My first TV remote was a large square box with a faux wood finish. It had 13 buttons that you could push to select any of the 13 available TV channels, and it was hardwired to the TV with a thick black cable. In its time, it was the apex of opulence and luxury, and my friends drooled with envy whenever I allowed them to use it. That was 45 years ago. I have had little to do with TVs since. But today’s remotes, as I recently learned, are dissertations in existential ergonomics, studded with mysterious alien-like hieroglyphics that have little to do with TV and more to do with confusing cranky old bastions of nostalgia like myself.
Last week I was on assignment in Masset, booked into a house that came with a massive new television. The whole week prior, I had eagerly looked forward to sprawling out on the couch, surfing through one glorious channel after another while dusting my torso with various high-calorie food scraps.
The possibility of an entire week of modern television-watching had me pumped, and when I got to my temporary new digs, I threw myself down on the couch and excitedly began my boob-tube relaxathon.
First, though, I had to turn on the TV, which was not as easy as I remembered. I looked around the room and eventually found six remotes. To say I was confused by the medley of media management would be an understatement. Each remote had several on/off buttons that I tried pressing one at a time, but nothing happened. One of them looked like an alien sex toy, so I assumed that this was the most important. I began relentlessly pushing buttons (as one does when faced with modern technology), but the TV still wouldn’t function. I took another remote that looked like a dystopian birthing instrument and began pressing buttons on that one as well. Again, nothing. I did this over and over again in different sequences using all of the remotes until, finally, the TV blinked on. (Just in time, too, as I was quickly developing a desire to unleash a nuclear arsenal on the entire television-remote manufacturing industry.)
Once the TV was on, things got much more difficult. I couldn’t find any channels to watch. I was offered a single blue screen with an incoherent message about logistics and sources but no programming.
Glancing down at the buttons on the six different remotes, I realized how foreign they were. There were buttons that said “PVR,” “STB,” “CC/VD” and “A” (to name a few). None of these made any sense to me—and there were hundreds of them! I couldn’t understand what any of them had to do with changing channels or adjusting the volume—the only things that I had ever associated with TV watching. I certainly had never needed to “STB” or “A” a television before.
Hours later I managed to change the blue screen to a black one, which politely informed me that the service was unavailable. A few more hours of frantic button pushing finally unearthed a channel with actual programming on it. I was so relieved that I slowly slipped my nuclear launch codes back into the Samsonite briefcase handcuffed to my wrist.
The channel I had stumbled upon consisted of regular ugly people like you and me in various predicaments and conversations that were either embarrassing or cringe or both, with no storyline or acting. “Why the heck are all these ugly boring people on TV!?” I wondered. Using some arbitrary buttons on the remote, I managed to scroll through a few more channels and found more of the same. Ugly people being boring. Where were all the beautiful funny people with scintillating scripted dialog that I had grown up with? Where were the perfect sit-com families that told me when to laugh and taught me the importance of being extremely good looking?
Then I realized that there were thousands of channels! “No wonder they have regular people on TV,” I mused. “There’s not enough ‘TV people’ to fill all the channels.” But by now, my week was over, and it was time to go home. I was very disappointed and saddened to see the current state of television remotes… and at myself for using up my whole trip unsuccessfully figuring out how to use a them.