July 16–23, 1998

critical mass|television

Homicidal Tendencies

The anatomy of a love affair, one TV show at a time.

by Katherine Dahlsgaard

I guess you could say that I like my television like I like my lovers: complex, dramatic and intense. Beautiful to look at doesn't hurt either, but I'm not shallow. A program can be ugly (I believe in TV land the proper term is "gritty") but I won't be scared off. A good show can become a nearly 24-hour obsession for me, and once I find it—the show that will change my life for the next six months to three years—I will shower it with unconditional devotion. I will ignore any of its shortcomings. I will glorify it to my friends. I will refuse to shut up about it with strangers at parties. I will make all sorts of ridiculous sacrifices for it, including refusing to share my attentions with others.

But don't call me a "TV junkie"—I worship only one prime-time show per week.

Yes, I'm a one-show woman, a television serial monogamist, if you will. Between TV love affairs I drift aimlessly, feeling rather lost and alone. The remote in my hand holds no promise, and feels strange and stale. I meet my new shows the way I meet real-life lovers—they are usually friends of friends. My friends will merely "like" the show and introduce it to me. I, in turn, will fall head over heels.

Take my current beloved, Homicide: Life on the Street. An oxymoronic title, but nonetheless a god-like show. I am so hopelessly in love with Homicide that I haven't left my apartment on a Friday night in years. This is not entirely true, but if I do happen to be out, I will race home or commandeer someone else's television for that Magical Hour. No, I will not videotape Homicide to watch later when I "have the time." This seems disrespectful to me; relationships shouldn't be easy, and you have to be willing to make sacrifices. Besides, I've grown too accustomed to the spontaneity of the "live" viewing and now couldn't have it any other way. During the long, lonely work week I think of our next meeting with greedy anticipation. When it comes, and the opening credits roll, I nearly burst into song! I go crazy with joy and do a little dance in my seat. Then I watch with a frenzied concentration that a phone call from Jesus Christ could not break.

My relationship with Homicide is an uncomplicated one: Homicide is that one guaranteed hour of transcendence every seven days, give or take a pre-emption. So please don't call it "just a hobby" when I am sobbing during the Emmys. Homicide is the light in my life!

Of course, there have been others. I'll never forget my first show. I was 12 and Steven Bochco was 37 and a new day was dawning for me on television—that of the highbrow, hour-long drama series. Hill Street Blues was a truly stunning show. I was young and I fell hard. I talked about it incessantly and used my allowance money to buy the T-shirt and then wore it everywhere. My parents were concerned: they thought the show was too old for me. I responded, smartly, by convincing my mother to watch it with me (as a sort of chaperone, I guess) and she got hooked on it like heroin. When she developed a crush on Daniel J. Travanti, I knew everything was going to be okay.

And it was, blissfully so, for a while. But kids grow up fast and love affairs end; these are facts. I tend to break up with my shows abruptly, and without looking back. I'm cold that way. And like many people with their real-life lovers, I tend to have a back-up before I call it quits. I tired of Hill Street Blues after three seasons, but still-young St. Elsewhere was waiting for me in the wings. NYPD Blue died for me the day David Caruso left in a huff, but I swallowed my pain and quickly rebounded on Homicide, a show already in its prime, but still graciously willing to take me in without asking for explanation.

Why do I leave shows? Because I refuse to go down with a sinking ship. They literally become too ugly to watch. Roseanne was given her walking papers for this reason. Ditto 90210. Perhaps I stayed with that one too long; I should have left 90210 when Shannen did, but—like a fool!—I hung around, deluding myself with the notion that Tiffany could keep my interest. Eventually I got tired of those wild children and their endless sexual shenanigans ("if I had wanted to be watching Melrose Place, I would be watching Melrose Place!", I groused to sympathetic friends), and called the whole thing off.

It's certainly not the case that I am afraid of commitment. There are shows that have broken up with me! These were TV love affairs that started with such promise, but ended so tragically when they were canceled by heartless, dollar-driven networks. Shows like Parker Lewis Can't Lose, The Jackie Thomas Show, or Prophet. I recently saw Adrian Pasdar, the magnetic star of Prophet, on some horrible made-for-TV movie with Victoria Principal. It wasn't much of a reunion; I wasn't happy to see how low he'd sunk since our estrangement and turned off the television after 15 painful minutes.

I will tell you a secret: I am considering leaving Homicide. Yes, I love it and all, but lately we have grown apart. There have been too many character additions and deletions and things just aren't the same anymore. My third-favorite character was just axed; will I be next? What if the writers continue to include helicopter chases? And keep setting them to an INXS soundtrack? (If I wanted to be watching Baywatch, I'd be watching Baywatch.) No, I think it's time to go, and before I get resentful. But, I am afraid. First of all, I don't have a back-up. What if I break up with Homicide and then never love another TV show for as long as I live? Or, perhaps an even worse fate, never again love a show as much as I loved Homicide. I don't want to be single again, and have to watch TV in bars or strangers' houses trying to find that something special. I don't want to be alone. Tell me: Is a bad relationship better than no relationship at all?