May 20, 1998
Nine Oh Two Oh No!
Like so many other law students in this country, my first year in law school was completely ruined by my having read Scott Turow's autobiographical novel One-L. Over the nine months that elapsed in between my reading One-L and moving away to law school, my sense of panic about what I was getting myself into, rose each and every day. So convinced was I that in law school lay the road to humiliation, degradation, and near insanity. Insecure in the knowledge that I'd have to study 16 hours a day, I did not bring a television set or a VCR to school with me.
Being able to devote all my spare time to schoolwork instead of television was not good for my sanity. I was suddenly deprived of all the television shows that had kept me sane throughout my undergrad years. No more "Supermarket Sweep". No more cadre of roommates laughing ourselves silly over aging repeats of "Star Trek: The Next Generation". No more "Quantum Leap" at midnight. And no more "Beverly Hills, 90210"
I was only a senior in high school when 90210 premiered, so my sister was just eleven years old, and she was the one who rapidly became an addict. Trouble ensued, because 90210's then-time-slot coincided with my then-favorite TV show, "Cheers". Being the younger child in a single-parent household, my sister of course beat me to the draw every time, and I had to watch weeks and weeks of anemic-looking twenty-something men in sideburns. I hated it.
And then, of course, the inevitable happened. After escaping to college, I learned that people my age, too, were hooked upon this show. I'd have to watch occasional episodes. Finally, when I moved out of the dorms, away from the shared Dorm TV Set, I assumed I was free. However, that was just the beginning -- I started dating a girl whose nickname was "Brenda Walsh", and within a matter of weeks I was hooked on America's least-favorite ZIP code.
Away from the East Coast and utterly without cathode ray tube, I realized fully the extent of my dependence on this show. I became a religious follower of the 90210 Weekly Wrapup, a deliriously funny wrapup of the show's happenings, written entirely in paragraphs of one sentence, spiced with the author's loathing for Bevery Hill's anemic males, and, of course, irrelevant personal anecdotes. In time, I became more dependent on the Weekly Wrapup than I did on 90210 itself.
I finally became en-televisioned just in time for 90210's seventh season, but the magic was gone, and ever since then, the show serves merely as a starting point for long griping sessions between my sister and I, wondering how this show ever managed to become so unrealistic (well, more so). David Silver's willing slide into self-destruction. Donna Martin's ever-changing bad hairstyle. Valerie's willing slide into self-destruction. Kellie's ever-changing bad hairstyle. Brandon Walsh's used-car-salesman voice and pompous inconsistency. An endless parade of Message-y subplots, more offensive in their insincerity than anything else. Indeed, the only thing we have left to enjoy these days is Steve Sanders.
The just-concluded Season Eight has been particularly weak. With no more high school or college to serve as a unifying focus, we've had to watch months and months of our lead characters flounder in the real world. Where 90210 was once our fantasy existence -- rich kids who dressed up nice and dated pseudo-movie-star actresses -- it was now our worst nightmare. If the 90210 kids couldn't succeed in the poshest neighborhood this side of our Long Island home, how could we? One by one, my friends broke faith with the show -- only my sister was left to follow my lead, dating someone named after one of the Walsh twins.
Last night's season finale was a bizarre pageant of excess. The commercials had led us to believe that the wrapup would be a two-hour pageant of flashbacks and tears as Brandon and Kelly finally made it to the altar. What we got instead was a celebration of the new Generation X non-marriage ethic, the wedding party subverted into a loving celebration of the non-couple's breakup (and as something of a Last Supper for the semi-departing Valerie). Only Steve walked away from the feast a happy man -- with his newly-divorced bride-to-be at his elbow. Within ten seconds of the final fade-to-credits, my phone rang insistently, my sister screaming tears of confusion into my receiver.
How much longer will America's obsession with the New Narcissism continue? Even with the ninth year of new episodes just around the corner, a surprising amount of the original cast still remains (with yearly cameos for some of its since-departed members). The theme music hasn't changed much since Season 3, and the format of the opening credits is settled. The humor and the obvious Messages will still come at the same pace, and the show is now starting to mock its original 1990 values, as last night proved. The ratings remain high, and the guest stars are still exotic.
All this is to say that none of us are still sure why we're watching. But we're going to keep doing so, right up until the show's final moment, which it seems ever more certain will be another celebration of the obscure, a feast of the discarded virtues. It will be a horrible, awful moment in television history, and my phone will ring insistently and angrily seconds after it's over. And, naturally, my allegiance to the show will continue for long, long after.