i have seen democracy decay, wars begin and end, convertible cargo shorts rise and fall, and babies are conceived meters from me, while I sat unnoticed. As people watched me, I heard them call me “dog shit” more times than I can count, or snore or mutter to their loved ones, “what the hell are we watching?” or “Sorry, but Kevin Costner is absurdly hot in this.”
I spent most of my life in a cold warehouse, patiently waiting to be loved, but I’ve been everywhere. I have been licked by small children. I spent two months in 2003 under an empty Papa John’s box in a flophouse in Baton Rouge, Louisiana. On a Saturday in October 1999, a family of eight in Billings, Montana, observed me four times in a row. They didn’t even eat or go to the bathroom. It was weird, but it was the best day of my life. I am a Digital Versatile Disk, a copy of the 1997 post-apocalyptic flop The postman (8 percent on Rotten Tomatoes). I am a proud soldier in Netflix‘s ranks, and I’m about to die.
On April 18, Netflix announced that after 25 years it will end its DVD-by-mail subscription service. Sorry, Ted Sarandos, my lord, savior, and undertaker, but this is bullshit. You are abandoning your most loyal customers. You are abandoning the origins of your company. You are abandoning moviegoers and citizens living off the grid. You are abandoning one of the last vestiges of a more connected, curious, human world.
Remember the Revolution, Ted? Do you remember when I and flubbers and The fifth element and she is all that and Carrot Top’s Chairman we joined forces with the USPS, those contract killers, and launched an all-out blitzkrieg that won the hearts and minds of American families and slaughtered VHS, Hollywood Video, and Blockbuster. The euphoria, the savagery!
Remember the ecstatic writing on the faces of countless exhausted parents when, going through AT&T and insurance bills, they saw our red envelope, a symbol of our bloodlust, and that meant a night of bliss awaited them in the form of Agent Cody Banks and snow dogs and Shark Boy and Lava Girl? Remember when the cover of every early 2000s rom-com DVD promised 93 minutes of “outrageously sexy fun”? Remember the menu screen, the tempting extra features like an exclusive interview with the runaway jury Foley, or the sizzling photo gallery report for girl next door? Remember the clicks, buzzes and beeps of the machine that reminded the customer that they were in control, that they had filled out the order form with their hands and that they were carrying the majesty of the entertainment with their bodies? Do you remember we were the future?
Remember what we’ve sacrificed for your millions, Ted, your company’s billions? Remember the puddles of sweat dripping down on us cranky 15-year-olds staring into a portable DVD player in the back of a Ford Windstar? Remember the number of times we’ve been kicked out and thrown around like Frisbees? Remember the scratches and pepperoni spit stains that were blown at us when we weren’t charging? I am proud of these scars. They are reminders of our conquest. They are reminders of what the world made can bring.