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The Cold Blue Hearth

by Kevin D. Williamson

A final surrender to TV

After holding out for nearly 40 years, I have for the first time in my life intentionally and voluntarily acquired a television. In the fine reactionary tradition, I have joined the middle of the last century, albeit in an improved version.

Which is not to say I’ve never lived with a television. My parents had one when I was a youngster (rather too much more about that in a bit), and the vagaries of my sometimes disordered domestic arrangements in adulthood meant that a television occasionally made an appearance in a place in which I was living. For instance, I briefly rented a television-equipped townhouse in northern Virginia, and, more significant, I once had a long-term roommate of the sort with whom one traditionally enters into an all too easily revoked legal relationship bearing tax benefits, and she desired to watch America’s Next Top Model and so acquired the necessary equipment, though I drew the line at cable. Said legal relationship was in due time revoked, and though I was sad to see her go, I did not miss the television. (Or the cat. Especially the cat.)

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