea, I always have a Seinfeld moment equivalent for it.

They have a show for anything and anyone, from winning lotteries (Windfall) to chasing karma (My Name is Earl) to the real lives of plastic surgeons (Dr. 90210). I’m simply waiting for a show about veterinarians (an untouched subject in the dynamic world of TV) that will probably sprout up on Bravo, the channel that brought queers and beers together.

To think that a few years ago I went by not watching TV for four years, opting for good movies or documentaries instead. Now I’ll watch anything I can get my hands on. YouTube has me addicted, too. You can watch what’s unavailable anywhere in the third world, from The Simple Life 4 (Nicoke Richie boggles you with her delilah Rachel Zoe outfits) to Project Runway 3.

Plus, I don’t really have that much time on my hands.

So it’s a toss-up: party time or TV time. You know what wins. As Heidi says, "Auf Wiedersehen."