It is 1997. A girl, surely on the lower-end age spectrum of the X-Philes
of the internet, (specifically a member of those that stay muted lurkers
in alt.tv.xfiles) has just clicked off the television after watching
Synchrony and the trailer for Small Potatoes, the following week's
episode. The girl is a devout, *good* young X-phile - she has always
overlooked NC-17 fanfic, she has always accepted the frenzies - (Rolling
Stone, GQ, US magazine - squidge, squidge, squidge...) of others with
vicarious glee.
But now, the television program which she has bred for herself as a
religion has done what she has feared it leaned closer towards with every
extended hand grasp, head ruffle, midriff hug, full-blown gasoline hug,
Congress embrace, tender scene in the hallway of the oncology section of a
certain Allentown public hospital, insipid monologue in the reflected
moonlight of a soundstage trailer park: It has allowed itself to be pulled
into the muck of a May sweeps, heavy breathing and heart palpitating,
Lois-and Clark, cop-out, sex-mongering ratings fest. (Subjective? Who's
subjective?) <<<Please excuse the girl while she trys to rationalize with
herself.>>> It is 10:03. The program ended less than 5 minutes ago. If
there ever was a visceral reaction brought on by the mere suggestion of a
kiss that duly never happened - once, because I know it is only a morphing
monster assimilating the stately schnozz and solicitous lips of Agent
Mulder, and secondly, I never actually *saw* the two...well, they only
gave a very vivid impression of..... oh, I feel so, so...violated!
The girl has twisted herself into a turmoil over the image that has
writhed its way out of the damp and dark recesses of the 10-13 writing
crew's collective brain, scuffed silently past the censoring eye of one
Mr. Christopher Carter, (his own oculars blinded by the brambles of Frank
Black, and the desperation that comes in having to gather his followers in
mutual interest for the 19x4th time, and come out, health, and the
integrity of the series <<cough, cough>> intact.) And yet this loathsome,
figmentatious gremlin of a ploy squirmed through his fingers, and no doubt
was wined and dined and received in royal fashion by the executives at Fox
Broadcasting, and from there easily slimed its way into the skins of the
waiting actors, and transcended the movie camera lens, and clung for dear
life to a reel of film as it dodged the snip! snip! of 1013 Productions'
editing room.
No, the girl does not see herself as puritanical. She supposes
she wouldn't harbor *too* much remorse for *too* long if those shenanigans
that have gone on between the pages of glossy magazines for years {US!}
lept suddenly to the small screen. And she knows, it is the oft-spoken of
UST that bonds the molecules of this show together. But their little
glances, what we think we see, episode after episode...for this girl, it
is like the proverbial carrot on a stick - she thinks she wants them to
catch the carrot, eventually..but heaven knows, for every moment stalled,
the sweetness of the carrot when and if they finally bite into it will be
a thousand times magnified. And so she is more content to watch them run
in circles.
Even if the upcoming pototoes are all in jest, still, she begs
whoever might be out there: "Please, please don't bite the carrot yet -
and please, don't even try and tell me it's really a turnip."
{Please don't ask me to explain that. And now, since this little
manifesto has lulled me near to sleep, I bid you, my a.t.x. cousins,
posting and non alike, a goodnight. It's been an interesting rite of
passage.)
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| ...Quickest girl in the frying pan... |
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