Down and out with Beverly Hills
By David N. Krough

I came out of the Walsh family closet in 1994. "Beverly Hills 90210," the original, modern-day teen soap opera had debuted just three years earlier, but admitting a fondness for such Spelling-driven pap and drivel would be tantamount to exiling oneself from any desirable social circle at that age.

So I just followed the adventures, ups, downs, sorrows and joys of Brenda, Brandon, Kelley and the gang when I could, sneaking a hit here and there before someone walked in and I quickly flipped the clicker, "Geez! Lookit this crap! There's nothing on Wednesday night TV!"

Finally, I found one or two like-minded indie-rock simps who pretended to like the show ironically, but it was the only way we could admit and share our secret passion. (If you can dig up the Kpants single 'At the Urinal' on Grinning Idiot records, the guitar player does the "90210" theme song at the end of side two. Quite fetchingly, I may add.)

It was the realization of the eerie parallels between the life of Brandon Walsh (Jason Priestley) and that of my own that drove me from the road of fandom, over the cliff of idol worship and into the abyss of "90210"-as-religious cult.

Minnesota boy moves West. Works at the school newspaper and plans on being Mr. Scoop Journalist. Has the most fabulous hair. Has a love/hate thing going with Shannen Doherty. Impeccable moral fortitude and an upstanding sense of civic duty. Not to mention severe problems with all forms of gambling, legal and illegal.

Scary, huh?

There were the happy times, boinking the cute little freshman chick, starting the West Hollywood tabloid with Steve Sanders. Then there were the tough times. Like when that psycho blonde Emily tried to burn down the house while wearing my, I mean, Brandon's 1987 Twins championship jersey that she stole.

And that time he lost all that cash at the Tijuana cock fight and had to pay back the Mexican gangsters by taking that truckload of underage whores across the border in a 110-degree, sealed semi-trailer.

Boy Howdy! Good times, good times.

Then there was that time they threw the opening party at the After Dark. And who was the guest band? None other than the fuckin' Cramps man! New highs for television soundtracks were set when Brenda decided to move out and start living like a Bohemian - set to the Replacements!

But like everything fine in life, the good must come to an end.

For our "90210" gang it wasn't abrupt, but a subtle transformation into "Melrose"-lite, and a phasing out of the members of the cast that really mattered.

I don't care about coke-nosed Colin. His paintings were stupid and the only good part was watching him being taken down by the LAPD like Rodney King.

And Andrea's baby? Please. There's no way you could have transformed this driven, brilliant and economically challenged Jewish girl into the cheating slut she became on the show.

By the second-to-last season, Brenda was nowhere to be found on the planet. Was she living in Paris? London? Jail? Who knows? And Jim and Cindy moved to Hong Kong for fuck's sake. Then of course, Brandon takes a job in New York.

It was at that point that I'd had enough. No Walsh, no Watch!

Honestly though, the show was built upon the classic dramatic cast. Brandon - our hero. Brenda - the tragic foil to her twin brother. Dylan - the troubled loner. Steve - the clown who couldn't act (no offense, Ian). Kelley - the siren of temptation. And lastly, the chaste daughter Donna and her betrothed David Silver - our hope for the future.

'Twas a good run in the end, and I'll still blow off a day's commitments when they run the marathons on FX.

Now if only I could get with those three vampy witch sisters that just moved in across the street.