Netflix Love Jones

When I started writing my new collection of short stories and essays, I thought the book was going to be a feminist manifesto or, at the very least, a way for me to vent about our still-patriarchal system. But, ha ha, this book had other ideas.

As rehashed ad infinitum by writers the world over, books have a way of writing themselves. Lately some people have been saying that’s bullshit, that by believing in this trope we turn over our power to some alleged Unseen Force. Call me woo woo but this particular theory — which maligns the experience of creative people worldwide — is so obtuse, I feel like my dog could have come up with it.

“Hey Tulip, what do you think about this story I came up with?”

“Honestly, Carine, given the choice, I’ll take a long, stiff hike in the woods over lying in your bed when you’re not around!”

“Um, thanks, honey. Do you think you can stop licking your ass now?”

Anyway, back to what this book wanted to be about: relationships.

“Relationships?” I said. “How tired is that? With everything that’s going on in the world, I want to be political!”

“Political,” the book said, stifling a yawn. “Excuse me while I go read the New York Times and The Washington Post and Huffington Post and Politico and…”

“Oh, shut up.”

The book told me that “relationships” is where it’s at, and that the cause of all those problems in the world is that human beings are in such dysfunctional relationships with one another, and with other things too.

Like Netflix, for example.

When I first laid eyes on Netflix, I fell madly, impossibly in love with him. His very name was hot; kinda like a guy named Max or Dash, or like certain rock stars with monosyllabic appellations. When you meet a guy named Dash, you know he’s no wimp. He’s direct, looks you in the eye; gives a shit about you. Sexy. See how Netflix says all those things, even with a double dose of syllables? And did I mention that I’m addicted to movies?

If you’re too young to remember the Blockbuster days, then let me explain. When you wanted to see a movie, you’d take yourself to the nearest video rental store. Unable to make a decision, you would take five videos to the cashier and pay your rental fee, while vowing to bring the tapes back in two to three days. Inevitably, by the time you returned them you would owe $8 million in late fees. Yesss! Excellent business model! Really, when was the last time you earned $8 million in fees?

So when Netflix dude appeared on the scene with his snappy red envelopes, no shipping fees, super fast and satisfying delivery with nary a sign of late fees — hell, you could keep your movies for months!—I was seriously besotted.

So, as Americans developed mass infatuation with cable TV shows like The Sopranos, Sex and the City, True Blood, Breaking Bad, Deadwood, Mad Men, and the list goes on, I grew culturally insignificant, but happily ignorant and true to my new love, who provided me with three movies at any given time at the reasonable price of $17.39 a month!

And then he started to change.

He brought his new partner, “Streaming”, into the relationship; and as all polyamorous communities acknowledge, it can work but it’s complex and can provoke a host of emotional repercussions. I vowed to remain open. While Streaming seemed like a new addition to our foyer that might have its upsides — instant access to movies at a cheaper price — it soon became complicated. First I had to figure out how to get the streamed movies onto my TV screen. I am not technologically gifted, so the transition entailed a LOT of dull, mind-numbing research, while in the background, all my friends chirped, “What do you mean, you don’t already stream content onto your television screen? It’s so easy!”

Fuck you. Go home.

Once that feat was accomplished, it turned out that most of the movies I wanted to watch were not available for streaming! What in the world? And, the picture quality of the films I downloaded was poor and grainy.

“Your download speed is probably too slow,” one well-meaning chirper said. How many Mbps do you currently have?”

Extreme self-restraint prevented me from asking him to exit the premises. I smiled instead and said, “Mbps? How the hell should I know?” As it turns out, Mbps stands for Megabits per second. Obviously I needed more bits. So I got some. And the picture improved, but what to do about the substandard Streaming inventory? Thank goodness familiar Netflix guy was still around!

“We should get rid of this Streaming character,” I said to my husband, “he’s a waste of money.”

But Netflix had other tricks up his sleeve. Getting movies into my greedy hands wasn’t enough for him, no, no, no. He was now producing his own programming, which you could only get through the Streaming guy. My movies-only joy was being pushed around by these other intruders, which all au-courant people lovedlovedloved: House of Cards, Orange is the New Black, Arrested Development, The Killing, oh my! I knew they wouldn’t interest me, although everyone I trusted insisted I give them a try. Including my husband. Netflix dude was beginning to get on my nerves.

Eventually I gave in, settling on, you guessed it, the political show! But when the first season of House of Cards ended, I was totally pissed off. I had no idea there was supposed to be a second season!

“You mean I have to spend more time with these reptilians?” I said to my husband. Halfway through the series it had started to feel a little too extreme, the characters less real. I’d seen it through to the end just to say I did, and now there was more to come?? My husband disagreed. He actually wanted to see the caricatures slither their way further into our living room.

“Then you’ll have to watch it when I’m not home,” I said.

So he’s never seen the second act because I guess I’m around too much in the evenings. (Sorry, I live here!) And I’m frustrated because we never use the Streaming plan but we continue to pay for it.

I loved you, babe. I thought you were so hot. You done me wrong, Netflix.

###

The book is onto something. Sharing our personal experiences is a worthwhile and enlightening exercise. Maybe exorcise is the better word; as in acknowledging the demons that lie in wait, turning us into versions of ourselves we barely recognize. Relationships — living them, observing ourselves in them, learning from them — help us to grow, if that’s what we aspire to do, and to become better persons. Hopefully. Because as I wrote the last sentence in my Netflix saga, I realized that I have plenty more complicated relations with other non-humans.

Like my smartphone.

And Amazon.com.

Don’t even get me started on Facebook.