H-D D.O.A.

Last Valentine's Day, as we were walking around a local store, my wife turned to me and asked, out of the blue, if I wanted to get a big high-definition television. I hugged her so hard I swear I heard one of her ribs snap. I rushed to the TV department, picked out a set that was just a little bit bigger than my wife wanted, and about half the size of the one I wanted, and drove home so fast that I left a skid mark in the parking lot.

In the year since then, life has been sweet, for me at least. I'll watch anything, as long as it's broadcast in HD. I've spent hours watching some stupid documentary where they just plunk a camera in the desert to catch a lizard crawling on a cactus. I've watched concerts of artists I don't know, and frankly don't like, just because it feels like I'm "there." (Were I actually there, I'd probably be looking at my watch and trying to get my wife to slip out early.)

It's been hard on her and our kids, who actually watch TV to follow what's happening on the show, not just to marvel at the technology. At least once every 15 minutes, I'll blurt out something like, "Look at that picture! You can see every detail!" I can see them wince, but I can't help it. I'm a gadget nut. (Or, as my son calls it, a "loser.")

Then, one morning about two months ago, my son came into the kitchen and announced that the TV wouldn't turn on. I quickly got up and walked (ran) into the living room. It was true. There was a little red light below the screen that was supposed to turn green when you pressed the power button. When I tried to turn it on, it flicked for a second, then stayed red.

Knowing something (nothing) about TV's, I unplugged it, waited 10 seconds, then plugged it in again and pressed the button. It started up OK, I shrugged.

In the weeks that followed, every time we needed to turn on the TV, I had to do the same thing. As time went on, the length of time it had to be left unplugged got longer and longer. Finally, I just decreed that the TV would be left on day and night lest we lose it forever.

Then, a couple weeks ago, we had a power outage. When the lights came back on, I ran down to the living room, where the red light was glowing like an evil eye. I frantically pressed the button, my panic rising. My dearest friend in the world was in an irreversible coma.

Trying to calm myself, I unplugged the HD-TV and turned it toward the wall. I found a little 12-inch set in the attic and plugged it into the living room cable. Because we were still (barely) under warranty, I called the TV manufacturer and explained what had happened. I expected the operator to be as worked up over the whole situation as I was, and rush out a repairman, but he was strangely unmoved. He told me to carefully box up the TV and mail it off to their repair facility in California. I wrote down the address.

"We'll take a look at it," he said, "and we'll try to get it back to you in 8 to 10 weeks."

I actually held off for a moment before replying, in a strangled rasp, "EIGHT ... TO ... TEN ... WEEKS!" I stared at the tiny TV across the room, its 12-inch screen barely visible from the couch.

Since then, we've spent our evenings perched on the edge of the couch, squinting at the tiny little TV in a far-off corner of the galaxy. All my favorite TV shows now seem to star G.I. Joes and Barbies.

With the Super Bowl coming up, I tried to convince my wife that we should buy an "extra" TV to get us through the crisis, but she gave me that look wives use when husbands say things that even they know are stupid. I resigned myself to watching the biggest game of the year on the smallest TV on the planet.

In the end, though, the Super Bowl wasn't that bad. In fact, I actually felt like I was there. But mostly because I watched it through binoculars.