This past summer I was granted the opportunity to cover a few panels at the TCA’s, the Television Critics Association’s never-ending trolley of gift bags, unhealthy food and forced awkward panels discussing the new and old shows coming this fall: The Muppets! The Walking Dead Grey’s Anatomy! Tyra Banks’ Fab Life, a new talk show that is going to get us to embrace yellow as the in color and undoubtedly will change talk shows forever.

I could’ve muscled my way into joining the media hordes interviewing Ron Perlman, Chuck Bass, Viola Davis or Jeffrey Tambor.

Instead, I met Pacey, the only dude in the circle of press surrounding star Joshua Jackson after he absolutely stole The Affair panel. That’s not easy to do when you’re sharing the stage with Dominic West, America’s sweetheart Maura Tierney and Golden Globe winning actress Ruth Wilson for the Golden Globe winning drama from creator Sarah Treem, but Jackson was clearly at his most comfortable answering the questions of the story hungry press. It’s as if he’s been doing it for more than twenty years (get ready to feel old: The Mighty Ducks came out in 1992).

I may have watched The Affair anyways, but I certainly made it a priority last year because it starred Jackson as Cole, a dark and mysterious rancher embroiled in this sorrowful saga of adultery. The Affair is painful, gripping and tedious. Its whole premise is in the margin of anachronisms, so perhaps it’s not surprising that it somehow makes a trip to the Hamptons for some good old-fashioned wife betraying seem new, thanks to the multiple perspective conceit of the show. We see the same dreadful vacation unfold from the eyes of the two lovers, Noah (West) and Alison (Wilson). Jackson’s character, Cole, is Alison’s husband, and one of many casualties in Noah and Alison’s courtship. But it’s clear he’s been broken and incapable of connecting with Alison since the loss of their son. Nothing we see of Cole from either POV is flattering: he’s a liar, maybe a criminal, possibly a rapist, and certainly angry, jealous and screwed up well before Noah’s family visits the Hamptons. But this comes from the lens of Noah and Alison. Who is Cole, really?

What makes season 2 of The Affair so exciting is that in addition to Noah and Alison’s POV’s this year, we get to see the story from Helen (Tierney, ever the unsung hero) and Cole’s perspectives. That means more Josh Jackson.

After talking with him at the TCA’s about the difficulties of The Affair and its premise, his parent’s divorce and his growing role on the show, that’s clearly a good thing. Then again, I’m not exactly an unbiased narrator.

“We all want to follow our narrator, our hero, right? It is really really unusual for a television show, a play, a film, it doesn’t matter, for any piece of entertainment, to not present you with that truth so that you can attach yourself to that story and feel good, or bad or whatever you’re supposed to feel as you go along with it. But that is the central purpose of our show,” Jackson said.

This conceit seemed to ruffle many critics and audience members, unused to the format. But to Jackson, that’s the whole point.

“We all laugh about it, because everybody’s who been in a relationship has had that moment. ‘Honey, that’s not what happened.’ I said this, no you said that, you know? The essential truth of the show is the idea that you’re only living your own story. You can share it as much as possible, but ultimately we’re all individuals stuck inside of our own perspective. That to me is real. Everybody has dealt with that. I understand the discomfort of not having an objective narrator, the god’s eye view or the single specific character you’re following that is the truth of the show…but to me, there’s nothing about the format of mis-recollection that is all that far out there. Because we all live that, in ways large and small. I can tell you, in my household, it comes up all the time.”

It also rings true with his upbringing, being the child of what he describes as an ugly divorce.

“Here’s an empirical event. My parents are divorced. If you talk to my Mom and you talk to my Dad, about what led up to that event, how that happened, the fallout of it, it’s two wildly different stories, even though the empirical event was the same. There can be things that are empirically true, but even your recollection of that empirical event can be completely, totally different.”

These fractured stories of the same event, and Jackson’s own viewpoint is what sold him on the show in the first place.

“I caught myself having a biased moment. There’s a lot of gender politics that go into the reason why Noah’s perspective is first. We have a tendency, sorry ladies, to find men more credible than women. [creator] Sarah’s not dumb, she knows that, so she was playing against our own biases, to put the man first. Okay that must be the truth, and now we show the woman second. Certainly for me, she got me immediately. The first scene where there was a divergence between the two stories, my instinctual reaction was, ‘Why is she lying about this?’ And I think that’s brilliant. That’s what got me hooked.”

It also makes the actors a little crazy.

“Because we get into these logic loops, and honestly we spend an inordinate amount of time on set, being like, ‘Okay, so we’ve been together for 16 years, we lost a child. But you just had this horrible thing with my mother, so you’d be kind of pissed off at me. And I would be coming from the place that I was, so you would remember that I was in that place, but my mother’s thing would have definitely informed how you were feeling in this moment, so maybe we’d see this…’ It’s unending.”

So is the show’s dreary atmosphere. One thing that stands out in The Affair’s promos is how haggard Cole looks.

“He’s gone through an obviously pretty bad time. But I loved being able to, finally, this guy who’s been brood-ish and emotionally distant, certainly from Noah’s side, and even on Allison’s side frankly, the place that they are in their relationship, she’s not really seeing a whole or emotionally capable man there. And to see that guy who is the broad shouldered guy who takes care of stuff with confidence, to see him in a place in his life where he’s just undone and how he sees himself: like a failure, and as this sort of useless human. He has no purpose; he has no meaning for being. We find him in 2, and suddenly we see this guy who is riddled with insecurities in a way that I don’t think we ever saw in the first season.”

Clearly, The Affair is going to be another barrel of laughs when it picks things back up.

“There’s a weakness to him. You saw a little bit of the break at the end of last year, in the finale; that was a totally different guy than we had seen before. But you’d never really seen him honestly just be ruined. He’s the type of character: ‘I’m going to do this and I’m going to do that. This is the right way. This is how we take care of things and this is how we keep up appearances in the town,’ and I think in season 2 it’s interesting to see inside that guy’s life and how he feels totally eaten up by insecurity, fear and doubt in a way that we never saw in the first season. He’s in a bad place this season.”

Is anyone really happy in the Hamptons? Thankfully, at the end of episode 2, there’s a scene between Cole and Alison that changes the direction of his character.

“I think it’s the first moment where he allows himself to sort of step back into being alive. So what happens? Everything in your life has been wiped out. Your family’s gone, your wife is gone, your child is gone. Your sense of self is completely annihilated. So he has to start figuring out who he is, what it means to be a man. Who is Cole going to be post-all of that? And in a way that I find is very true, it’s certainly been true in my life, a woman is the best way to do that. He meets this woman, and without all of the baggage of his entire life, he can start entering into a relationship with somebody that’s about his current self as opposed to everything that has come up. She’s what brings him back into the world.”

The Affair is what has brought Joshua Jackson back onto our TVs, and come Sunday October 4 at 10 PM (or now with the above video), we’ll get to see a lot more of Pacey in the award-winning drama.

Note: As long as you avoid the song videos below, there really aren’t any Dawson’s Creek spoilers in the following.

Dawson’s Creek is my favorite television show. That’s no secret; it invariably comes up in less time than it takes to pee. My life is inextricably linked with my favorite residents of Capeside Mass. While Joey Potter spends her entire life trying to get out of Capeside, I’ve always paddled up the Creek, hoping to get marooned in an idyllic glittering small town filled with big problems and even bigger drama. Of course, if I saw Joey sailing in the other direction, I’d follow Joey and True Lovewherever it went. Because if you’ve watched the Creek, you know it’s almost laughable to think of it as anything other than Joey’s Creek.

My first exposure to Dawson I wouldn’t really associate with the show until years later, and that came in the form of Kevin Smith’s Jay & Silent Bob Strike Back. The film bowed in 2001, smack dab in the middle of the WB show’s prime, at the apex of the Joey/Dawson/Pacey love triangle. I was oblivious to the whole thing, but I remember loving this scene, because Jason Biggs is shit on and that’s one of the best things the world offers. A cocky Beek, an attitude that would prove foreign throughout all six seasons of the Kevin Williamson melodrama, rightfully asserts to the Pie Fucker: “You wouldn’t last a day on the Creek!”

I’ve lasted 10 years on Dawson’s Creek, a show that has changed my life.

I. 

She’s so beautiful that every time you look at her, your knees tremble, your heart melts and you know right then and there, without any reservation that there’s order and meaning to the universe. — Pacey

When I was fifteen years old and had my driver’s permit, I was driving my Dad and I to a Mariners game, where I was meeting my childhood best friend John Marsh and his father. I remember it was kind of a big deal, because I had never driven to Seattle before. I was excited, nervous, seemingly ready.

I never made it to that game. Hell, I didn’t make it three blocks from my house. I turned into an oncoming car, momentarily dazed by a blinking yellow stop light. It was one of those horrifying moments where your brain freezes; there was a glitch in the matrix, and even my Dad yelling “Nooooo!” like he was Hayden Christensen in Episode III didn’t fix it. When I finally snapped out of it, it was too late to escape. I managed to speed up and avoid a serious collision, but even so, the white car slammed into our family’s mini van.

I feverishly pulled over, shaking, and my Dad jumped out of the vehicle as nimble as I’ve ever seen him, and went to check on the other car. For a few moments, I considered the possibility that my egregious mistake had cost human lives. There’s not a worse feeling in the world, or at least I don’t want to contemplate one. I started sobbing, pausing when nearby homeowners checked in on me, having heard the noise. They assured me everything was okay, and that it likely wasn’t my fault, assuming incorrectly due to the damage to the rear end of the van.

After it was (thankfully) clear that nobody was hurt (just the cars), and insurance information was swapped, I was asked if I still wanted to go to the Mariners game. The ordeal felt like it had taken hours, but it probably spanned more or less than an episode of Friends, minus the laugh track. Did I still want to go to the ballgame? Despite a lifetime of the Mariners mostly sucking, this was the only time in my life when my answer was No. I called John, awkwardly, holding back tears and embarrassment, explaining our absence. While it wasn’t the last time I talked or hung out with John by any means (our relationship had been fractured well before this moment by his family’s move…only 10 minutes further way; it’s amazing how much a few miles meant when you were a kid), it struck me as a turning point, perhaps because I’m dramatic, and it’s natural to demarcate time based on “tragedy.”

I had had a remarkably lucky and fortunate childhood. I was a tad lonely and shy, not yet coming into my own, but other than my well-publicized failings (only broadcast in my head), nothing bad had ever happened to me. This car accident, no matter how minor, was that thing, as silly as that sounds. I already had a fragile ego and a small reserve of self-esteem, and this didn’t help matters.

Weeks later, after I had passed my driver’s test and had my official license, the DMV sent me a letter revoking it, having just heard about my “Failure to Yield” violation stemming from the accident. I had to wait another six months to get my license, dooming me to another semester on the bus at an age where that spelled social suicide.

While I initially blamed the incident on the confusing light and our recent move to a new house (a move I had been staunchly against), it wasn’t hard to see I was lying to myself. Because I am my own harshest critic (and continue to be), I decided to punish myself. The accident happened right before summer, giving me a wealth of time to do exactly that. My asinine idea? I planned to torture myself by walking and running on the treadmill (the family’s new and “exciting” purchase) every day, while forcing myself to watch what I thought was terrible TV. Enter…

Forget for a moment how prophetic my choice became; it’s pretty telling that my “punishment” was TV of any kind. I wasn’t that hard on myself after all, even if I thought I was subjecting myself to shit. I thought Dawson’s Creek fit the bill, and thanks to TBS airing what I saw as a simpering, sophomoric, trashy soap opera from 10 AM-12 PM everyday, I had a lot of ammo.

It wasn’t very long until I gave up the treadmill and retreated to my room to watch recorded Creek episodes on what became a well-worn VHS tape. If my parents ever got their hands on it, they’d have assumed I was watching the basic cable version of porn: The Man Show, The Howard Stern Show or MTV’s Undressed. That certainly happened, but I stretched this single VHS tape’s capacity to live, recording two episodes daily for several months, luckily discovering Dawson, Joey, Jen and Pacey early in their journey in discovering themselves (I was trying to do the same). I oddly felt ashamed by my growing love of the show, always pausing it when my parents came in, as if I really was watching porn.

While the pilot hooked me hopelessly (I loved the idea of these hyper-literate, smart ass high schoolers who peppered their dialogue with movie references), there are two episodes that stand out to me in the first season: “Detention,” a brilliant reconstruction of Breakfast Club, one of many episodes in the canon directly inspired by a classic movie. The other is “Beauty Contest,” where Dawson finally opens his eyes and realizes that Joey is a Goddess.

It’s also when Pacey cemented himself as Pacey; despite the overwhelming possibility that he’d end up as the town laughing stock (one of Pacey’s biggest fears), he SIGNS UP for an all-woman pageant, and then defies judgment and persecution with a wonderful speech culled from Braveheart. Along the way, he manages to make a rich bitch who loathes him want him by the end of the episode. Classic Pacey.

That Creek summer, which must’ve been 2004, came when I needed it most. It introduced me to Pacey Witter, who became something of my own personal compass. In the pilot episode, with a fresh black eye and a bruised ego (but not that bruised), Pacey notified Mrs. Jacobs (his English teacher!) defiantly and assuredly: “I’m the best sex you’ll never have,” becoming everyone’s hero. Pacey was a perpetual underdog, he was Dawson’s best friend, the sidekick, but He.Was.Better. He was a lover of women, passionate, independent, he spoke what was on his mind, he slept with his teacher, he had honor, a sense of humor, he even FROSTED HIS TIPS, he fulfilled his promises to others and perhaps more importantly, to himself. He was a cook, a businessman, a sailor, a pool shark, Braveheart. He was fearless, and blessed with a gigantic beating heart, much like the one that consistently operated out of the writer’s room.

Pacey had his faults: he had crippling self-doubt, he slept with his teacher, he had a miserable family life and no confidence in himself. He thought he was the town joke, certain that he was never going to leave Capeside, doomed to the existence of a sad townie (“You know, this town is the absolute embodiment of dull. Apart from the occasional sex scandal provided by yours truly, nothing happens here.”).

Instead, against all odds (or so the WB would have you believe), he graduated high school and sailed the world.

This was a guy who knew how to live. This was who I wanted to be.

On the other end of the spectrum was Dawson Leery, the show’s main character, and arguably, its worst. The guy’s self-centered and self-absorbed even by today’s increasing standards. He’s a whiner, a pouter, a man perpetually stuck in his Peter Pan phase, one that his idol Steven Spielberg eventually grew out of, and something that would take the entire show for Dawson to truly evolve from. Dawson doesn’t get the girl; he talks about the girl ad nausea, or ruins it, or is blind to the most beautiful, smart, funny precious girl on the planet (see Potter, Josephine). Dawson is encapsulated in an unfortunate, but no less brilliant gif, an all-timer:

But Dawson had his share of positive qualities. He was a dreamer (a Day Dream Believer?), almost relentlessly optimistic, to the point of vomit. He somehow pulled off sweater vests with white t-shirts on underneath. He was ambitious, he wanted a career in film; he wanted to be the next Steven Spielberg, and was making his own films in high school (and not just shlocky horror stuff; he made a documentary about the indomitable A.I. Brooks, a crotchety filmmaker in the Dawsonverse). He was smart, loyal, and he eventually learned to be a good friend rather than one who had to be the center of attention.

I was closer on the Dawson side of the Dawson-Pacey continuum, a disgruntled fact I couldn’t argue with, but didn’t want to admit. Now, I recognize that both have qualities that I share, and the ideal version is a combination of the two; imagine what their man-child would look like (he/she could save mankind). But at the time, I saw Dawson’s perpetual virginity as a trap I couldn’t escape from.

When applying for colleges, I was gratefully encouraged to try for as many as possible, as far or as close as I wanted. The list included my parents’ alma mater University of THE Pacific, as well as University of Washington, Syracuse University, Ithaca College, Florida State University, NYU and USC. The latter two I was wait-listed for and didn’t get in, likely because I spent too much time on comic-centric message boards of my own design and recreating whole seasons of Seattle Mariners baseball in my front lawn (I even kept stats!). I visited UOP, UW and flew to New York for the first time with my Mom, checking out Syracuse University and Ithaca College.

On the day of the deadline, I had signed my acceptance form to the University of Washington. I would be rooming with my best friend from high school, and going to school with 50 odd people from my high school class, living in a dorm fifteen to thirty minutes away from home, depending on traffic.

Then, in a moment of rare clarity, I ripped the letter up. I decided to go to Ithaca College in upstate NY. Because of my late response, I’d be living in a temporary dorm with four other random (but similarly indecisive) people, and the closest thing I had to another fellow Warrior going to school with me was a quiet Asian girl who lived up to stereotypes and went to Cornell. I never once saw her, not even at Wegman’s.

The decision quite obviously changed my life, and there’s no doubt in my mind it was the right one out of the two finalists (I question the validity of choosing Ithaca over Syracuse if only to have had sports teams to cheer for, but it had gone down to Ithaca or UW). It’d be simplifying the event, with a layer of myth making, if I said that I went to a college in the middle of nowhere across the country because that’s what Pacey would have done, and it probably isn’t even true. Pacey would’ve traveled, something I eventually emulated after college in the form of a three month long backpacking sojourn that was the best decision I’ve made alongside going to IC. But even so, this decision started a pattern in my life of doing what I wanted to do, not what was expected of me, and finding my own path. To be bold, to try new things, a constant struggle because in my heart I’m a gigantic pussy who only wants to watch TV all day. Every day, I’m trying to be more like Pacey, which is akin to a societal version of Sisyphus, but an impossibility I strive for nonetheless.

II.

But… how could it be over? We can’t just say “I love you” for the first time and have it be over. — Dawson

It wasn’t over. Far from it.

The second time I watched Dawson’s Creek was during freshman year of college. It was early in my first semester, and I was taking a piss, or brushing my teeth, or doing whatever it is I did in the bathroom, when all of a sudden I heard the greatest theme song of all-time blaring from a dorm room. Because (surprise!), I’m a man, I was on the men’s side of the dorms, so the aural pleasures of Paula Cole, while welcome, was a startling development.

This was on my door Junior Year. I stole it from the quad.

I followed the noise, and came to an open door, where, sure enough, Dawson’s Creek was playing on a rounded TV that was fashionable when the WB was. There, sitting hunched on his bed, and likely in flip-flops, was Nolan. I believe I uttered in disbelief, “Is this Dawson’s Creek?” He nodded: “You want a beer?” Nolan handed me a Keystone Light, another college love, and after that sacred ritual, we were friends. Through that chance meeting, we bonded, and because he had already befriended that side of the dorm (I was slightly exiled from door-to-door buffoonery living in the temporary lounge), met the rest of the wonderful idiots who lived on my floor.

By the end of the school year on any random weeknight, almost every dude on Clarke 2 (plus 1-2 lesbians!) could be seen watching Dawson’s Creek, drinking Keystone, with at least a few of us crying silent tears, with no judgment from any of the others.

The fellas at Clarke 2 became the best friends I would have at college, the ones that will be forever linked with my best and worst memories through all four years. The guys I lived with throughout my college career and the ones I’ll foolishly spend the next twenty years attempting to relive the glory with at increasingly awkward weddings and reunions. And while I probably would’ve met them eventually, it was Dawson’s Creek that introduced me to them.

Toward the end of Creek (season 6, episode 15, to be exact), I remembered an episode in which Joey shaves Pacey’s beard fairly vividly. At the time, I was rocking a very similar beard (I’ve taken a picture of Joshua Jackson to a barber before), and announced that after an upcoming episode I’d be shaving it off. It was all blustery pomp and circumstance, but it caught everyone’s attention. I was the only one who had seen the show (but not all of it; VHS tapes and my memory in recording the episodes were equally unreliable), so in many ways, I was the host, their guide through Capeside.

Then the scene happened:

[http://youtu.be/atvGORI9I6Q?t=4m54s]

Afterwards, I shaved. And so did everyone else, inspired by the awesomeness of that moment and a few too many beers.

While everyone loved the show to a varying degree, it was on a different level for Nolan and I. We still mark occasions with videos, songs or quotes from the Creek, and that isn’t changing any time soon. We’ll always have the Creek.

Before I continue, I just need to note the sheer number of future stars that appeared on this program (if you like to be surprised by cameos and guest stars, skip to the next paragraph). It’s insane. Jensen Ackles, Ken Marino, Scott Foley, Bianca Lawson, Jason Behr, Eion Bailey, Ali Larter, Jennifer Morrison, Virginia Madson, Eric Balfour, Jane Lynch, Ian Bohen, Christian Kane, Oliver Hudson, Monica Keena, Sasha Alexander, Taylor Handley, Seth Rogen, Melissa McBride, Sarah Lancaster, Melissa Ponzio, Julie Bowen, Sarah Shahi and Michael Pitt. It had Jonathan Lipnicki in it, for Chrissakes. The show became a proving ground for other WB shows, with its tendrils ever apparent in shows like Teen Wolf, The Walking Dead and Once Upon A Time.

III. 

Why am I doing this? Because once upon a time, we were best friends. And, yes, there’s been a lot of bad stuff in between. But none of that matters right now, okay? You need me, I’m there. Any time, any place, anywhere. — Pacey

The third time I watched Dawson’s Creek came in 2012, two years after I graduated college and a couple months after returning from my backpacking trip in Europe. I had little to no money left, but I had made up my mind somewhere along the way that when I’d get back, the first thing I’d do was buy the Dawson’s Creek boxed set. It just seemed like something I had to have, and besides, I had a friend who needed to watch it.

When I arrived back home, I had decided that I would live in Seattle for one year before finally moving to LA. I’d grown up in the city’s shadow all my life, and had even sublet a place in the University District for a month, but I had never really explored Seattle as an “adult.” I wanted to do that, as a hello and a goodbye to the city I had grown to love. A big part of that was living with Ryan, my best friend. We had lived together for one month at the aforementioned house in U-District, but both of us wanted something more permanent. We wanted a place of our own, where we could host parties and have friends over, and so we could watch Dawson’s Creek.

Ryan and I had bonded during breaks from college over Friday Night Lights, so I knew he had the sensibility and heart to truly appreciate Dawson and company, and I wanted to inhabit the role of guide once again, to jump back into a world I had been without for almost 6 years, but had never truly left me. After all, the myriad tributaries of the Creek are permanently flowing in my bloodstream.

Our first act as roommates was to establish Meatloaf Monday’s full-time, an institution that had its origins in U-District, but took on added significance and substance when we had our own place in Fremont. The night was my favorite of the week, and was oftentimes crazier than our Friday’s and Saturday’s. It was a night given to excess, a turn-back-the-clock to college night, when my friend Alex and I would hatch up unique recipes, put the loaves together, cook them, and then eat the majestic meaty molds with an eclectic and diverse group of friends every week. After we ate, things inevitably devolved into a variety of drinking games, dance parties and dessert (cookie butter and/or more meatloaf). Every night ended with a screening of an episode or three of Dawson’s Creek, complete with a drinking game we created expressly for that purpose. That wasn’t all: we had a scoreboard that kept track of the number of kisses and sexual encounters by each character, while scribbling down our favorite quotes on a busy white poster board.

It soon became clear that Ryan had a different take on Creek. He was no less involved as I, but he was Team Dawson all the way, a notion I believed to be incredulous/impossible. I’ve since met other people who shared the same viewpoint, but this difference of opinion characterized the growing schism that threatened to tear our friendship apart. We’d argue vehemently about the characters, about who deserved Joey, which was a deadly mix when copious amounts of alcohol was involved. We were vicious, personal; I’m defensive and take these things far too seriously to begin with, but it wasn’t really about Pacey and Dawson (okay, everything is about Pacey and Dawson).

We were going in different directions, and it put a strain on our relationship. I was biding time until LA, when I was going to leave Ryan and the rest of the Wolf Boyz behind, a notion as painful to me as it was to them. In the meantime, I started dating someone and my priorities shifted, not wanting to go out as much and growing tired of the rave/drug/party scene that Ryan was embroiled in. In the end, I tried to find a bullshit middle ground, which successfully pissed Ryan off, my girlfriend off, and me off, leaving me resentful, “misunderstood” and soon, single. I handled things spectacularly poorly; I was terrified of moving away, but I was also anxious and impatient to just get going with my life and the prospect of another weekend getting drunk at the same places for no reason became a gloomier and gloomier proposition. All that stress and uncertainty came lashing out, with Dawson’s Creek oftentimes as the symbolic battleground. Luckily, Ryan and I reached a mutual understanding. We talked it out, recognizing the shaky ground we were on, and I think our relationship would’ve been stronger for it, had I not moved away, becoming the John Marsh in this scenario.

IV.

Andie: You mean that you guys would rather watch a movie about something than actually doing it yourselves?
Joey, Dawson: Correct.

After we finished Dawson’s Creek, Ryan, Bryan and I devised a list of ten prospective pilots to watch, rate and through an aggregate score, decide on as our next Meatloaf Monday binge show. Beating out the likes of X-Files, Vampire Diaries and Beverly Hills 90210 was a little show called Buffy the Vampire Slayer that would also change my life, but that’s a story for another time.

Like the show itself, my association with Dawson’s Creek wasn’t always a good thing. I could’ve done without Audrey’s descent to madness, or Jack’s freefall into Frat life, or Chad Michael Murray, Jack Osbourne or most of the college years. But I also would benefit from not expecting life to be like Dawson’s Creek. I find myself enmeshed in the same dilemma that Dawson continually faced over six seasons. Life isn’t a movie or a TV show (I know, WHAT?!), but I’m that stereotypical guy who wishes it was, even though the reality of that would likely be a horrible thing. That Dawson-y part of me won’t go away. I can’t help it; I want storybook romances, I want massive declarations of love, I want life to matter, to mean something, if just a fraction of how much it means to the folks living on the Creek. I oftentimes view life as a never-ending blog post, that everything I do in a given day is something to write about, to disseminate out to strangers, that people will give a shit about my random ramblings (case in point). Dawson’s Creek is a show lauded and reviled because it’s a show with characters that talk about sex, but don’t have it. Sometimes living in hopes of writing about it, subtracts from the living part. No more.

As Paula Cole said, I don’t wanna wait, for our lives to be over.

Joey: You never look back, do you?
Pacey: Why would you look back? The future’s out there. And whatever it is, it’s gonna be great.

Day 10: Thursday October 20th, 2011

Slang of the day: Sponge. Origin: England. Definition: idiot, moron. Used in a sentence: After a week and a half of travelling I felt like a sponge.

As recommended by Dodge, I checked out a breakfast place called Truffles. The Welsh rarebit (pronounced rabbit confusingly) was over my price range (the change I had in my pocket), so I had a traditional English breakfast. It was 3.95 and came with a fried egg, beans, toast (for beans on toast), bacon, hash browns, sausage and black pudding (a funky blend of blood sausage that is really healthy). Everything was delicious, and such a great deal. You can eat like a king in England if you only do breakfasts. You’ll also start to look like a king (fat).

Before my train I grab another jam and cream scone from the market for the ride, and then off to Liverpool for a night.

I arrive and while it takes me awhile to find it, the Embassie at Liverpool is the best hostel I’ve stayed at to this point. Kevin, the proprietor, is a lifelong Liverpudlian, who had actually met members of the Beatles around town when they all grew up. Upon my arrival I was greeted with juice, coffee or tea, and could get bread and whatever any time I wanted. Most hostels limit this to breakfast time, and sometimes it isn’t free, so this was awesome. Plus, the place had a nice homey feel, computers to use free internet on, cable, no checkout time, and on Thursday nights: a free Beatles tour led by Kevin.

While checking me in, Kevin gives me a brief history of Liverpool. Apparently it was the largest port in the world for 150 years (yet it has been a city for less than that, so I’m not sure if he’s right), and it has the oldest Chinatown in Europe. He says the food is shit though.

I had some time before the tour, so I explored, though Liverpool was fucking confusing, so I didn’t get to see a lot of what I had planned this afternoon. But what I’ve found out, to a point, is that getting lost is one of the best ways to discover and see a city, and to fulfill my mission of sweating the back out of my shirt every day. With no itinerary or a limited one and free time, it’s great. It’s impossible to see everything, and prohibitively expensive to see a lot.

Almost all of Liverpool’s museums are free, but I only got to the Victoria Gallery museum. Then I found Kimo’s, a place Kevin recommended to me, which is basically a Greek sit down place. I get a lamb kebob with pita and rice. It’s good, not great. Needed tzatziki.

Then, tour time! About 9-10 of us set out after receiving our free gift (a Beatles hat or beanie, I got a black Yellow submarine beanie that will come in handy with the wind). Apparently Brian Epstein lived in the building next to the hostel, John Lennon was born in the hospital a minute away, etc. etc. We went to the Philharmonic Pub, one of John Lennon’s favorite places to drink before he couldn’t in public, and had a pint. Then into downtown, pointing out the famous record stores and bars the Beatles/Quarrymen/what have you frequented. We finished the night at The Cavern, where the Beatles made their name in Liverpool and where Brian Epstein discovered them on his lunchbreak. They apparently played their over 200 times, and that night there was a Beatles cover band on. So, I’ve basically seen the Beatles live.

They kinda suck (Jlo’s better than the Beatles, anyhow), so me and two members of the tour that want to go check out more Liverpool nightlife bounce. These two are Liam and Darcy, both, of course, Australian.

Australians fall in a couple of camps. Some HATE Foster’s with a passion (Sacha), and others like to buy it because it’s cheap and a lot better overseas than it is in Australia (Liam, Darcy, Jimmy), where it’s absolute shit or not even sold (though the can claims Foster’s has been refreshing Aussies since 1888). Also, the same dichotomy exists for a chain of bars: the Walkabout, an Aussie themed bar with cheap drinks. I was hoping to avoid them, but it’s where Liam and Darcy wanted to go, and I’m glad I did.

Within 10 minutes were whisked off by two pretty girls to a photo booth, though they were clearly sponsored by the bar or working there (the photos can be seen on my facebook). A couple minutes later I freak out because I can’t find my ID, credit card, debit card, everything. Fuck. I’m practically on the verge of tears asking the bartender if any have turned up, and I ask the two girls, basically accusing them of stealing my life. Then I check my back pocket where I apparently moved them all to. I’m an idiot. I apologize to the girls, who aren’t too pleased.

While I know the continent will be a lot shadier and less safe, throughout the UK I’ve felt comfortable with my stuff, though I’ve still taken precautions, but a money belt would’ve been ridiculous to this point.

That great wave of relief washes over me, so we order drinks and watch girls on the mechanical bull. Soon, Liam and I (Darcy was gloomy in a corner) chatted up girls. I introduced myself as an American only in the city for one night, and offering to buy a drink. That’s all I had, and needed. Most were so flattered that they refused the drink, and preferred just to talk. Basically, I was a swinging door, talking with girls, getting their facebook information (my only way of contact to this point) and moving on, until I talked with Charlie. I’m a huge fan of girls with guy’s names. I’m not sure what that says about me, except for further proof of why I love Dawson’s Creek. Anyways, Charlie was indeed a girl, with fantastic tits (she also works as a toilet cleaner, apparently). I’m actually facebook friends with her, so if she actually reads this blog, I’ll look like a dick, but that was kind of a given anyways. Before she was whisked away by two of her upset looking guy friends, we gushed over each other’s accents, made out and she said I could visit her in Liverpool if I’m ever back.

I could have probably done better work in general, but I was having so a ball having so many different conversations and meeting so many people. Of course, I hardly remember the substance of any of them.

Then we went to another bar, where Liam, Darcy and I sat down with a couple girls. I had a nice conversation until Liam and Darcy bailed, leaving me alone. The girl asked if I should get back to my friends, and I responded saying I met them a couple hours ago. It didn’t really look good, so I quickly went to catch up with Liam and Darcy, who were nowhere to be found, presumably, on the way back to the hostel. So I got on my way.

It’s a fucking long walk back to the hostel, yet I somehow beat their taxi by 4 seconds. Then, we basically laugh and make fun of each other (Darcy) for an hour in the dark while some poor other guy is trying to sleep.

Next: Manchester