I remember the first time I was introduced to the marvel
- Michelle Wood: SWCD
- December 11, 2017
- 1254
So Saint Peter’s doing his thing at the Pearly Gates, overseeing the orderly procession of the dearly departed and making sure no one gets into Heaven without having lived a good life, when he becomes aware of a disturbance over on Cloud Nine.
“Why is it always that one?” he wonders to himself, humming a Temptations’ tune. “Oh well, better see what’s going on.”
When he arrives, he’s met with an unexpected sight. One of the Sentry Entry Angels is deep in conversation with a new arrival who appears to be visibly upset. This isn’t an entirely new phenomenon.
Saint Peter’s grown used to it over the passage of time and understands how disorienting the whole transition from mortal life to the afterlife can be, especially if the newbie has spent a few millennia in Purgatory.
“People always think it’s going to be a breeze,” he thinks to himself. “But they have to atone for every single sin they’ve committed, and well, people have short memories.”
So Saint Peter floats over to Cloud Nine to get a feel for the situation. Turns out there’s this guy — tall, skinny, well versed on his Catechism — and he’s requesting an answer to what he thinks is a simple question.
“How long,” the new arrival asks, “is forever?”
The Sentry Entry Angel — as she’s been trained to do — replies with a winning smile and a pat to his back, “You don’t have to worry about that. You’re here, and that’s all that matters.”
The guy shakes his head. “You don’t understand,” he says. “I’ve always had real trouble with the idea of eternity. It scares me. Everything I’ve ever known ends eventually.”
“We’re in the forever business,” she says, casting a wary glance at Saint Peter, who wafts over and intervenes.
“Think of it this way,” he says, pulling the guy aside. “If you watch everything on Netflix, and I mean every blessed hour of every blessed program, you’re just getting started. So chill.”
I have no idea how many thousands of centuries it would take to do that, but my mind snaps at the very notion.
Netflix appears, on its high-gloss surface, to be the very definition of a Black Hole, the Bermuda Triangle of modern entertainment, something that you intuit has to have tangible limits but seems to stretch out without knowable boundaries.
I remember the first time I was introduced to this online marvel. My wife had invited her best friend from back in their grammar school days to spend some time with us in the oceanfront cottage we’d returned to for World Series week.
It had become something of a tradition, and the ladies, who couldn’t have cared less about baseball, had a fine time, catching up, sharing memories, reading on the beach and making S’mores.
One evening as I was preparing dinner, a shrimp pasta dish I like to throw together when we’re on vacation, I began to talk about “Trailer Park Boys,” the scatological, satiric, oh-so-smart Canadian series I taped every week back home.
As I deveined the shrimp and chopped up the veggies, keeping a close eye on the slowly boiling linguine, I explained the basic premise to our guest, sketching out the characters of Julian, Ricky and Bubbles and their escapades.
“Our favorite episode,” my wife said, “is the one with the shopping carts.”
“It’s a classic,” I said. “You should see it.”
My wife’s friend then did something pretty amazing. Using a combination of her smart phone, the cable box, the remote control unit, our laptop computer and invisible signals bouncing off Venus, Mars and the International Space Station, she pointed to the TV set that sat above the fireplace and nodded at it.
She pushed a button and asked, “Is this the episode you were talking about?”
And there it was: “Trailer Park Boys” and the shopping carts, the whole episode, playing right there, right then.
I couldn’t have been more flabbergasted if she’d walked out onto the deck, stared at the Atlantic, snapped her fingers and conjured Capt. Ahab, the Pequod and Moby Dick locked in bloody mortal combat right before our eyes.
“W-w-what? H-h-how?” I stammered, leaving my cutting board and joining the women in the living room. “I mean I can see it, but I don’t understand what just happened.”
My wife’s best friend smiled at me and said one word: “Netflix.”
Then she asked, “When’s dinner? Can’t wait for your shrimp linguine. I’ve heard so much about it.”
Since that revelation I’ve become rather addicted to Netflix and have mainlined such invigorating and remarkable series as “Shameless,” “Prison Break,” “Californication,” “Breaking Bad,” “Madmen” and “Sons of Anarchy,” to name only a handful.
They call it, in today’s parlance, “binge watching,” which can be defined as the habit of sitting for hours on end, staring at the computer screen and inhaling hour after hour of your favorite shows. It’s probably not good for one’s health, but then again, the best things in life probably aren’t.
This past week I’ve been reminded of just how incredibly brilliant “The West Wing” was, and it’s been a lifeline in this era of Trump.
But I don’t want to sound like I’m a shill for Netflix. There are a lot of popular, trendy picks — “Peaky Blinders,” “Better Call Saul” and “Stranger Things,” among them — that I’ve found to be blind alleys.
Many love them. They’re just not my style. But that’s the wondrous thing about Netflix. There’s always something out there in the endless eternity of the unseen ether to occupy your time. Just ask Saint Peter.
Mike Dewey can be reached at CarolinamikeD@aol.com or at 6211 Cardinal Drive, New Bern, NC 28560. Join the fun on his Facebook page, to which he invites you.