Beverly Hills On Three Dollars A Week

You wake up to the death knell of summer—a distinctive, plaintive cry recently thought extinct. It comes complete with a touch of dying light, a scent of burning leaves, and of course, a nasty hangover. Mere weeks ago you were drinking beer on an unknown girl’s porch and back-flipping into a swimming quarry with a mob of drunken madmen. Now you wake up and stumble around the city like a zombie, blinking at your summer friends dumbly as you try to process their bodies with extra layers, longer hair. You wake up to an already-fleeting autumn and an inevitable decade of winter. You wake up with blood on your hands.

You also wake up stone-cold broke, the product of a small but obnoxious raise in your rent, a bevy of un-consolidated student loans, and a newly developed cigarette addiction. We’re talking hot dogs and bologna poor here, folks. And if you happen to be a writer for a local monthly who’s already days past his deadline, this utter and complete dearth of funds poses a curious question: what can one do in one’s mid-level Midwestern city with literally three dollars in one’s wallet? Sure, there’s a free local comedy showcase down the block, but come on, you’re not that crazy. A quarter-bottle of some pilfered vodka and a half-pack of stale menthol cigarettes later, and this is what you come up with.

Beverly Hills 90210. Every Monday night at the Cactus Club. Brandon Walsh gets drunk and totals his car. David Silver becomes a meth addict. Dylan McKay checks into rehab. Steve Sanders shows up and says something dumb. Oh, dear readers, these are but a few of the many not-so-guilty, drug and alcohol-themed pleasures in store for you at the Cactus Club, every Monday night at 9. For those in the know, this glorious weekly event is known as the Peach Pit After Dark, and after a year of two episodes each Monday, I’ve seriously gotten to know my 90210. There’s no reason you shouldn’t make it a weekly cause for celebration as well. Thankfully, we’ve recently moved into the heady later seasons, where the series begins to move away from its initial “issue” episodes (Brandon has a gambling problem! Steve learns about AIDS! Kelly meets her very first homosexual!), and turns into the straight-up soap opera it was destined to become. In other words, it’s getting good. So come on out and get your fix of Beverly Hills drama, and support the Cactus Club while you’re at it. Really.

Now you may be asking yourself “why?” Why spend two hours at a bar watching a show that’s been off the air for over five years? To explain, we should first kill off the easy nostalgia factor, the lame, desperately recycled pop culture, “Hey, it’s Corey Feldman!” peddled by VH1. No, we, the 90210 faithful, are not here because We Love the 90s. We’re here because damnit, we really do care about Brenda’s next breakdown, about Donna’s precious virginity, and of course, about Jason Priestley and Luke Perry’s sideburns. And in a strange way, we take these preachy life-lessons and poignant tragedies to heart. I dare you to find one Peach Pit regular whose life wasn’t forever changed when Dylan’s dad was blown up (a horrific explosion that happened three times, actually, if you count the number of times we rewound it).

If all this talk about substance abuse and Mob-planted car bombs seems a bit joyless (which it shouldn’t), it should be noted that there are still plenty of cheap laughs to be had; the cornucopia of sorely misguided early-90s fashion statements is always good for a hoot, as well as the handful of dimly remembered musical guest stars (Color Me Badd, anyone?). This general kitsch factor keeps things constantly entertaining, and provides a wealth of material for the witty comments flying throughout the bar. In fact, tossing out some of your own wacky quips is not only smiled upon, but also heartily encouraged. Just don’t get too chatty with your friends; any loud, non-90210 themed banter has been known to lead to serious ridicule, if not an outright beating.

So it’s another Monday night, and Ray Pruit just threw Donna down the stairs. Valerie gets busted for prostitution and, wouldn’t you know it, Brandon’s gambling again. I’m watching it all with a stupid grin on my face, drinking away my last three dollars, my friends and co-conspirators howling alongside me. Where are you?  VS