A few years back, I was stricken with the stomach flu and sequestered from my family, friends, and colleagues. It was hunkered down in this solitary misery that I had my first taste of streaming television. In less than a week, I emerged from my bedroom having polished off three seasons of Mad Men, a series that follows the misadventures of a part-time 1960s-era sex-addicted ad executive with the moral temperament of Caligula and the personality of a cucumber. And since watching it, I too have been held hostage by addiction.
Soon enough, I went on a bender and watched 75 episodes of the rebooted Battlestar Galactica — a space opera about an exodus to New Earth. I binged on Breaking Bad (twice) and The Sopranos more times than I care to admit. On a once-in-a-lifetime trip to Brazil, I skipped out on an invite to a party at Copacabana beach with a group of fascinating people in order to finish off the final season of The Wire in my cheerless hotel room.
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