In Search of a Timeslot

Tuesday, 11:15pm: I was walking home from my office on Columbus when I was stopped short by a bad TV Drama in search of a timeslot. I could tell immediately it was distressed. It seemed unsure of its premise and its writers weren’t clear on what they were trying to say. Not interested in committing to a drama I knew nothing about, I casually mentioned I had to see a sitcom about buying laughter by the can and made to leave.

The drama silently waited for me to turn back. I couldn’t resist. It was late, I was tired, and sometimes a bad drama can grab you. So I turned. From a distance it didn’t look so bad. We talked for a while about programming and the duration of infomercials – do they constitute local content? – when I realised that I was late for an engagement. The drama begged me to stay and confessed that all it needed was one viewer and boom it had its timeslot – ha! A couch potato junkie.

I had to be firm. TV shows are like dames they tantalise you with teasers and next thing you know you’re hooked. Who killed the maid? Did Chad get Mary-Lou pregnant? Well, not this time. I have to admit I was curious where the program was heading, but I stood my ground, turned on my heels and walked quietly and quickly away. Little did I know that the damned drama was following me. It just didn’t know when to quit.

I turned the corner where Pat’s used to be, you know, across the street from Susan’s Fruits. Somehow the drama had beaten me there. Clearly it was time to talk tough. I told it that it was good for nothing. I told it I’d slash its budget. I said it would be axed. The drama dropped to the ground and pleaded with me. This badly produced, badly written excuse for entertainment honestly thought all it needed was a few guest stars and a new title sequence and it would find its feet again. It came up with too many unconvincing excuses - poor reception, brown-outs, Valentines Day killed the ratings. It’s repressively sad to see a TV show in such despondent denial.

A wry smile spread across my lips as I said a new timeslot just might do the trick… perhaps a follow-on audience from CSI: Albuquerque. It instantly recognised my irony, but instead of retaliating, it burst into tears and wished its writers could come up with lines like that… caustic wit. I knew then that the poor drama was truly desperate. We went for coffee at Monica’s by the river. I sipped Monica’s dark, brown grit and went over some ideas… strengthen the B story, give the characters more depth, but under no circumstances include snappy self-referential dialogue or a phone-in audience vote. The drama was taking notes and looking hopeful. It was obvious that the two of us had chemistry. I could recognise its shortcomings – high production values, but little substance – and yet I found it strangely charismatic and difficult to switch off. We exchanged business cards, walked out of the coffee shop and let the heavy, wooden door swing closed behind us.

Wednesday, 8:30pm. I rounded the corner on W82nd Street and Amsterdam, half a block from my apartment with a half finished bagel in my hand. The shop window of Chang’s electronics caught my eye… filling the screen of a 72 inch television was the bad TV drama. I watched the stilted performances, the emotionally void dialogue, and unnecessary dramatic pauses. The stupid programme had ignored everything I’d said; there was Cyndi Lauper playing Mary-Lou’s mother. A woman and her young family stood next to me as I watched the drama to its conclusion. I stared blankly at the gratuitous sex scene accompanied by moody baritone sax and half-heartedly finished my bagel. I always knew the baby wasn’t Chad’s.

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