Finding community at the Frist TV

Combine a freezing cold day with a serious jones for a cold slushie, and a conflict arises. After paying a visit to the Bev Lab the other day, I figured that rather than brave the gusts I'd stay in Frist. With nothing in particular to do, I saw the comfy-looking chairs and big screen in front of me and decided to plop down to finish my drink. I looked up at the TV to see the sweaty faces of basketball players. Though I'm a sports fan, I had no vested interest in this particular game, and the desire to channel-surf hit me. Looking around, I noticed there were many other people watching, none seeming especially interested in the program, but nonetheless filling almost every chair.

I know there have to be lots of people with TVs in their rooms, and most have at least one friend with a TV, so what is it about the big TV in Frist that draws crowds? Who are the kids and random adults who sit zombie-faced before the screen, and why, especially when there are other TVs they could watch and probably have some amount of control over, do they choose to sit in the noisy student center to get in some QT with the boob tube? Most importantly, what kind of person is willing to relinquish the sacred power of the remote to anyone, especially a stranger?

There are many possible answers to this last question ranging from those with a lack of personal TV combined with a lack of friends, to those who want to watch the game on a bigger screen, to those who enjoy the colorful glow of the television as a study break. After much speculation, however, I have decided on one description that I think covers everyone, whether conscious of it or not, who watches the Frist tube —seekers of the audience experience.

It's the same reason why people choose to go out to movie theaters even when a film lacks any special effects that make seeing it on the big screen important and its rented version is half the cost of a ticket. It's why many sitcoms use canned laughter—hearing other people's reactions makes us feel more comfortable displaying our own.

After thinking about it, I can recall many personal instances of the "audience effect." I remember right after my brother left for boarding school I'd still, out of habit, look up to catch his reaction to SNL jokes that made me smile. One of my friends literally cracks up every four seconds when watching "Friends" reruns, even if she's seen them before. After I got over my surprise at her chuckles — Joey can be goofy but not exactly a nonstop knee-slapper — I can honestly say I enjoyed the episodes more because she showed that she did. I even recall my initial disgust with an especially cheesy moment in a movie transforming into welling tears after noticing my mom reach for another tissue from her pocket.

It's like emotion through osmosis. Alone, you could find a comedy mediocre, but you can't help but laugh with the ridiculous snort-squawk of the crotchety old guy in the fifth row. A drama could seem less than moving when you watch it with no one but your stuffed animal, but somehow hearing the sniffles of the girl next to you can make you a little misty. A sporting event that you wouldn't especially care about were you sitting by yourself suddenly becomes almost gripping when you hear the profanities of avid fans around you. A zealous Republican or Democrat who yells at a news reporter on the screen can suddenly awaken in you a fiery Democrat or Republican you never knew existed.

So, I've come to the conclusion that most TV watchers in Frist probably aren't there just to catch a game, show or news report. Sure, some of them, like me, were just bored and didn't want to face the cold weather. However, there is something about being part of an — albeit small — audience, something that proves that laughter isn't the only display of emotion that can be contagious.

Laura Berner is a freshman from Rye, N.Y. You can reach her at lberner@princeton.edu.