Dirty Power.

This is my new baby. Surprised?

Thanks to the shocking largess of my parents, family, and family friends for my highly anticipated (on my part) graduation from medical school, I’ve finally been able to afford a gorgeous new flat-screen television to support my film addiction. Now I know what you are thinking: “Cecil? With a television? Really?”

Despite common assumption, I have not lived these last two years without a television out of some grand protest against mind-numbing and equally vapid American programming, or against deeply distracting global fascination with celebrity, or even against that jolly juggernaut that is conspicuous consumerism. My apartment (henceforth described as the Afro-Persian Palace), has comfortably been sans boob-tube simply because...welll...I couldn't find a decent place to put it. More specifically, my old 13-inch television/VCR combo from a previous apartment (that I owned since I was still a Power Ranger viewer) was just terribly awkward in the living room. So, why clutter things with big black boxes? Of course, in the end, it did become more about anti-vapidity, anti-celebrity, and anti-consumerism but only after months of slowly awakening from the deeply penetrating and bewitching spell of that American siren: television airwaves.

So why the change? Namely Netflix. As described before, I love Netflix. I enjoy all the juicy obscure, psychologically dynamic, artfully shot, exquisitely written, socially critical, painful, joyous, and truly satisfying films I want. Three at a time to be specific. Given that residency is a Goosebumps-inducing, one month away, and graduation is one week behind me, I’ve got quite the unique opportunity to endulge in my independent/foreign genre-heavy habit.

After months of toying with the idea, days of CNet browsing, and a recent windfall, I decided to head to Circuit City. Thus begins our story.

My not-so-high-strung Dallas-native compatriot, and recent LCD television owner, joined me for moral and objective support. It was objective in that I knew it would be much more difficult for me to drain my account on something with intoxicating enormity with an attentive audience (particularly one from Dallas).

We arrived at Circuit City replete with sales (after leaving to quickly compare at the less-than-customer-oriented BestBuy) and I knew exactly which model and size I wanted. My mind’s eye, which hadn’t fully committed to a location in the Afro-Persian Palace's living room (aptly described by Nirav as similar to those posh back rooms of clubs 'where people hook-up'), pictured the most appropriate size and brightness necessary to not overwhelm viewers and provide a impressive experience. The Samsung 32” LN3242H (though its sounds remarkably like a Canadian postal code). Who would gain the commission? Let the games begin.

“Ah...You’re back. What can I do for you?” Said the slightly scruffy and similarly thin East Asian Circuit City rep. His red polo shirt was about 2 sizes to large for his frame.

“Yes....I want this one.” I said with my Texas sun-bronzed and fully extended index finger firmly directed with all the confidence and conviction of Napoleon Bonaparte in so many of his portraits, at the shelved aforementioned LCD screen.

“Uh, okay. Well...”

Off we went to his cryptic green and black monitored sales screen to briskly tap away at dozens of buttons with a strange exciting staccato. Then came the upsell. Perhaps he didn't recognize my titanium certitude.

“Have you thought about a service plan? We have a three year limited warrantee to guarantee.......(I began at this point to tune out his parroted monologue)...."
"Uh, yeah, I'm not interested. Thanks though." I politely retorted.
"What sort of service plan to you have now. For example, for your computer? This is very sensitive equipment and with the service plan...(I again my attention becomes listless)..."
"No. Thanks."
"Alright."

Bliss returns. My imagination quickly fills with the sort of jocund family scenes that Rockwell would have painted if 1080i, high definition liquid crystal displays were invented during his day. My mouth waters at the possibility of a High Def Dashboard display of my pictures, movies, and music. Hmm...I think I'll watch Happiness again. Kirin and Sharj would lo......

"What about your power supply?" He said, interrupting a rather pleasurable daydream.
"Huh?"
"What sort of surge protector do you have? We have a great range of power consoles that will clean your 'dirty power.'"
My my enthusiasm for a quick sale waned and was swiftly replaced by skepticism and vexation with these words 'dirty power.' I mean come on. What sort of fool am I?
"I'm sorry what power?"
"Dirty power. Look."

Before Sasha and I was a large red glass encasement of a rather severe looking metal powerstrip with the female counter part to every plug imaginable. This was all accentuated with a central similarly foreboding red nob with three settings: clean, off, and dirty. Sasha was looking up at the newly irksome gentleman with a glance that reminded me of my requests for her to accompany me for some chicken tikka masala, country dancing, or until very recently red wine. Its somewhere between polite reticence and disgust. I shared her look.

He flicked his angular wrist to reveal a whir and a constantly changing digital reading of some sort. 63.2, 58.9, 64, 61.9.

"You see the dirty energy? Your product is sensitive to dirty energy. With this power center you decrease your risk of damage to your television's interior."
With a raise eyebrow I asked, "Sure. But was is this number. Is it current, or resistance, or what? What am I looking at here."
"Its a representation of dirty energy. Dirty power can damage your television's interior...."
"Yeah, but you want me to buy something, and I don't know what this number is. I know its...
'dirty energy' but what am I looking at? What's this number?"
"Its dirty energy."
Sasha with a mock seriousness, repeats 'its dirty energy.'
He quickly glances at my Indian sandals and begins again with equal momentum.
"Would you run a mile in your sandals? No. You'd rather run in tennis shoes, right?"
With an incredulous stare and pause, I retort, "Yeah, but at least I'd see the blisters, and blood. But you still can't tell me what this flickering number is."
"Its dirty energy." His shirt size is 3 sizes too small for his relentless sales bravado.

At this point Sasha has had to remove herself due to her uncontrollable laughter. My compassion returns and I take delight in an impossible situation, and begin to chuckle myself.
"I appreciate your metaphor, but I'll have to pass. I'm not interested."

I guess I should expect a 30 year-old Circuit City worker to be well-versed in some basic physics, though he is trying to sell me something I have absolutely no need for. He'll have to come much harder than 'dirty energy.' He of course tries his monologue again, but I continue to smile and restate mine.

Eventually, I open my trunk to a (unnecessary) dolly-chauffeured large thin box and drive off to relive the situation with Sasha. Later that evening I enjoy literally hours of Indian film and gorgeous (albeit understandably vapid) high definition broadcasts of Hidden Palms on the CW.