I signed up for Netflix (I know, how very 1998 of me) assuming that it would force me to save money. I would feel compelled to stay home and watch dvds instead of going out drinking and dining at restaurants I cannot afford, no matter how many times I drop hints to the waitstaff that I work for a very special magazine that should qualify me for a very nice comped dinner.
You must agree, then, that $9.95 a month sounds smart. I spend $12 on a scotch; this is simple math. So I thought. If I am watching a movie, I need to eat. And seeing that the contents of my kitchen consist of pickle brine, milk, stale cheerios, a sprouting bag of carrots, some free chinese fried noodles, and thirty some odd expired condiments, I must order. There’s another $15 in delivery.com, and we mustn’t forget that I had spent $14 on an overpriced Zinfandel on my walk home.
Nevermind. I was never good at math anyway.
I have a long list of movies that I’ve always had a name that are actually all lined up and ready for delivery. Netflix, as I’m sure everyone including my out-of-touch parents knows, calls it the Queue. It has become an unsatisfying addition to the ever growing pile of to-do lists in my life. I wish it was on random. What will come tomorrow: Hannah and Her Sisters? Jules and Jim? Fargo? The Jerk? Donnie Brasco?
These decisions need to be made for me. These decisions make me lonely. How lonely it is to watch a movie alone. Writing itself is solitary and taxing. The same can be said for reading. But the movies, the visuals and the sounds, beg to be conversed with almost immediately. Some of my favorite memories involve the dialogue I’ve shared with friends over movies. Or the ones that left unfinished because I had curled my body in someone else’s arms and drifted off.