The Magi have left in my house a card with a subscription to one of those platforms of series and movies. They have not left it for me, I'm already subscribed to some that do not exist, but for my parents, and although the Kings do not specify it, I know they do it so they do not hang out in the 21st century and for my mother to have ammunition and fresh troops in a war that is losing: she does not like football, but since the Kings brought a subscription to the sports package of a pay TV years ago, practically the only thing you see in your home is soccer , and my mother, who hardly distinguished Madrid from Barça, has become an expert in the duels of the Italian second division.
In my parents' house there are more TVs than people, because the people (the children) have left and the TVs have been occupying the empty rooms. And yet, except in football, 21st century TV has barely entered. My mother still turns on the television to see what they are throwing, as they did in the wild twentieth century, and submits to the tyranny of the grill schedules instead of hitting the play when it pleases her. Even a block of advertising can be swallowed whole (advertising in the middle of a chapter! What barbarians the ancients were!). Of course, all the series of which I speak or write are unknown land for her. The same would give me talk about Lithuanian experimental poetry. Where I say Marvelous Mrs. Maisel, she says Pass word, and where I say The Kominsky method, she says Jesus Calleja.
That is why the Magi have had to intervene to facilitate intergenerational dialogue. Because it is not fair that the TV, the great social uniformer, the maker of countries through the chemical fusion of grandparents, parents and grandchildren in the same sofa, now serves to speak different languages.