My boyfriend and I eye each other suspiciously. We stare, hawk-like, waiting for any sudden movements. Somewhere in the background, “The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly” theme song plays and our trigger fingers twitch, poised for action. Then we pounce.
On the remote.
I employ moves I’ve picked up from “Will & Grace” to finagle the remote from his grasp; high kicks seem to work well. He approaches the battle in a more orderly manner, strategically maneuvering like Easy Company on war mini-series “Band of Brothers”; tackling has proved to be an effective tactic for him.
Most times he gets it. As he channel surfs, triumphant and bloodied, I begin wheedling, negotiating for any sort of deal that means that I won’t be viewing the latest documentary on the fascinating world of airplane building on the Discovery Channel. He holds all the power, in the form of our remote courtesy of Time Warner Cable, yet he’s listening.
He’s listening because we’ve learned the art of Television Diplomacy.
It’s a particular peacekeeping policy that makes our TV viewing habits resemble C-SPAN. It’s an intricate dance that averts arguments, ensures that I learn a bit about building some sort of vehicle, guarantees he finds out what digs the hippest metrosexuals are sporting, and keeps us both sane.
Thanks to Television Diplomacy, we can eat dinner together peacefully. It’s bad enough that we watch TV while we eat dinner on the bed, our sparkling dinner conversation stemming from what’s on the tube. All I ask is that I don’t have to watch welding, a re-run of “Sports Center,” or anything to do with war while I eat. Likewise, I don’t expect him to watch the terrifically awful programming I love to hate.
He takes a more intellectual approach to TV; by the time I’m parked in front of our off-brand picture-box, I’m aiming to slow down brain waves. He enjoys a fine episode of “How a Harley is Born” or a History Channel installment depicting war — any war. I’d rather spend my time with something utterly mindless like the reality series “du jour.”
So, in the spirit of diplomacy, we compromise. To put it bluntly, I watch his crap so he’ll watch mine.
Really, he puts up with a lot when he consents to watching my selections. I don’t even like the shows I’m watching, but it’s quite fetching to despise it. I claim that I am studying this or that reality series in the spirit of my communication major. If I’m desperate, I’ll play the visual arts minor card and argue these shows are marvelous displays of performance art. But he’s doing it for diplomatic reasons. He knows if he watches “Friends” with me, he’s got leverage the next time “Junkyard Wars” is on.
He’s the Kofi Annan of our humble Pacific Beach apartment.
There are those moments when we stumble on a show that is mutually agreeable. Those shows that live in the purgatory, where we each think they’re not so bad but not so good, and that’s just perfect. It’s like an oasis in the culturally parched desert of our cable plan.
For instance, I know I’ve seen him chuckle at “Queer Eye for the Straight Guy,” and he’s not laughing at pleatless golf-pants or tie-as-a-belt fashion tricks, he’s smiling because he’s genuinely enjoying it. He does so covertly, however, as he’s usually occupied with dinner or a paper. And he was more than shocked when I watched the NFL draft with a peculiar interest. I played that off, asserting that I was only interested in seeing if anyone from my brother’s collegiate football team got drafted (there were, and I strangely and loudly rejoiced, losing my poker face for a moment). We hold our cards close to our chest; in the spirit of Television Diplomacy, we’re trying to keep the peace and our own future best interests in mind.
I save all the really bad stuff, like “Baby Beauty Queens” until he falls asleep, anyway. I can handle a little compromise when we’re both awake.
Television Diplomacy is not for the faint at heart. It takes supreme compromise, control and possibly physical contact when battling for the remote.
And it pays off — we throw each other a bone once in awhile. Last Friday, he tossed a bag from Best Buy in my lap, containing season five of “Sex and the City,” which I recently started to watch. He doesn’t know it yet, but I shelled a few bucks on Amazon.com to purchase “The Band of Brothers” series that he’s been coveting. The mini-series is being aired on television, but I refuse to watch the re-runs on the History Channel while we dine on frozen pizza because it’s just too damn violent. So, I just bought him the DVD set.
He can wait until I’m asleep to watch it.
