The Sandman Hour

BY C. S. JENNISON

C. S. JKNMSONwrites tight verse and prose with equal facility and is a frequent contributor to theATLANTICand other magazines.

One night last winter, my husband suddenly staggered into the house mumbling something about hockey games and prize fights, and carrying a television set. Up until then, I had managed to resist firmly all temptation to succumb to the lures of Portable Progress. My reasons were both snobbish and slobbish. Armed with the somewhat sketchy knowledge of the medium gleaned in motel rooms and the houses of friends, I was inclined to agree with all that loose talk about the Opiate of the Masses, the decline of the art of conversation, and the unfortunate precedence of Disneyland over Dickens. Also, I figured I had enough to do without running the risk of draping my dustcloth or dish towel over the rabbit ears.

Well, live and learn. I am now one of the belated but none the less ardent admirers of the domestic cinema. Not because of the news or the good programs, either. I have no desire to wait around on the off chance that I may see the President alighting from a plane or Raymond Massey doing Lincoln again. For me, television serves a far more important and considerably less heralded function. I use it to outwit my insomnia.

I don’t want to hear about hot milk, regular hours, deep breathing, counting sheep, lying absolutely still, relaxing the anatomy section by section, erasing ideas from a slate, concentrating on a black curtain, or reciting poetry. Any true insomniac is well aware of the futility of such measures. The chronic nonsleeper, limp from hours in a scalding tub and awash with happy thoughts and hot milk, knows that as soon as he hits the bed a swarm of black worries will take over his mental territory like bees, and his muscles will twist into crullers. It is no real comfort, at a time like this, to be assured that Edison got along fine on three or four hours’ sleep a night. Nor is it any help to be told by some healthy, happy sleeper that it’s the bed rest that matters. The layman — no pun intended — lacks the proper experience and authority to comment.

Not so for a veteran bed-beaterupper such as myself. I feel that if anyone is qualified to analyze the sleeping problem, I am. After a good deal of serious thought on the subject, I have decided that it is all a matter of reversing the roles of the pursuer and the pursued. The pro fessional insomniac, after many weary years of following vainly in the chase, finally arrives at the reluctant and inevitable conclusion that sleep must come to him. Here is where I find television of immense benefit. Instead of waiting alone and lonely for the tardy and circuitous approach of Morpheus, as I once did, I now lie happily in bed eating salted peanuts, drinking beer, and enjoying the company of the outside world. Let sleep wait for me for a change. With all kinds of people vying with each other for my attention, I can afford to play hard to get.

I am not particularly discriminating about programs. To me, everything has value. Take the comedy acts. The material may not always be interesting, but the grammar is. The success of a comedian is almost entirely dependent on his ability to massacre the English language. Although I am not planning to go into the theater myself, I feel that it is important to know these things. Just as it is important to realize that no variety show is complete without a lot of men and women in black tights slinking up and down ramps and flinging their arms around. Just try to keep track of the number of dancers in black tights some evening.

Counting sheep is a sluggard’s occupation by comparison.

As for the commercials, I can’t see what all the criticism is about. I find them enormously worth while. Although I am not unduly fascinated by the ringing misstatements of the announcers. I am a real fan of all the toothpaste ads. Especially when New Green Swipe, or whatever, cleverly curls out of the tube onto an upturned toothbrush. The columns of bristles, suddenly roofed over with Swipe, turn into a miniature Jefferson Memorial, which is educational in itself. Then there are all those floor waxes, like Donson’s Smear, that merrily flood a dark film over the floor of a living room and a young girl’s face at the same time. (Probably one of those foreign films you hear so much about.) What could be more intriguing? The washing machine sequences are also a source of constant enlightenment. It wasn’t until I owned television that I found out how many American men are being upset by having to add a bleach to the laundry. One poor fellow, doubtless a tycoon in business and a veteran of several wars, is nightly reduced to a whimpering jelly at the thought of maybe adding the bleach and ‘rune-ing” his suit. It’s enough to make anyone stop and think.

The late show, or the insomniacs’ special, has brought me up to date on a number of facts, too. For instance. I never had any idea how many movies were made in 1932. Just as I had no conception of the innumerable stories that can be derived from one or two plots. This week I saw three movies full of prebattle tension in which the morale of the new soldiers was so jeopardized by their embittered leader that it’s a wonder the Korean War (Monday night). World War II (Tuesday night), and the Civil War (Thursday) weren’t lost. Luckily, Friday night, things were a little different. A young policeman — not really a coward, but New to the Force — finally overcame the embittered attitude of his chief of police and won his promotion.

You can see why sleep is no longer a problem to me. Never again will I fall back on dated and useless insomnia remedies like warm broth and optimism. Or even Milltown and sleeping pills. To heck with Seconal. Give me the Opiate of the Masses.