It was the most perfect, poetic gift: my TV-loving sister, who for years tormented me with her remote-hogging taste for over-sexed high-school dramas (hello Days of Our Degrassi 90210!), gave me a set of my own as a college graduation gift. I remember her pulling up with it in the backseat of her black Honda Civic, my eyes widening at the size of the thing. She had splurged for a 27 incher, because it’s not every day that your only sister graduates from college and moves into her first apartment.
For years, I proudly hosted TV days and nights: Patriots football, West Wing, Red Sox playoff games, Project Runway. I had the big TV, the lucky futon, and a magical touch with baked goods, and they came in droves.
With the advent of affordable HDTV, I left to watch important shows/games at friends’ houses, and my tube TV seemed to sense that it was no longer the belle of the ball. It would make a sad whirring noise when I turned it on, and it temperamentally displayed the picture only some of the time. I thought I could coax a few more months out of the thing by striking it on the top and sides. When the abuse became increasingly more violent, I realized it was best for for both of us to say goodbye.
So it has come to this. Technology has advanced so far in these nine good years that I’m struggling to give my tube TV away. It’ll be gone one way or the other, but never forgotten.