Commentary : SO NEAR, YET SO REMOTE

No matter his age or what shape he’s in, every guy in Southern California is a surfer dude--a channel surfer. By now everyone has discussed the clicker and the testosterone connection ad nauseum, but still the war rages on.

Come to think of it, it’s a rarely discussed facet of television violence.

Face it, the female rarely wins the battle over the remote control; the male is usually bigger and almost always stronger. Then there’s that fierce hormonal instinct to protect his territory.

My husband will actually go to sleep on top of the clicker to avoid a telltale snore signaling a chance at any sneak recovery. When I’m in a feisty independent mood, he’s even been known to carry it with him into the bathroom--possession being nine-tenths of the law.

I’m always torn between wanting him to relax and enjoy or feeling as if my personhood is being challenged. First I have these schizophrenic interior conversations with myself, like a discussion between Mariel Morgan and Gloria Steinem. Then I whip myself into a frenzy of “no fair!” and lunge in frustration at the innocent plastic rectangle. Wrestling and fuming for a while releases some of the tension, but I never end up the victor. He’ll never understand that the issue is not even what we’re watching vs. missing as much as the lack of psychological closure.

To be honest, there are some shows neither of us wants to miss. During “Seinfeld,” “Picket Fences,” “Home Improvement” and “Murphy Brown,” the hanging 10 is restricted to commercial breaks, although there are times when he’s stayed too long on the wave and a small squabble breaks over missing “the important part.” During the summer, he’ll settle in relatively docilely for reruns of Mary Tyler Moore, Dick Van Dyke and Bob Newhart shows.

And there are nights he knows the clicker belongs to me: major awards show, concerts and PBS specials, New Year’s Eve and “Twilight Zone” marathons. If he’s in a feisty independent mood, he’ll hang over me and make snide comments, but these are nights he cannot get my goat--or my clicker.

If only I had that fortitude on everyday nights. Since all’s supposed to be fair in love and war, it’s only fair we women of the ‘90s try a new approach to gaining some ground here. I propose the following trade-offs as a start toward peaceful coexistence:

* Intermittent but thoughtfully timed clicking between cop and action-adventure shows means that next time there’s a good miniseries I get the clicker and promise to surf channels during commercials.

* A prime-time hour of intermittent, sort of mindless clicking should be traded in on a half-hour of backrubbing (he of mine, of course).

* A Sunday of clicking mostly between sports channels and games, with enough of a peek at “Mystery!” to follow the plot is good for a video rental (preferably foreign)--with no clicking.

* An entire weekend of constant clicking between every game and sports show possible calls for another video (definitely an English production). I pick it out, he picks it up, brings in takeout and rubs my back.

All bets are off if he ever falls asleep on his stomach on top of the remote control whileany show with sirens or shooting is on. That’s when I become the surfer dudette forever--or at least until he’s made it up to me.