I Am Not Matthew Perry

First, some business. The next installment of Snowflakes In Autumn will go up next week, broken into two parts and published on Tuesday and Thursday. I’ll probably keep the goal for Chapter Six set at $75, since you guys met that pretty quickly (although much of it was due to a generous donation from a Ms. X in New York, who did wonders to combat the Southern perception of Damn Yankees). We’ll see if we make it to $75 in round two as fast as we did with the first effort. I think you can do it. Don’t disappoint me or bad things will happen. I have connections…

Now, for today’s entry. Recently, Brittany and I have taken to watching cancelled series over Netflix’s Watch Instantly feature, which we use via Xbox Live. We don’t mean to only watch cancelled series, but since I only enjoy viewing good television, it’s inevitable. Of course, as soon as I play the first episodes of shows like Better Off Ted or Studio 60 On The Sunset Strip, it’s immediately obvious that cancellation awaits. Smartly written television just never lasts very long, especially when it insists on referencing things like literature and philosophy. (Gilmore Girls is a welcome exception to the rule, although I still contend that it could have run for another three seasons, provided Amy Sherman-Palladino had stuck around.)

Better Off Ted, while a smartly written satirical look at corporate America, was only a good show. I don’t consider it great simply because it was too slavishly devoted to one-off episodes with little regard for continuity, which is something that actually worked in its favor for sustainability, but that tends to prevent me from ever giving such a series any long-term devotion. No, I need continuity. Shows like Babylon 5, Buffy, Angel, Firefly, Dollhouse, Battlestar Galactica, Caprica, True Blood and the aforementioned Gilmore Girls have totally eradicated my tolerance for the old sitcom / dramady / whatever format. Studio 60, thankfully, played right into what I love about television.

While a feature length movie tries to be the live-action version of a novel, it’s only got 90 minutes to play around with. A season of good television, however, gets roughly 990 minutes to devote to telling its story – which makes the movie a short story and the series a novel. Studio 60 worked off this principal, which is one of the main reasons I enjoyed the one-season series. The other reason is that it was smartly written for smart people – or, at least, people who bother switching off the television now and again to do things like read books and think. Unfortunately, exposure to the show has had a very peculiar side effect on my marital relationship.

For those who aren’t familiar with the series, Studio 60 is an entirely fictional behind the scenes look at the goings-on of a Saturday Night Live style production. I say that it’s entirely fictional because the characters are too friendly to one another, the studio executives actually care about their product, and the head writer calls all the shots. This is not how Hollywood works – but I’m willing to suspend my disbelief because the show is just so darn fun to watch – especially since it routinely provokes my wife to make not-so-subtle noises whenever she thinks it’s talking about me.

This is something she does when we watch television together. She watches for a character who she feels reminds her of me, then delights in pointing out how right her assessment is. For instance, when we watch Angel and I find myself empathizing with the titular character, she quickly moves in to point out that – at least in her eyes, I’m Spike. For those who didn’t watch Buffy or Angel, the character of Spike is an unrepentant, self-aggrandizing smart ass who apologizes to no one and does as he pleases. (Except, of course, when he’s being love’s bitch.) Brittany enjoys pointing out how similar the character’s actions are to my own behavioral patterns, which is something I’d like to argue against but can’t. (Even when it comes to his whiny lovelorn crap – just read some of my earlier essays on this site if you don’t believe me.)

In Gilmore Girls, I’m Luke – the gruff, unrepentant smart ass who does as he pleases as he ineffectually rails against the world. In Battlestar, I wasn’t one of the main characters. Instead, I was the gruff, unrepentant smart ass lawyer who appears late in the series and does as he pleases and manipulates everyone to get what he wants. In True Blood, I’m apparently Eric – but she bases that mostly on the books rather than the television show, where she’s explained to me that the character is an egocentric smart ass who does what he pleases and adores himself while doing so. In Dollhouse, I’m Topher – the spastic, smart-assed genius. In House, M.D. I’m Gregory House, the smart-assed, acerbic genius who verbally abuses everyone around him as he manipulates the world to get what he wants. Are you seeing the pattern? I haven’t persuaded her to watch Babylon 5 yet, but when she does I’m sure I’ll be pegged as G’kar and Londo’s love child.

So anyway, when we watch Studio 60, I’m Matt – the show’s head writer and resident smart ass. He’s condescending and sarcastic, brilliant but often stupid, proud to a fault and generally just like me – except that I don’t write a multi-million dollar sketch comedy show. The fun part about this particular series, however, is that Brittany finally gets to be a character, too. Matt’s love interest on Studio 60 is an actress/comedian named Harriet, the spiritual foil to his wicked intelligencia. She’s kind and nurturing and – most importantly – deeply, deeply religious. This is where things get interesting.

Matt and Harriet have an on-again-off-again sort of relationship not entirely unlike Moonlighting had before it sucked, and the source of their fighting usually comes down to the two arguing over religious matters. Matt mocks her beliefs in the most condescending way possible – through logic – and Harriet defends her convictions in the most irritating way imaginable – through gracious deflecting and unwavering acceptance. Ugh.

Watching the show together seems to have strengthened the differences between Brittany and myself when it comes to matters of Faith. Namely, she’s bursting at the seams with the stuff while I’ve nothing to do with any of it. I hate faith. No, I despise it. In fact, I loathe it with nasty words so powerful that mankind has not yet invented them. Faith is the antibody to the virus of the intellect. It erodes rational thought and enlightened discourse, it leads well-meaning people down dangerous roads of absolutes and certainty, and it totally ruins any chance anyone ever has of actually winning a religious debate. When backed into a corner of logic and reason, a Believer can always fall back on Faith to dismiss every single piece of contradictory evidence presented to her without the need to provide any of her own. It’s infuriating!

So last night, after turning off the Xbox before heading to bed, the topic of religion somehow came up. I’m not sure how it started, but we eventually found ourselves on the topic of demons and Hell and all things supernatural. For whatever reason, during the course of our conversation I said something about not rescuing her from the fiery pits of eternal damnation if a demon were to ever pop up and drag her screaming to Hell. I do not know why I said this.

Immediately thereafter, the debate took on a new life. As it did this, I somehow managed to steer the conversation in the direction of all the supernatural books she loves to read. Apart from the Sookie Stackhouse novels (where True Blood comes from), there are a slew of vampire and/or werewolf books she reads that she dearly loves – including, and I can’t possibly type this with enough scorn – the Twilight series. I think I brought these sorts of books up originally to try and build a case towards exposing her inner heathen, but my plan took a wrong turn somewhere around the time that she told me she doesn’t believe in demons and that, while she enjoys reading supernatural books, she doesn’t think they’re true.

To this, I replied that she was a big, fat liar. “You have so read a supernatural book that you think is true,” I said.

“No I haven’t!” she replied.

“Have so!”

“Have not!”

“So!”

“Not!”

“So!”

“Not!”

“Yes, you have! I know for a fact you’ve read it and you think it’s absolutely true.”

“What fictional book have I read, Kristian, that you think I think is real?”

I paused for a second, gathering my thoughts. “Well,” I began, “I didn’t say it was necessarily fictional – just that it’s a supernatural book you think is real.”

“You’re full of it, you know that?”

“No, I’m not.”

She sighed and rolled her eyes. “Then tell me what book it is!”

“Um, no.” I said.

“Why not?” she asked.

“Because I don’t want to get in trouble.”

“You won’t get in trouble. Just tell me!”

“Well, ok. Just remember, *you* said it was fiction, not me.”

“If it’s nonfiction, then of course I think it’s real. What book is it?!”

“Well, I didn’t say it was nonfiction, either.”

“FINE! Whatever!” she yelled, before growing strangely quiet as the lights switched on. “Wait a second…”

I put my hands up, instinct taking over. Self-preservation and all that. “Hey now, before you get mad…”

“Too late! I’m already mad, Kristian! How could you even say something like that?!”

“What do you mean? I didn’t say anything”

Another pause. “Go take your shower.”

“But I – ”

“Go. Take. Your. Shower.”

“You can’t be mad though, I didn’t – ”

“I don’t care! Get up right now and go someplace else.”

“But – ”

“Seriously, Kristian!”

I stood up and shuffled my way to the hallway door. I turned one last time and said, “Ok, I’m going to take my shower now. But when I get back, you have to not hate me.”

She glared at me with her ginormous looking balls of scorn and contempt. “I don’t hate you. And it’s 66 books, by the way. I can’t believe you went there.”

“But I didn’t! You said – ”

“SHOWER. NOW. GO!”

“Well you know, the Bible actually had a lot more or a lot less than 66 chapters through the years, depending on who you ask and when. So it’s not like – ”

“I’m not talking to you anymore.”

“But I didn’t – ”

“GO AWAY AND TAKE YOUR SHOWER!”

I went away and took my shower.

In summary, I want to say thank you, Studio 60 On The Sunset Strip! You’ve contributed immeasurably to the continued success of my marriage. I actually mean that sincerely, since having a good shouting match every now and again is good for the continued longevity of any good relationship. Arguments release stored up stress while venting excessively strong emotions in the mostly safe and somewhat controlled environment of the debate’s parameters. Still, I’m a little glad that the series only lasted one season. If we’d watched much more of it, there’s no way of predicting just how often I’d get to tell my wife how utterly wrong she is about almost everything.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a couch to go sleep on…

Want some books? 'Course ya do!

NOTE:  I know times are hard and yeah, I need to make a living too, but if you want to read any of my books but can't afford to buy them right now, hit me up.

I'll take care of it.

Humor | Nonfiction
Available now from the following retailers

Have you ever lived through an experience that was so humiliating that you wanted to die, but when you tell it to all your friends, they can't stop laughing?

Have you ever made a decision that seemed like a good idea at the time, but you're still living with the hilarious consequences years later?

If so, then grab a snack, get comfortable, and prepare to have all of your own poor life choices seem just a little bit more bearable.

You're welcome.

Short Stories
Available now from the following retailers

The nine stories of rage and sadness collected here range from the most intimate of human experiences to the wildest realms of magic and fantasy. The first story is a violent gut-punch to the soul, and the rest of them just hit harder from there.

Those who tough it out will find a book filled with as much hope as despair, a constant contradiction pulling you from one extreme to another.

Life might knock us down, over and over, and will the beat the ever-loving snot out of us from the time we're old enough to give it attitude until the day we finally let it win and stop getting up.

Always get back up.

Gaming | Nonfiction
Available now from the following retailers

This isn't just a book. It's a portal to other worlds where there be magic and dragons and hilarious pirates. Okay, not really. But this book is about those portals, except they're called video games.

The Life Bytes series of books take a deep dive into one man's personal journey through childhood into kinda/sorta being a responsible, competent adult as told through the magical lens of whatever video games he was playing at the time.

Part One starts way back in 1975 and meanders down various digital pathways until, oh, around about 1993 or so.

If you're feeling nostalgic for the early days of gaming or if you just want to understand why the gamer in your life loves this hobby so much, take a seat in your favorite comfy chair and crack this bad boy open.

I'll try to not be boring.

Horror
Available now from the following retailers

What you are about to read is not a story. There is no beginning, middle, or end.

What follows is nothing more than a series of journal entries involving shadow people, sleep paralysis, and crippling fear. It’s not pretty, it doesn’t follow story logic, and nothing works out well in the end.

You've been warned.