STOP EVERYTHING: I'm On A Podcast And Am Very Important

Hey.  I'm on a podcast.  Talking about the only thing I know how to talk about.  While listening, you may wonder, "Why is a husky-voiced Kathleen Turner discussing a 25-year-old episode of Beverly Hills, 90210?" But trust me: it's me.

A colossal THANK YOU to The Blaze with Lizzie & Kat! for having me on.  Saying things is hard! But they made it a delight.  Click here and have a listen.

(Also: we're discussing "Cardio-Funk" here. so like, 87 episodes of where I'm currently at.  But fear not: the "My Desperate Valentine" post is nearing completion.)

*Image pilfered from @90210blaze's Instagram.

Season 2; Episode 15: U4EA - This Post Is FOR You And FOR Me. DO YOU GET IT??? Also: My Dad Told Me I'm Clever And I Believe Him.

Before we get into this thing, I just wanted to tell you a little about the live podcast from The Blaze With Lizzie and Kat! that I attended here in L.A., which dealt with this very episode.  Emily Valentine Herself, Christine Elise McCarthy, was the guest and she was adorable and charming and lovely and still has amazing upper arms, by the way, which inspired me to go directly home afterwards and bust out several circuits of chair dips, and by "inspired me to go directly home afterwards and bust out several circuits of chair dips," I mean, "inspired me to go get drunk off margaritas and power-eat a bunch of chips and salsa and enchiladas." Also present: Charles Fucking Rosin! Writer/executive producer of 90210! Yeah, I was pretty much a giant blushing fangirl goober the entire time.  And also a little like a Maury audience member, in that I was audibly saying things, like "Mmhm!" and "HA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA!" and "YOU GO GIRL!" (okay, maybe not that last one) and clapping like a chimp and just generally being A Total Embarrassment.  So basically, like Dancing David without the windmilling arms or color-blocked, poly-blend abortion of an outfit swathing my person.

AAAAAAANYWAY, Lizzie and Kat were amazing - total pros who put together an engaging and funny evening for everyone in attendance.  They are Boss Ladies and I truly admire what they're doing.  Here's the link to this live podcast - you should also back through the archives, because if you're not tuning in, you're truly missing out on all the fun.

Benjamin was in town that weekend and joined in the festivities (along with my boyfriend) and oh, he came to play:

And meet Christine Elise LOOK AT HER ARMS:

And he actually won the door prize!  And has A Moment in the podcast where he says things and unfortunately announces to the world that he most relates to David Silver.  Yeah, we're not friends anymore.

I also purchased Christine's novel, Bathing & the Single Girl, after the show.  I'm planning on doing a giveaway of the extra copy I picked up, sometime between now and the next blog post (so like, in another year or so), so stay tuned.  I've just started to read it myself and am already completely in love with her writing style.  I'm sure whoever wins whatever ludicrous contest I think up ("Like this post on Instagram and then tag 15 of your closest friends and share with at least 7 of your mortal enemies and then eat a bunch of Raisin Bran to the point that you have the trots and then take a picture of your sloppy stool floating in the toilet bowl and whichever specimen looks most like this picture of Mary Magdalene, wins") will love it, too.

In the meantime, onwards and upwards.

Wherein Brandon overdoses on vast quantities of the U4EA Emily slips into his drink.  And none of us ever have to deal Smug Smugly ever, ever, ever again and we're all happy and impromptu parades break out across the globe and world peace is declared and we all hold hands and sing it like a goddamn early-'70s Coke commercial.  A girl can dream, no?

Front of West Bev; kicky music plays in the background and we see that that hot bitch JACKIE! will be making an appearance this episode, which is comforting, given everything else we're in for.

Hallway; a bunch of people roam about, including the guy in the tangerine shirt up there, who's clearly 35 with a wife and two kids.

The staircase; a bunch of horribly-dressed extras.

Inside to a hand turning a locker dial...

...which turns out to be Emily's hand, opening her locker with a flourish and declaring "Ta-dah!" to Brandon.  She's offering up a shelf to him, seeing as he's apparently always being a little pansy and complaining about not having enough room in his locker.  She tells him, "I kinda like the idea of your books in my locker," which loosely translates to, "I would like your penis in my vagina." Brandon, Hard-Up Garden Gnome, concurs, stating that he would also like his penis in her vagina, ahem, books in her locker, but coyly queries, "Movin' in together - that's an awfully big step, isn't it? I mean, what would your parents think?"

Emily fills him in on the fact her parents think she's nuts anyway, because they've seen her hair (which here, resembles a bleached out bald eagle's nest that's weathered at least a half-dozen typhoons and countless squall line thunderstorms) and her taste in guys.  And I'd like to break it to both these dweebs that as far as Emily being "nuts" goes: they ain't seen nothin' yet.

And then this happens and I lose my eyesight for the 55th time since starting this blog.

Season 2; Episode 14 - The Next Fifty Years: Of My Life Will Be Spent Coming Up With New Ways Of Saying "Steve's Hair Is A Sinister Underworld Filled To The Brim With Excrement" And "I Really Fucking Hate Brandon." Read On For The Most Recent Additions To My List.

(First and foremost, I'd like to send a birthday shout-out to the one and only Rach! A ride-or-die kind of a broad who's been an immense source of support of this nonsense for a while now...which actually kind of makes me question her judgment and psychological stability, but that's neither here nor there.  For your special day, Rach, as requested, I got you this profanity-laden blog post about a fair-haired loser who accidentally shoots himself and dies.  On his birthday.  So.  Happy Birthday to you? I guess? This is a really dreadful gift.)

In which we all know what happens in this one: Brenda bestows us with the dance move that launched a thousand-and-one imitations.  In my life anyway.

I've attempted to recreate this Julliard School Dance Division-worthy move since the moment this episode aired, only in the privacy of my own bedroom and, in more recent years, only with (potentially) a few pairs of judgy-ass cat eyes on me.  I've never been able to fully capture the grace and elegance Shannen Doherty clearly brought to the table with this one, but I try.  Still, I try.  Even if I ever only achieve 1/1,000,000th of the funk she's serving up here, I would be unable to share it with the public.  Mikhail Baryshnikov and Twyla Tharp and Blossom Russo would be so overcome with boiling jealousy and self-doubt, they'd never dance again, and I just wouldn't be able to live with that.

Oh, and also: Scott blows his digestive tract off.  And dies.  Whatever.

We open - as is so often the case - with the tip-tops of palm trees as we hear "This Is My Country" on the soundtrack.

We slowly pan down, seeing Douglas Emerson's name's final appearance onscreen...

...to the parched quad area of West Bev.  A choir is singing the aforementioned song and a bunch of other students who apparently have nothing better to do are gathered 'round.  We also see the banner proclaiming, "West Beverly Hills High School Time Capsule," and then the dates 1941 and 1991, hanging from the balcony.

Pan over the choir dorks.  I can say that because I was a choir dork in middle and high school.  And a really atrocious one at that.

More panning over the crowd.  This recedingly hair-lined dude wearing the unfortunate combination of a turtleneck under a button-down shirt (ah, the early-'90s) appears to be a member of the SAUNders family, or perhaps just another student giving Steve a run for his 41-year-old money in the 41-year-old department.

Sidebar: I didn't notice this person until I started screencapping but seriously, WHO THE FUCK IS THIS GUY.  He clearly arrived in 1991 in a time machine from the 1984 movie, This Is Spinal Tap.

Finally (and regrettably) we wind up on David, filming the goings-on in a shirt he appears to have fashioned out of the fabric scraps left over after Vivian Ward's polo match dress was made.  Except that since his shirt clearly moonlights as a fumigation tarp for the Spelling Mansion, it's more likely that he so fancied Vivian's dress that he headed to ALL the Jo-Anns to buy ALL the bolts of this fabric in ALL of the state of California, as well as parts of Arizona and Oregon.  Also: we're only 2:02 into this episode and I've already made a Pretty Woman reference.  I can hardly wait to see how many more I can cram in, given that I'm going through withdrawals, having not made a single one in my "Halloween" recap.  Moving on.

So then we get David's vantage point of looking through the camera (how clever) as he focuses on the banner.

Then we sadly get David's tinny voiceover as he pans down to Brandon and his Smug Brandon Mug (slathered in Blush-&-Bashful Bronzer, it appears) wearing a sports coat and a tie, and AHHHHHHHHHHHNdrea wearing what could be a cute dress but is more than likely an abomination.  I mean, it's AHHHHHHHHHHHHNdrea after all.  David says, "That's Brandon Walsh with the editorial board [ed. note: oh, please]; AHHHHHHNdrea Zuckerman, [and he seriously says "AHHHHHHHHHHHNdrea," like, exactly how I write it, and he sounds kind of irritated with it, which was pretty boss and very un-David-like, really] editor-in-chief of the Blaze."

Mrs. T.  Dressed as Bette Midler and Bette Midler's SHOULDER PADS in Big Business? Silly Mrs. T. - Halloween was last episode!

And then David gets this guy, "Mr. Chapman," who we'll see later in the episode as well as later in the season as Brandon and a 'roided-up Steve's track and field coach.

The Blonde Brigade, surrounded as always by a bunch of Nobodies.  David refers to them as "the Three Amigos," because he's just as quick-witted as I am.

He then sets in his sights Dylan and Brenda, and what a fucking nuisance to everyone else in the crowd, lurking around, stalking the clique he so desperately wants to be included in.  Also: see the horror in Brenda's eyes at his approach? That's pure, primal fear right there.

As he gets closer, he says, "Dylan McKay and Brenda Walsh, popular...a campus couple," and of course Dylan's reaction is to tell the troglodyte to go fuck himself.  Well played, Dylan, well played.

David creeps around getting more footage ("footage" = "jack-off material for later") as we wind up back with Brandon and AHHHHHHHHHHNdrea onstage.  (Don't hate me but I like Brandon's hair here; what can I say? I like a good pomp.)  He asks AHHHHHHHHHHNdrea how many verses are in the ever-loving "This Is My Country," because seriously, it's been going on for several hours at this point.  AHHHHHHHHHNdrea then reminds Brandon that, "Citizen Kane is Saturday night," which sounds like a surefire cure for insomnia to me, especially in the company of AHHHHHHHHHHHNdrea and her rat's ass hair, but whatever.  Brandon then makes the grave mistake of bailing on her, seeing as he's got a date with Emily that night, and though barely audible or visible, if you look hard enough and listen hard enough you'll observe AHHHHHHHHHHHHNdrea turning away and seething, "If I can't have you, no one can," out of her foaming mouth.

FINALLY, the choir is through and Mrs, T. and her SHOULDER PADS head to the microphone, advising everyone assembled, "I'd like to thank our special guests from the Class of '41, who invite all of you to take a closer look at the time capsule.  Thank you.  We'll see ya tomorrow." And then everyone claps.  Because this lame assembly is over.

David, in a shirt Dorothy Zbornak would deem "too shapeless," heads back over to Dylan and Brenda, embarrassing himself further by begging Dylan for "just one sound bite, please.  That's all I ask."

Season 2; Episode 13 - Halloween: I'M ALIVE. And So Is Scott. But Not For Long. Also, Reminder: Please Don't Rape, Or Attempt To Rape, Anyone. Because That Makes You A Giant Piece Of Shit On Multiple Levels.

In which let's ignore the fact that I haven't been very attentive to the blog over the last infinity (real time: 3 months) and instead take a peek at the DVD menu for this disc:

I mean, look at it.

Reeeeally look at it.

Jesus.  Also: have I distracted you from my negligence yet? No? All I've done is provide you with an ample supply of night terrors for the remainder of your lives? Oh.  Well, then.  Carry on and...you're welcome? I guess?

                                                                                     

So we open with umpteen shots of jack-o'-lanterns lit from within by flickering candles.  Seriously, this goes on for at least 3 days.  A woman's screams can also be heard on the soundtrack, totally not inappropriate or disturbing and really just in keeping with the screams Kelly will be letting out later in the episode as she's being assaulted.  It's called "a theme," people.  Oh, and of course no opening montage would be complete without The Sweet Ghee-tar Lick.

We eventually fade up on these sad mini pumpkins with shoddily, Sharpie-drawn faces on them.

Unsurprisingly, it is AHHHHHHHHHHNdrea drawing the uninspired faces on the pumpkins, which are going to be party favors at The Valley Youth Center party AHHHHHHHHHHHHNdrea's attending later that evening.  How fucking depressing: a tiny gourd with a shitty, Sharpie-drawn face on it + having to hang out with The Zuck all night? Happy Halloween, kids.

Brandon mocks AHHHHHHHHHHHNdrea's evening plans with a sarcastic, "Ohhhh, how sweet." AHHHHHHHHNdrea reminds him that he likes kids, too, which he affirms, and then AHHHHHHHHHHNdrea adopts a high-pitched, sacchariny voice that gives us the tiniest glimpse of a sense of humor and mocks, "Ohhhhh, how sweet."

Brandon serves up this murderous glare, which is reminiscent of the time he seriously considered shaving Dylan's body of its flesh and boiling it up for a midday snack:

YIKES.

But seriously.

He continues to concern everyone by stabbing the pumpkin with the knife he's been wielding and twisting it around.  AHHHHHHHHHHHNdrea's face here speaks for us all.

BREAKING: Or, Just Me Giving You An Update.

ZOMG THE WRITING'S DONE.

I just made procrastination my bitch.  Except not at all, because I haven't posted a recap since February (FEB.RUUUU.ARY.MYGOD) and I'm not REALLY done with this one; I still have to do all the screenshots, put the finishing touches (i.e. my shame) on it, etc.  So, never mind. I will be procrastination's bitch until I think about killing myself and then put it off in lieu of watching the Friends episode where Monica and Rachel lose their apartment to Chandler and Joey and Phoebe finds out she's pregnant for her brother and I get all misty-eyed and pathetic.  More so, I mean.

BREAKING: More Lies. Probably.

Firstly: Dudes.  I'm sorry.  (Because I know all of you wait around with bated breath for new blog posts.  Shut up, Carly, you self-centered douche, you say? Okay.)

My lower back (or lumbar spine for all of the medical professionals I'm certain read this blog), like my twat of a stomach, is one shifty bitch, hellbent on confining me to a mostly-horizontal position and causing the lower half of my person to burn with the same kind of searing pain I'm sure Steve experiences whenever he urinates out of his floccus-encased pee-hole.  So I've been dealing with the fact that I'm probably going to end up permanently hunched over, shuffling around in public while flailing a Penny Saver advert at passing cars and screaming, "PLEASE!" at my boyfriend to give me some of his cardboard.  Wait, what? Okay, that might've described a homeless woman I saw downtown outside of my office building at lunch one day.  But she was hunched over at like, a 90-degree angle and I'm pretty sure that's where all of her problems originated.  All of this to say that I've been trying to prevent myself from becoming that woman but it's been a slow process, and writing about attempted rape has kind of fallen by the wayside.

But! The post is coming along, I promise you.  I'm making a concerted effort to at least finish up the writing portion of it this weekend, and then hopefully gathering all of the screenshots over the course of the coming week.  I want to thank all of my very (patient) loyal readers,  You know that you rule and I know that you rule and because of that I'll gift you with what I now consider my New Favorite .Gif Ever:

And by "favorite" I of course mean, "Here.  Take this julienne peeler and slowly exfoliate the top layers of each of my eyeballs with it." Drink it in, guys.

Image courtesy of the author's Mad makeagif.com Skillz.

BREAKING: But Not Really.

(I posted this filthy lie early last week on social media.* I had the intention of blowing through the writing of the "Halloween" recap this weekend.  Instead, on Friday night, I drank margaritas.  Followed by several vodka presses.  And on Saturday, in lieu of writing, I hated myself, slept on the couch, and only occasionally stirred to stuff grease-soaked grease into my mouth in the form of In-N-Out.  And then I thought about writing and didn't because being horizontal was more important.  In conclusion, "NEW POST UP WITHIN THE WEEK HURRAY" is a total sham, perpetrated by a delusional loser who is easily lured by the siren song of enchiladas, margaritas and Los Feliz bars crowded with boater hats and the bearded assholes who love them.  All of this to say that the post will not be up by Tuesday, or any other weekday next week.  But probably in like, the first week of May or something.)

Sing it, sister! Dylan's The More You Know Moment also self-servingly leads me to a shameless promotion of my next blog post, wherein I recap A Very Special Episode of Beverly Hills, 90210 about Halloween and how if you're costumed as a vampy witch, the guy who played The Jimmy on Seinfeld will try to force-feed you snack-size quesadillas and then attempt to rape you.  Which you'll totally deserve, by the way.  Because how can a man be expected to remember to not rape someone? I mean, really.  That's a tall order.  And on that note: NEW POST UP WITHIN THE WEEK HURRAY.

*If you don't follow me on social media, I don't blame you.  Also: I hate the term "social media." But if you're feeling particularly charitable, you can follow me on Instagram, Pinterest or Twitter.  I'm not that great about updating them or posting pictures of my meals or sunsets and stuff, but it would do wonders for my self esteem.