Dylan McKay (and other related things)

I was talking with some friends the other day about what we had been watching on TV.  One friend (who's name rhymes with "Glayna" but I won't tell you her actual name because I want to protect her identity) said that she had been time traveling back to the 90's and visiting that favorite zip code, 90210.  Oh yes, you can now watch reruns of "Beverly Hills, 90210" on Amazon.

I am all over that.

Now a little known fact is that 90210 was Bill's favorite show.  At least at that time in his life .  Every Monday at 8:00 PM he could be found waiting breathlessly in front of the television, ready to join his dearest friends, Brandon, Brenda, Dylan, and all the rest of those spoiled, rich kids and all of their teen aged drama.  Except Aundrea, because she had to falsify her address in order to attend West Beverly High.  She was the token poor kid.  But I digress.  Bill especially liked Dylan.  He might have actually loved Dylan but I'm not totally sure.  It was a very sad day for Bill when Dylan's character left the show.  And don't even get me started on the highly anticipated return of Dylan at the end of the show's run.  Gosh.  The excitement.

Anyway.

So I started watching the series again.  From the beginning.  In order.

It's awesome.  The clothes are all coming back in style!  The hair!  There are fanny packs and scrunchies!  The spandex under the jean shorts!  The high-waisted jeans with crop tops!  Oh gosh.  Even the lipstick colors are popular again.  And I'm pretty sure that I heard Donna say, "Dope!" when referring to her first impression of Brandon Walsh.  I'm not lying.

As I was watching the pilot episode I kept thinking, "Man, I gotta call Bill and see if he remembers this part."  Or, "I have to remind Bill about Betty the Surfer Girl." and "Oh man, I wonder if he remembers Dylan's hotel suite scam and how Brandon was such a goody-goody dick about it."  Over and over I had these damn thoughts.

Hmmm.  That's not going to happen now.

I guess I'll just keep watching and remembering.  I'm sure there will be an episode that sparks a memory about what I was doing when it originally aired.  Like I was probably wearing my black lace bodysuit, tucked into my button fly Levis, with my black Dr. Martens (no socks), and watching with a bunch of baseball boys while sitting on sofas of questionable origins.  In a sketchy apartment, no doubt.  (On a side note:  those baseball boys did love them some 90210 and Melrose Place!)  I'll remember going to the bar afterward and drinking pitchers of PBR (using my tip money and thinking I was way cool) and playing pool.  Mostly I just watched the pool playing and ran the jukebox.  We always played the same songs.  Might've played a few rounds of VP (video poker to you novices) too.

I will remember it all.  But I'll be sad that those memories won't have anyone besides me to appreciate them.

And I will be thankful that I already know the outcome of the whole Dylan/Brenda saga.

To Write...or not

I think today is the first day of fall.  That means summer is now, mercifully, in the past.  I say good riddance to that shit show.   But I also don't want to think about the passing of another season and the ushering in of a new one either.  Someday maybe I'll write about why.  Not now though.

I haven't been writing lately.  I've been thinking about stuff to write about plenty.  That's never a problem for me.  Lately though I've been concerned, paranoid maybe, about letting other people glimpse into my mind through the words I put down on paper (or a screen).  Seems like it's not just my paranoia either.  Too many times in the recent months I have had someone ask me if I was writing about them.  Doesn't seem to matter what the topic is either.  Those unfounded assumptions can lead us to some uncomfortable and unnecessary places.

So I quit writing because I got tired of explaining.  I know that I don't even owe anyone an explanation but, my people-pleasing nature and all, makes me feel like I should at least try to assuage the paranoia.  Realistically my balls are big enough that I would have absolutely NO problem calling a person out if I really wanted to.  By name even, if I felt like it.  I just don't ever feel like it.  My writing is not meant to hurt anyone or manipulate or lean towards the malicious side.  Trust me when I say I could fill volumes with accounts of idiots and liars I have dealt with.

I tend to write in generalities not in specifics.  I write about the culmination of many experiences and how I process them not about an isolated incident.  Except donuts--I will for sure write about specific donuts and where to get them.  Good old Hemingway said it well when he stated, "There is nothing to writing.  You just sit down at a typewriter and bleed."  That's how I write.  Don't like it?  Don't read it then.  Makes you squirm and feel uneasy?  A tad bit guilty?  Not my problem either.

I've spent a lot of time this (past) summer reading or listening to books about "becoming your authentic and true self."  Or something arrogantly along those lines.  I've read about setting goals and discovering what truly inspires you.  I've learned about abandoning past mindsets that no longer serve you and establishing new priorities.  I've rethought my habits and rituals.  I've even read about changing my eating patterns and exercise habits.  And the commonality shared in all of these things?  Well besides the reading part?  It's writing.  Writing down the changes.  Writing the goals.  Writing the worries and fears.  Writing it all out.  Writing seems to diminish the enormous presence of the unfamiliar or the scary stuff.

So I will write again because I'm good at it and it is me.   And I will write about what is on my heart and in my mind.  I will run and exhaust my physical self so I can better hear my soul speaking and put those clear(ish) thoughts down on a page.  I will write to make sense of life.  If that's even possible.