Like Waterloo and Stalingrad, the fight for the remote between couples is an iconic battle. The problem's short-circuited by having two TVs, or being online, but who wants that cold separation from your snuggle-bunny? Attention, like blankets and too much chocolate, should be a shared thing. There is the My Sky recording option, again lame and isolationist while also fiscally wasteful. Things are about to get weirder at the front, too. The newest TVs change channels and do all sorts of other techno tricks with the simple wave of the user's hand. It promises chaos.
Essentially, it's a war over the limited resource of time together and how that time shall be spent. The two tribes, who turangawaewae equally to the couch, have to work it out without rancour or face an endless civil war. Parenthetically, I'm assuming the minor iwi (children) have no say in this process - as it should be.
The trick is . . . that there isn't one. TV is a monstrous pile of droppings. The best thing ever on it, according to multiple sources was The Sopranos. That's probably right. But it was still a cartoon, about sociopaths. To reiterate; the general consensus is that a childish heap of caricature about people who kill other humans for a living is the best thing to vomit itself out of TV in more than 60 years.
And that currently the hottest ticket on screen involves a pregnant woman being graphically butchered at a wedding. It's not a thing you need to have in your life.
Disconnect the aerial and get a DVD player. Rent movies made in garages about beauty and truth and life and watch them together.
But, make an exception for the big-budget action movies that come out every five years or so, those where California is destroyed by an earthquake/ asteroid. These are lovingly made and beautiful too.
The unusual care with which they are crafted representing a pleading for self-destruction by a damned caste of Hollywood creatives. The people who have sold their souls into the cesspits of hell for fleeting temporal success. They are attempting a mea culpa, which, despite the semi-human forms they have become, is heartaching. The least we can do is give them the death they plead for - and turn them off.