Call me old-fashioned. My kids do. I'm old enough to remember when televisions were dumber than airport washbasins and didn't know you were standing in front of them unless you switched them on. But when I come home from a long day at the recycling plant, I still like to plop down on the ergolounger, crack open a microbrew, dial the teleputer to what we used to call a channel and just veg out. Don't get me wrong. I like the little programmable hostess who greets me every night on my flat-panel screen. In fact, since I upgraded to the new...
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