I finally did what I’ve been threatening to do for months now: I canceled my cable. So, watch out, Internet, you could be next. (Let’s just say that horse head didn’t get into your bed because of a freak accident involving an airplane, a clown car, a travelling miniature pony circus, and the propeller from the prop boat from Jaws like I originally told you.)

I found that there was nothing on that I necessarily liked watching and was, rather, getting into a state of a lobotomized Jack Nicholson whenever a marathon of America’s Next Top Model came on, but without a redemptive escape involving the Chief. (Which, in this metaphor, would be watching the original Doctor Zhivago or something.) And so, because I have the willpower of a three-year old who has to go pee, I though it best to just let my viewing of infomercials, horrible reality TV shows, and re-runs of CSI go softly into that quiet night. (Which is, in and of itself, a metaphor for me cussing out the cable man who wouldn’t let me calmly and quietly cancel my cable, but was much more like trying to pull teeth from a three-year old who has to pee.)

With all of my new-found time, I intend to finally see how many vampire movies I can watch in a row write much more,* but with every gain comes sacrifice. Like Uncle Ben said: eat more rice with great power, comes great responsibility, and now that I’ve given up cable, I must accept the fact that I will never see Casper Van Dien’s face again. Ever.

Mr. “King-of-Crappy-Sci-Fi-Movies” Van Dien is, quite possibly, one of the most handsome men ever to grace my television screen, but, unfortunately for him, he is not a good actor — I have a hard time admitting this about him and Mr. “Whoa” Reeves — and, unfortunately for me, he doesn’t star in movies that make it to the big screen anymore. Or really, ever.

But, Emkay, you might say, because you too, have a ginormous crush on Mr. “Perfectly-Square-Chin-for-a-Superhero” Van Dien: “you can always watch him on Netflix, or the Internet.” To which, I will respond, “Yes, but I will never intentionally seek out any Casper Van Dien vehicle because, well, they suck giant monkey balls.” (I learned my lesson from Modern Vampires, and Mr. “I’m-Once-Played-a-Indiana-Jones-Look-a-Like-in-a-Horrible-Sci-Fi-Movie-Which-Makes-MK-Love-Me-Even-More” Van Dien is one of the very few people to not make me happier by starring in a vampire movie. Another is George Clooney in From Dusk Til Dawn because, to me, that’s a clear case of a “You got some Tarantino in my vampire movie!” and “You got some vampire movie in my Tarantino!” and while I like both separately, I apparently don’t like them together.)

So, with my cable goes my friendly neighborhood ghost. It was a pleasure, Mr. “I just. . .I can’t. . . .” Van Dien. May your made-for-TV charms grace the flickering screens glittering in the dark in living rooms across the world, but never again in mine.

Until I give in and get my cable back, that is.

*I have a very sensitive ambience-o-meter that gauges where and how successfully I can write. As it is now with my crappy, insensitive, annoying, loud neighbors, the needle is steadily pointing at 2 between 0 (what the hell does a pen even look like?) and 10 (this is like when I was 12 and writing the very first draft ever of my novel and I could just write and write and write until the idea that it needs to be good ever entered my brain.) Even though I will not be distracted by psychic pets from Jersey or scantily clad ladies with bubble-gum dispensers for brains — or both — I doubt I’ll be able to effectively write anything until I feel as though my apartment is my own again, and isn’t just a battleground between my raucous neighbors, my apartment manager, the police, and myself.