I’m currently re-watching The X-Files, and I’m nearing the end of the third season. I’m glad to say that while it was dangerously close to jumping the shark all through season two, it has come back enough for me to keep watching. There is a formula – alien, murderer, monster, animal. But in the end, Fox Mulder is staring into my soul, making a subtle wisecrack, and I cannot forsake him. As for Scully, I don’t hate her, which is really something for me. In fact, I enjoy her earth-toned pant suits and inflated shoulder pads.
One thing the show has made me consider is what it must be like to genuinely believe in something. I believe in thrift store clothes and expensive shoes, what the Big 10 football tradition used to be, and that most people are full of shit (including myself). Aliens? Not so much. But wouldn’t it be nice to feel that you know something that no one else knows? To feel so goddamn right that you can scoff at naysayers without a second thought?
I don’t know. Maybe that’s too much responsibility. Maybe I’m better off admiring Mulder’s conviction while laughing at his quest. I mean, aliens? Come on.