This Friday is the first of the “Summer Fridays” at my office which means we open at 9 and close at one.
Which means I’ll probably roll in around 9:40 and leave around Noon.
Fourth of July was just last weekend and after gorging myself on lobster, beer, wine, cheese, burgers, steaks and ice cream my thoughts to turn to my favorite of all summer places.
The Beach House.
The Beach House to which I’m referring belongs not to family, close friends or even minor acquaintances. And if we’re going to get technical it’s not actually a Beach House I have ever physically been in, though I spent many a happy hour there.
“How?” you ask. Well, the Beach House I speak of is the one pictured above. Donna and Kelly’s beach apartment on Beverly Hills 90210.
in its ability to mutate, change form and design while appropriately sheltering an ever changing cast of characters, the Beach House also provided a safe haven for Donna to experiement with every single hair color possiblity in the grooming spectrum. Additionally, The Beach House reached historic-landmark status as the site of Ray Pruitt’s Halloween Meltdown. Ray Pruitt, pumpkin farmer-slash-musician (responsible for the early 90’s musical travesty “How Do You Talk to an Angel?”) and the man famed for throwing Donna down the stairs in Palm Springs, becomes enraged by Donna’s refusal to respond to his advances and retaliates as any normal stable adult might, by smashing numerous pumpkins from his family’s farm (symbolic!) on the front porch of the Beach House alarming Donna and Clare and prompting a few bars of dramatic guitar-riffs.
I remember when Kelly and Donna acquirred the house. I sat in my parens TV room in far away and inelegant New Jersey, wishing feverishly that I could be the third roomate, lounging in my robe drinking coffee in the pastel living room, watering plants on the deck, or crying mascara-filled tears over my relationship dramas while gazing out at the ocean.
Who could forget Brenda’s sorrowful face when she returned, lonely and broken from her first semester at the University of Minnesota only to hear Kelly and Donna’s utterly obnoxious outgoing answering machine message. “Hi! You’ve reached Kelly and Donna! We’re at our fabulous beach apartment…and you’re not!!”
My longing for the Beach House has become even more deeply pronounced since I bore witness to the deeply disturbing, deeply depressing preview for the new 90210. The commentary and feelings I have about that show are too numerous and volatile for this post and will need to be aired elsewhere. Suffice it to say that I am a perturbed. Nevertheless, the syndicated series lives on and like Kelly and Dylan’s clandestine love while Brenda was in Paris, I will attempt to ignore the unpleasant, and swift approaching future.
My wish for you this summer, dear reader, is that whether you are at your own Beach House in the Hamptons, a cabana at the Beverly Beach Club, or like myself sweating it up in a breezeless city, you try to incorporate a bit of the Beach House spirit into your life. Wear polka-dotted bicycle shorts, paint your living room walls lavender, dye your hair a violently unnatural shade of red, or just develop a coke problem.
What happens at the Beach House stays at the Beach House.