Urban wars: The battle for the tv set

As the only man in a one-tv, and otherwise all-female home, I often get to watch shows that I secretly suspect are part of a global conspiracy to undermine manhood. Bitaw, just kidding. Of course I am under no pressure or obligation to watch these shows for women.

But if you live in a small apartment where the only space to congregate is the front of the tv, and there in front of the tv is always immovably perched at least one female of the species, then the chances of your asserting your manhood is as shrunken and dry as a pitted date.

If you insist on watching with the rest of the tribe, in all likelihood you will be watching Project Runway or America's Next Top Model, that is if the younger women are in control of the remote.

If it is the wife who is ensconced before the tv, you will probably be watching the resurrected Martha Stewart or some other woman lecturing interminably about some craft. If it is the kid, then you get to watch single-eyed and multi-eyed cartoon creatures on Disney Channel.

The only time I can regain control of the damn television set is in the wee hours of the morning. Even then, I get to watch only the National Geographic Channel. And to think I was the one who bought the tv on installment, with money I have yet to earn.

As a journalist who spends long hours in the office, I already have a fairly good idea of what will be on CNN or BBC when I get home. The only time I watch CNN is if the anchor is either Hala Gorani or Kristie Lu Stout.

But in the wee unholy hours, with God already sleeping, the only shows on NGC are about wild animals fornicating or some man kissing cobras. There used to be a guy who wrestles with crocodiles but he had a fatal run-in with a stingray. He should have stuck it with the crocs.

I admit sometimes sneaking in a few minutes watching FTV, but it does not show lingerie or swimwear collections all the time. Eventually things get too tacky and the repetitious station ID consisting of a sultry whisper of " Ehhhfff Teehhveehh " gets to my nerves and I quit.

At this time of the night, or day, it is the other side of the world that is awake and enjoying the better shows on cable tv. In the Philippines, you try sports and you get a boring dose of cricket. The only redeeming shows are Jay Leno and Conan O'Brien.

The only shows left for me to reconnect with the dominant species are the cooking demonstrations and competitions. I love to cook. And they love to eat what I dish out, except the little girl, who eats nothing but adobo ( which she calls square meat ) and Jollibee.

I cook on Mondays, which are supposed to be my rest days. But I love it when the daughters come home earlier than usual on Mondays. It tells me without being told that they love it when I cook.

Sometimes I also cook on Sundays. I cook on Sundays when there is no money to go to church. It has become very expensive to go to church these days because, after church, you have to bring the whole tribe to the malls.

Aside from the cooking shows, I can also connect with the women in the house when they watch Oprah. I started loving Oprah ever since that show when she pulled surprise after surprise until the grand finale when she gave away cars to every member of the audience.

But I hate Tyra Banks. She quarrels with guests she invites to her show. She cuts them short when their opinions clash with hers. For one who benefited tremendously from the American dream, she sure knows how to kill free expression.

The only time I can acquire control of the tv, therefore, is by force. And that is only when Manny Pacquiao has a fight. But it is bound to be a Pyrrhic victory each time. I may win temporary rights to the tv, but I lose my sanity to the endless stream of commercials.