I talk a big talk about my avoidance of television. Friends trumpet their favorite new shows, and I gladly ignore them.
My life is already so exciting and hilarious, see, that I don’t need situation comedies and crime thrillers to insert hilarity and excitement.
Except, lately that a bit of a lie. It has come to my attention that Netflix Streaming has added The X-Files to its extensive repertoire. And while I may be safe from the temptation most new television has to offer, I cannot resist forty-two minutes spent with my friends Mulder and Scully.
(What’s amusing about this is that we have the seven seasons of X-Files on DVD sitting just beside the television, but am I watching those DVDs? No. I am too lazy to load them into the DVD player. I would rather watch a stream.)
At this point I have this shit memorized. Every re-watch is like seven seasons of Rocky Horror Picture Show talkbacks (“You’re a backhoe!”) and Top Ten Lists. (Top Ten Times Mulder Screams “SCULLY!”)
So, every night – usually just after dinner or rehearsal – I say to E, “Let’s watch an episode.” (Top Ten Times Scully Shoots a Perp (or Mulder)) And we do. It’s great. It ends with my lying somewhat prone on the couch, carefully prodding at my laptop
(Top Ten Oblique References to Mulder’s (okay: Duchovny’s) Porn Addiction)
Then, I suggest, “One more?”
(Top Ten Times Scully is Captured)
This is where we enter the danger zone. I cannot stay awake for two consecutive episodes of TV I have already seen and possibly memorized while lying somewhat prone on the couch.
(Top Ten Times Scully is Knocked Unconscious by Walking Into a Wall)
And so I allow my eyes to drift closed, spirited towards fitful rest by the dulcet tones of Agent Scully.
(“Mulder, toads just fell from the sky.”)
It has got to stop.