My wife thinks my son watches too much TV. Come to think of it, she thinks I watch too much TV. And she's probably right (about both of us). But I keep rationalizing. I keep arguing with her, lamely pointing out "studies" that have shown that children who watch inordinate amounts of the tube often develop enhanced language skills, bigger vocabularies, and increased awareness of feminine hygiene products. But deep down I know that television is not only a babysitter, but a big, juicy, addictive drug. It is, as Harlan Ellison has so eloquently written, a glass teat.

I've been a TV junkie since I was about four years old. In fact, the first conscious memory I have of that big glass bosom is watching a somber parade with a bunch of sad people all dressed in black moving to the sound of forlorn drums. JFK's funeral existed for me only in the proscenium of that battered little eighteen-inch console in the basement of our Peoria ranch house. But as I grew, I succumbed to the blue glow and its insidious lessons.

I learned what it means to be a modern man from shows like T.H.E. CAT and THE MAN FROM U.N.C.L.E. I learned about crime and punishment by watching BATMAN and THE GREEN HORNET. And most importantly, I learned about God from Rod Serling. THE TWILIGHT ZONE seeped into my young midbrain and formed the basic cosmology that still drives my thoughts to this day–much to the chagrin of my Catholic relatives. According to the ZONE, God is an ironic deity, sometimes just, always mysterious, who engages both the Good and the Evil in an endless game of chess. I didn't realize it at the time, but the ZONE started me on my way to being a writer. In his later TV incarnations, such as NIGHT GALLERY and various appearances on chat shows, Mr. Serling taught me what it means to be an auteur. I grew up wanting to be just like that haunted, romantic, cigarette-smoking storyteller in that skinny black tie and those sharp black slacks.

Today, I've given up smoking, and I hardly ever wear a tie, but I still live the gospel according to St. Serling. I make my living telling stories, and I'm just as hooked on the tube as I ever was–although my viewing habits are interspersed between endless screenings of THE TELETUBBIES. I can't make it to bed each night without watching POLITICALLY INCORRECT. I require weekly doses of THE SOPRANOS, even if they're only reruns. I'm also fairly addicted to SOUTH PARK, INSIDE THE ACTORS' STUDIO, MR. SHOW, CHARLIE ROSE, CURB YOUR ENTHUSIASM and anything with TENACIOUS D in it. And a pox on the house of those who took away my MILLENNIUM, LARRY SANDERS, HOMICIDE and SEINFELD. And NYPD BLUE, please, please, please: Bring back David Milch. This original writer and creator of this fabulous cop show is one of the most important voices in television (and the show blows without him).

But I digress. The point is, for me, TV is more than mere programming. For me, TV is a way of life. In fact, it's a life- RAFT, a reminder that there's a big old world out there beyond my little problems, and it's still spinning just fine, thank you very much. I require a television set on and droning wherever I am. I require a television set in every room (except the bedroom, where my wife, in all her wisdom, has established an electronic Bay of Sidra). But if the world came to an end, or was ravaged by a mutant virus like in DAWN OF THE DEAD or THE STAND, I would be okay as long as that steel blue cathode glow was flickering in the corner of our cozy house. As long as some kind of talking head was droning in the background. I'm talking anybody–I'll even settle for Ron Popiel selling Showtime rotisserie ovens or Ronco bald-spot spray paint. Because, see, the thing is, if that box is still buzzing softly, then the world's commerce must still be engaged and pumping.

Is that sick?

Yeah . . . you're probably right.