For the past several years, I have been, like many other effete snotty sorts affecting high-brow quasi-intellectual postures, a TV-non-watcher.

Which isn’t to say that I’ve strictly not watched TV. I have. But only those shows so clearly a head and shoulders above standard programming fare that I could continue to disdain the television industry as a whole. (Specifically, my watching was largely constrained to the West Wing, several of the HBO series, and old episodes of the Simpsons – ideally from the 1992-1997 seasons.)

Since arriving in Los Angeles, however, I have found myself watching ungodly amounts of TV. Arguably, that isn’t entirely my own fault; Yoav Fisher, one of my Cyan colleagues and my housemate in Los Angeles in the temporary corporate housing we’ve been sharing, is a heavy watcher. As a result, the TV in our apartment often plays for hours a day. Yet Yoav, a dyed-in-the-wool multitasker, utilizes this extensive TV time by simultaneously reading scripts and fielding phone calls. I admire his ability to do so, but I must admit that is a talent I do not share – if I’m in the living room trying to read and the TV goes on, my attention is immediately diverted to the tube.

As a result, in the past five weeks, I’ve absorbed everything from Elimidate, Boy Meets World and The Cosby Show to The Real World, Joe Millionaire, and Ricki Lake. And through it all, I have felt my brain cells dying off, perhaps committing some sort of ritual seppuku to escape the sheer agony of such crappy, mindless programming. With each passing day, I have felt my IQ (arguably limited as it already is) whittled away by the glowing box.

So I am particularly pleased to say that salvation is finally in sight. Yoav ships off to San Francisco this Saturday morning – as soon as he’s out the door, I’ll be unplugging the box. I can only hope that a steady diet of quality literature can reverse any damage sustained thus far.