DVR Etiquette

There was this Wednesday a while back that was a great day for soccer, what with a Premier League fixture and the second leg of the UEFA Cup tie between Everton and Fiorentina. Of course, I was out of town for these events, and needed to TiVo them. Much to my chagrin, neither game taped, due to insufficient space on our DVR box. I looked, and 90% of it was taken up with Reba episodes.

I called in Mads, my Norwegian companion.

"What?"

"Do you know anything about this?"

"Oh, yeah, there was a marathon. I figured I could get all of them at once, and not have to buy them on DVD. I plan on converting them on your DVD burner."

"Dude, we both share this DVR box. You can’t just take up 90% of it for an inordinate amount of time."

"Why can’t I?"

"It’s rude, in the first place."

"How is it rude?"

"How is it rude?"

"Yeah. I mean, the idea of TiVo is so new, there really haven’t been a list of guidelines laid out for DVR etiquette."

He made an excellent point. Too excellent, in fact. I felt like it was my job as a concerned citizen to remedy this issue. I asked Matty, my personal biographer, what he thought.

"Yeah, I was just talking to my buddy Brett about the same thing. He too was suggesting a sort of DVR etiquette."

I took up the torch.

Elements of DVR Etiquette:

RULE 1: DVR space must be allocated equally among all members of the television watching household. If one or more members of said household wish to relinquish some or all of designated space, an arrangement may be made to dole this space out amongst the remaining members in a manner that is fair and equitable.

RULE 1a: Always keep in mind that Hi-Definition programing takes up more space than regular broadcasts. One may only tape a few shows, but each show may take up much more of the allocated space than he or she expects.

RULE 2: If an individual must temporarily exceed his or her space limit, this must be done with the rest of the household’s consent. Once consent is given, the person exceeding the limit must make haste to watch his or her program swiftly and erase it so that the space is returned to the rest of the household.

RULE 3: Sporting events by their very nature exact a heavy toll on a DVR Box: not only do they take up large amounts of space, but the time they tape and the need to extend the designated recording time in case of overtime and whatnot tends to cause conflicts with already scheduled recordings. Sporing events should always be dealt with very carefully.

RULE 4: If two programs are recording at the same time, thus forcing anyone watching television at that moment to watch one or the other, the person watching at that time can cancel one of the recordings to watch his or her own program, especially if no prior arrangement has been made with respect to the two programs being on at the same time. Just because one individual is not present and must tape his or her programs, does not mean the rest of the household has to suffer and not enjoy their own programs.

RULE 5: Finally, when recording The Banana Splits, one must never keep more than two episodes saved on the DVR hard drive at any time.

I presented the rules to Mads, and at first he didn’t accept them. When he saw the Martha Stewart stamp of approval I received after I ran them by her, he was forced to relent. I can now with all assurances say that only 50% of our DVR box is filled with Reba.

The Black Chicken

I was invited along with Mads, my Norwegian companion, to a party at Martha Stewart's, down in the Hamptons. We were having a conversation with soccer legend Dion Dublin, junior Virginia Senator Jack (at least I think it was Jack) Webb, and chef Anthony Bourdain, when Mads nudged me on the shoulder.

"Look at that."

"What?" I said.

"That bird. It's a black chicken."

In fact it was this fuzzy little white bird that Mads informed me had black skin underneath. He had a great recipe for it, he said.

"Don't you dare. I think it's her pet or something."

"So."

In true Mads fashion, he took the bird out back, killed it, and prepped it for cooking. He snuck into the cooking area, and made a stew out of it. Martha noticed his disappearance.

"I believe he had a phone call," I said. Right then, a small Caucasian midget in a white suit stood on a chair and whispered something in her ear.

"Thank you, Bobo," she said.

She left, and five minutes later Mads ran past me with a huge Tupperware container steaming and leaking out of its sides, chased by Martha and some men with moustaches dressed like English bobbies. I excused myself from the individuals I was conversating with.

Hey, Hey, Gonzales

Martha Stewart invited me to her Christmas party a month ago. It was the bash of the season. She had midgets dressed as elves, robotic reindeer, and a perfectly executed hors d'oeuvres spread, which all came together in a cacophony* of holiday magic.

I found myself in a conversation about Robert Mugabe's regime in Zimbabwe with Diddy, Speaker of the House Nancy Pelosi, and fashion designer Michael Kors. Due to my personal friendship with Mugabe, I tried to be extra critical to avoid seeming biased.

"See, I can get behind seizing all the farms and giving them to black people," Diddy said. "But all that stuff with him shutting down newspapers: that's just whack."

A small man came rushing past us with a Virginia honey baked ham, a bottle of tequila, and an elf draped on his back. Martha was following, yelling:

"Hey, hey, Gonzales…"

I shrugged my shoulders and continued.

"I know what you're saying about the whites having all the good farm land, but I think the expropriation was more a means to deflect attention from how poorly Mugabe was running the country..."

[*Writer's note: I know what cacophony means.]

Martha Stewart Party

Last Fall I attended this Martha Stewart party with my Norwegian companion, Mads, at her place in the Hamptons. The invitations employed a perfect color scheme of Earth tones like Burnt Sienna and Aztec Brick. The party was as pretentious as the invitations suggested it would be.

Somehow I lost Mads and found myself in a conversation with one of the guys from The West Wing that wasn't Martin Sheen, Diddy, and Dr. Phil about the realistic chances of anyone catching Chelsea for the Premiership. I was certain that Jose Moreno couldn't keep the team playing at that high a level for the whole season, and that Man Utd. would make a charge, much to my chagrin, being an Arsenal fan. Diddy was about to rub in Tottenham's success when a waiter approached us with an hors d'oeuvres platter.

"Wo ist meine Fleischpastete?" [Where is my meatpie?].

He was twitching. I scowled at him and replied:

"Dir hat man wohl ins Gehirn geschissen und vergessen unzuruhren." [Someone must've shit in your head and forgot to stir, or "You're crazy."]

He dropped the platter, then walked off in a stilted manner. A few minutes later Martha ran frantically into the room.

"Thank God I've found you, man. Please tell me you've seen my German robot."