If you know me, you know that I don’t watch much TV. It’s not because I don’t enjoy it nor is it because I think it’s bad for your brain. It’s because I love it. TV is my time travel machine. I sit down in front of it to watch one show and, the next thing I know, hours have passed, night has fallen and and I’m still in my PJ’s.
This is why my roommate and I have never gotten cable. Because, with the Style Channel, E! and Food TV streaming into our living room, we know we’ll never get anything done. I’ve gone through most of my adult life out of the TV loop, unfamiliar with the girls who talk Sex in the City, unimpressed with Buffy’s feats, unaware of the latest happenings among Friends.
But then Six Feet Under came into my life. A few weeks ago, Rama left the pilot and first couple episodes on video at my house. I didn’t know anything about it, except that it was one of his favorites. One day when I was procrastinating, I put the tape in the VCR to see what the fuss was all about and I was hooked. I fell in love with the eccentric Fisher family and their bittersweet lives.
I watched the first four episodes within the next two days and asked Rama for four more. Within a week, I’d finished the first season, and, after another week, I’m close to finishing the second season. I’m nervous to do so, because I know that Rama’s tape collection ends there, and I don’t know when I’ll get my next fix. The third season isn’t available anywhere, and the fourth season isn’t going to begin any time soon. What am I going to do? I miss the Fishers already.