In nearly 27 years of existence, I’ve never watched an episode of any Crime Scene Investigation in its entirety. I’m not sure how that’s even possible, and it might not even be true (I may have tried CSI: NY‘s pilot because Gary Sinise), but I consider it one of my crowning pop culture achievements.

I threw it all away last night for the premiere of CBS’ CSI: Cyber, the 137th spin-off of Jerry Bruckheimer’s inane ratings blockbuster that refuses to die, CSI: Crime Scene Investigation.

I did it, because the show stars the Dawson, James Van Der Beek.

Afterwards, all I can say is…poor James Van Der Beek, because I can’t imagine there being a worse CSI than this one.

With “Kidnapping 2.0,” an awful title that indicates the “technology” aspect of the show with the 2.0 (decimal points!), and that this is an all-new, all-different way of kidnapping, a revolutionary new way of solving crime.

It’s not. A baby (his name is Caleb) is taken from a Baltimore home, in full view of the Natal-Cam, with bewildering foreign voices barking from the device. The woman goes ballistic, with the obligatory “Where’s my baby?” and we’re off into the world of insane, glitchy camera work, background EDM music, unnecessary close ups meant to inspire drama and exude cool, all while Patricia Arquette sips from a soda (she’s a night owl!) and opens an e-mail. It’s fucking thrilling, a bizarre concoction for a show tailored to those who can’t replace the batteries in their remote. This mix is surely crafted in Jerry Bruckheimer’s evil lair, the perfect weapon against 76 year old couples nodding off into their metamucil.

The e-mail brings Arquette (AKA Avery Ryan) a case, as she rustles Peter MacNicol out of bed to tell him that THIS IS HER CASE, because it’s technology related. That’s when we learn: any case involving technology goes to the Washington D.C.’s Cyber division. This show, alas, is not about the early days of AIM chatrooms, when middle school boys cyber sexed with random strangers that we’re obviously the hot chicks they claimed to be. She said she was a Wicca.

When an actor goes on CSI, they’re either catching their first break to play a “quirky” side character, a familiar name actor with nothing better to do, or someone looking for something safe, a hit, something to rebuild their cache. But most of all, it’s all about the paycheck. It has to be. Nobody can read the script and think this is going to be a satisfying experience any other way. CSI is sell out central. Let me be clear: I don’t blame anyone for joining on; I’d take a gig on CSI: Fecal Matter in an instant.

So let’s meet the team:

Patricia Arquette is Avery Ryan, who was introduced in the flagship CSI and is the workaholic, haunted FBI leader we’ve seen a billion times before. In less than two weeks, Arquette went from winning an Oscar to saying “desperate people do desperate things” with a straight face.

James Van Der Beek is Elijah Mundo, a name you can tell everyone’s proud of, because he says it every chance he gets. He’s the Soldier Boy (a characterization that gave me happy daydreams of a Van Der Beek starring music video to this), who even on his day off is shooting bad guys…in video games. This is an important trait that comes into play later. He’s the only one who we can reasonably expect to have ever held a gun in their lives, so he’ll do the heavy lifting in every action sequence, the saving grace for those who believe James Van Der Beek is a superhero (or a Power/Ranger). Maybe Van Der Beek is even ashamed of this job, because he’s not even listed on the IMDb page for the pilot episode. While this show will probably last 14 seasons (it got off to a solid ratings start), it’s a depressing development in the Beek’s career. After HIMYM and the incredibly underrated, gone too soon bonkers wonderful Don’t Trust The B—- in Apartment 23, he bounced to Friends With Better Lives, a show I watched even less of than this one. It just feels like he’s given up on being the wacky Dawson with personality, the one who will take risks, this Dawson:

That’s one of many reasons why this show needs to fail. But hey..

Peter MacNicol should be doing one-man puppet shows in Jackson Heights (or Cleveland), or starring in a long-awaited Ally McBeal spinoff. Instead, he’s the exasperated boss for an embarrassingly fake crime division. The best part? His name is SIMON SIFTER. Let’s say it again: SIMON SIFTER.

Neil from Community (Charley Koontz) is Daniel Krumitz, the overweight every-man best whitehat hacker in the world.

There’s of course the punky hot chick that has become a staple ever since NCIS’ Pauley Perrette. Her name is also alliterative: Raven Ramirez. She’s the representative of every ethnicity, and played by Hayley Kiyoko, which is way too close a name to Kaley Cuoco.

Michael Irby reprises his role from Almost Human as most useless member of a crime procedural ensemble.

Finally, there’s Shad Moss, shedding his Bow Wow moniker to become a “legitimate” actor. He plays Brody Nelson, a talented hacker who got taken down by this Cyber team previously, and gets a chance to join the hacker support group rather than spend 5 years in federal prison. But remember: he’s on thin fucking ice. Also, just because he’s a young criminal hacker doesn’t mean he can’t dress fine, and rock a sweet ass suit he shouldn’t reasonably be able to afford in every scene.

The team arrives in Baltimore and initiates “cyber protocol,” which I think just means what you normally do at a crime scene. This is news to Brody Nelson, who’s amazingly referred to consistently as Babyface, because Krumitz needs to remind him to put on gloves. Bow Wow and Neil take way too long to figure out that the Natal-Cam RECORDS video (it’s a camera), meaning they could have footage of the crime. But ALAS, the kidnappers took the SD card with them. “These are smart kidnappers,” Bow Wow observes.

The grieving parents are played by Peyton Manning with glasses and CBS’ version of Madeleine Stowe. We quickly learn that Not-Madeleine Stowe is lying, thanks to “flashes” to her innumerable painfully obvious tells: she’s biting her lip, crossing her shoulders, she’s “sneak talking” on the phone. This, of course, means she’s having an affair, and that the fourth Manning brother is NOT the father.

While we’re observing Arquette’s keen observational skills, a prerequisite for every mind-numbing procedural, James Van Der Beek is casing the building, and getting the best lines: “The security wires are cut.” Then he hears VIDEO GAME NOISES, and investigates! A kid next door is playing Assassinites. Because they’re both gamers, bro, Dawson gets the kid to tell him information about the kidnapping, that he heard tires screeching, there were two people, whatever, which we see in SUPER BADASS FLASHBACKS of a boy in bed turning to his open window. Dawson tells him how to beat level 12 like a boss in return. Because of Dawson’s knowledge of behavior/stereotypes, he quickly assumes that means it’s a 1 man-1 woman team, and the woman is who lifted the baby, the guy the getaway driver, because gender roles.

Back at base, they’re figuring out what these voices mean: they hear Chinese, German, Arabic. The kidnappers have made a mistake, “and mistakes will let us catch them.” A fair presumption to make. Also: Patricia Arquette won an Oscar.

We also get to see some hilarious malware graphics, because viruses come alive on a computer screen and destroy data for our amusement. CSI: Cyber is ripping off Person of Interest with every one of these sequences, but hey it’s a part of the CBS family.

They track the malware to a Baltimore harbor, and the REAL father of the baby, a guy named Bill Hookstraten (great name). And there’s a baby there! Apparently Crying Mother couldn’t leave her husband for him, so she never let him see the baby. So…this father paid $75,000 in CASH (he seems to be a ship mechanic, a job title that lends itself to extra cash) for the baby. BUT: this baby isn’t Caleb. HE DOESN’T HAVE A FRECKLE! Desperate Dad has been played, and is now arrested, because he BOUGHT a baby from two white trash strangers.

But wait, there are TWO babies now? This means it’s a baby kidnapping conspiracy guys.

Patricia Arquette changes the new baby’s diapers, AND finds a fingerprint of one of the kidnappers on the diaper, all while speaking in baby talk to Un-Caleb. It’s the clip they will show for her Golden Globe nomination. They get a match on Vicky Shala (Rae Gray), a low level criminal “lush.”

To track down these kidnappers, Raven and Bow Wow peruse a Facebook equivalent, and are remarkably impressed with themselves that they can track down Vicky’s partner in crime/boyfriend Ricky on the social media site, and also a picture of his car/the getaway vehicle. They even high-five afterwards, as if they did something that isn’t a quarter as impressive as your average Facebook stalk. Everyone can do Raven’s job, except for the audience of CSI: Cyber. The only way CSI: Cyber might seem new or “hi-tech” is if anyone watching the show has never used a computer.

So they’ve ID’d the kidnappers, know the vehicle they’re searching for, and have narrowed down their possible location to a circle on a computer screen. But how can they narrow it down even further? Never fear, Arquette is here: “Evolutionary survival skills will instinctually lead them to higher ground.”

They track them to a bar in the mountains, and they’re both drunk morons with cash in their trunk (but no baby!), and quickly get shot down by a biker. He doesn’t get far, because Elijah Mundo is there and he plays video games, so he can run after dirt bikes and shoot them down. He’s an Assassinite, yo. When he calls it in, he remarks that he’s okay, but the other guy “will need a body bag.” Dawson is a stone cold killer.

But what about these voices on the Nato-Cam, you ask? That seems important. You’d be right! It turns out, in one of two things that I found to be a clever concept in this pilot, that these foreign voices are BIDDING! It’s an online baby auction, y’all!

Peter MacNicol comments on the oh-so-IRONIC nature of this case: “These parents bought the baby cam to protect their child, and it’s what gets them captured.” Janosz, what has happened?

We all know adoption processes are unbearable these days; it’s like the DMV of…getting babies. It’s so bad that people will pay 6 figures for kids on the black market (“Desperate people do desperate things,” remember?). I think all babies should be bought in an auction, because nothing proves their love and commitment to parenting than the amount of money they’re willing to spend.

But wait! 2 more babies have been taken. The plot thickens/exists. Neil from Community gets shipped to Nato-Cam’s HQ in Chicago, where their tech guy basically says: “Yes, I know they’re easy to hack, I went upstairs to the bosses and they didn’t care.” You’d think this would indicate that Nato-Cam is in on it, but nope, they allowed 45,000 cameras to be corrupted because it would affect their bottom line, or one would assume, since it’s never followed up on. CSI: Cyber is filled with social commentary if you can arbitrarily create it yourself.

Michael Irby’s Dr. Ortega arrives in DC, looking like an extra from NCIS, and has “virtually teleported” the bodies of Vicky, Ricky and the dead biker assassin. This means we get Iron Man-like visuals of the skeletons, and Irby zooms in on Vicky’s: there are incisions on her silicone breasts! This means she was a drug mule who transported drugs in her fake boobs, the other (and last) incredible thing in this episode, and surely the sequel to Lucy.

The real kidnapper is panicking, so he sends a threat through the Gamer Kid’s video game: a video of crying Caleb, promising he’ll kill the baby if they don’t give up or whatever. It’s an “intimidation tactic,” Arquette tells us. Thankfully, all game consoles have pedophile protection (I feel like everything should come with pedophile protection), Neil explains, which means we can TRACK DOWN THE KIDNAPPER!

It all leads, as all things inevitably do, to a warehouse in Paterson, NJ. This is when Dawson gets another shining moment. Arquette gives him a bright green ball, that’s really a bouncing camera. “You better not fuck it up,” she basically says, and Dawson, like the failed MLB prospect he surely wasn’t, hurtles the ball through an open window, a perfect throw, giving the FBI a glimpse at the setup just long enough, to BURST IN, guns a blazing.

Dawson takes them all down, basically, because again, he’s the only one who can. Thanks again to Arquette’s Mentalist powers, she quickly determines the ring leader based on the lineup of tattooed thugs’ eye contact.

They’ve found their creepy baby selling stronghold, but they can’t hack into it for a billion years, because it has a 20 digit alphanumeric password. This seems wrong, but luckily, as Arquette makes an arguably racist assumption: these guys can’t remember 20 digits! And of course, the Big Bad’s various tattoos commemorating family and friend’s deaths have numbers, 20 IN FACT.

It’s all up to Bow Wow now, and time is off the essence. CALEB IS STILL OUT THERE. A BABY NEEDS SAVING. What does Bow Wow do? What he was put on God’s green earth to do: he HACK-RAPS!

Seriously! YES BABY FACE YOU BEAUTIFUL BRILLIANT BASTARD! “What are you doing,” Asian-Cuoco asks. “I think better when I talk in rhyme.” This is the moment when CSI: Cyber soars beyond any other show we’ve yet had the pleasure to witness. This is the show they should’ve made: THE RAPPING HACKER!

But we don’t get to languish in the glory of the Like Mike actor finding his true calling for long. We have a car chase with a baby in the back seat to witness, and it’s terrifying. The FBI trap and corner the car, but the wild-eyed kidnapper driver plunges the car into an unfortunate lake.

But the Beek is in the same zip code. He jumps in after the car, now completely submerged, and shatters the car window (on his second try). He brings the American Sniper baby up for air, leaving the two kidnappers to Cthulhu. Because he knows only a woman can do it (we established this earlier), he hands Caleb off to Arquette. “HE’S NOT BREATHING!” And that’s when we see Arquette give CPR to a baby, and it’s miraculous, and the day is saved.

Arquette returns the baby to the bespectacled Manning who is entirely too okay with the fact that the real father of his baby is a guy who would pay $75K to have him stolen. The Mom mentions that she’s never going to let him go, and Arquette gives her a stern look and the ultimate guilt trip: “I think other people would like to hold that baby.” Is she referencing Manning? Or Caleb’s real Desperate Dad who’s in jail? Who cares: the gauntlet has been thrown. FEEL GUILTY Madeleine Nowe.

Off screen, of course, the rest of the babies have been recovered, the other tweaker kidnappers taken down. We don’t see it, but I assume Dawson had to jump into several more lakes to save them. The group has the prototypical bubbly “time to get a drink” moment after a tough day’s work. But remember, Peter MacNicol Simon Sifter tells them/the world: IT ALL STARTS AGAIN TOMORROW. AHHHHHHHH.

Before it ends, Bow Wow gets a hugely satisfying moment with Arquette, wondering “Why me?” BECAUSE YOU’RE BOW WOW, AND GET BACK TO RHYMING. This is when we get the all-important tortured past angle for Avery Ryan/Arquette: the why-she-does it. And it goes back to the beginning of the internet, when a hacker had medical files stolen, a client was murdered and she lost her job. She believes that if she can turn a hacker, even if it’s just one by one, something like that can never happen again. This has the unfortunate stench of turning her into a Great White Savior, the potential for this show to turn into Dangerous Minds for hackers, which still sounds like a better show than what we’ve got, considering all the potential guest stars we could get opposite Bow Wow.

Bow Wow asks if Arquette’s getting a drink with the rest of them. Of course not. Instead, every night she thinks about how she’s going to catch him (of course it’s a him), Hacker Zero. She does this intense thinking on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial, her intensity so intense that nobody else is near one of the most tourist-heavy spots in the country, because there’s nothing subtle about this ridiculous, stupid show.

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.

HOW I MET YOUR MOTHER changed my life.

On September 19^th, 2005, Barney Stinson promised Ted: “I’m going to teach you how to live.” But really, he could’ve been talking to all of us.

Over the span of nine seasons, HIMYM became more than a funny sitcom. Thanks to one of the most talented, game and legendary casts ever, HIMYM became, like FRIENDS and SEINFELD, part of the family. It became a Monday night institution, a weekly tutorial on how to pick up women, to find true love, to live in NY, and mostly, how not to do all of those things.

I knew the moment that the pilot ended, when Bob Saget (as Future Ted) dropped the bombshell that Robin wasn’t the mother, but that we had just met “Aunt” Robin, that HIMYM was gonna be a thing.

True story.

Of course, I was an easy target. I was ready to love Neil Patrick Harris from the word go. I had seen DOOGIE HOWSER un-ironically, loved STARSHIP TROOPERS and wanted to be cool, so I also “dug” HAROLD & KUMAR. The only parts I’ve ever dug about those movies are the NPH moments.

As for Alyson Hannigan, I actually hadn’t watched BUFFY when HIMYM first began, but AMERICAN PIE was one of the most formative comedies of my young adult life (which likely says a lot). I also think my Future Self knew how big a deal Willow and the Whedonverse would be to me, that I always held a special kinship for Hannigan, before I truly did.

Cobie Smulders was smoking hot, but clearly more than a pretty face.

Josh Radnor had weird ears and a big heart, and I grew to love his semi-self indulgent hipster-y indie movies, like LIBERAL ARTS. And maybe I recognized him as the Tour Guide from NOT ANOTHER TEEN MOVIE, but I sincerely doubt it.

Jason Segel was already a king to me, having loved FREAKS AND GEEKS and UNDECLARED and firmly in the Judd Apatow camp.

HIMYM had me hooked, and over 200 episodes later, Ted, Barney, Marshall, Lily and Robin have become a part of who I am.

I wanted to be Barney, the one-liner spouting ladies’ man that’d make Wilt Chamberlain blush, with an outrageous salary for a bogus job, espousing more wisdom than Broda, and most impressively, no STD’s.

I wanted to date and fall in love with Robin, the impossibly (Canadian) beautiful “one of the boys” women with a sense of humor, a knack for laser tag, Daddy issues and a devastating pop star past. Cobie Smulders joining the Marvel Universe as Maria Hill only made this a more pressing desire.

I wanted to have a relationship like Marshall and Lily’s. Has there been a better couple on TV than Alyson Hannigan and Jason Segel’s characters? HIMYM has done a phenomenal job of adding layers to the pair, of adding conflict, humor and genuine ups and downs in their relationship, while never sacrificing or ruining the couple for the sake of shock value. It hasn’t always been Lilypad’s and Marshmallows, but that’s what makes them real, even while being the husband and wife we all strive to be. They haven’t been together for all 9 seasons, but there was never any doubt as to who they would end up with, and never any “won’t they” served with the heaping portions of “will they.”

But we’re all more like Ted than we want to admit. We over think things. We’re dreamers, optimists, architects of our own loneliness, creating impossibly romantic scenarios in our head that life can’t possibly supply. We hold onto things we love, for a painfully long time. We can’t get over them, or over ourselves, and yet, Ted is the everyman. The nice, funny, hopeless romantic searching for a happy ending, for meaning in this sometimes discouraging universe. HIMYM has proved unequivocally that the world needs Ted’s.

HIMYM changed television. HIMYM has the mythology and back story befitting a high concept drama like LOST or BREAKING BAD, yet it’s in a bite sized 20 minute sitcom package. No longer are audiences merely satisfied with a completely static cast of funky characters with no change like the sitcoms of yesteryear (or the cartoons of forever). We wanted events and episodes to matter, to have lasting effects, and HIMYM created a gripping story and addictive conceit with its pilot and never deviated from it. HIMYM changed the way we consume TV, a harbinger of high-concept obsessions and the binge-watching generation, presenting a new kind of sitcom.

Is there a show with more lasting and hilarious running jokes? A show that extolls more divine life lessons? More ingenious rules about dating? HIMYM created its own language.

I’ve used “Have you met—?” to start a conversation with women. It hasn’t really worked, but it’s never NOT worked. I’ve gone on dates in fear that they would use the Lemon Law.

I went to parties convinced I’d find the Slutty Pumpkin, and was discouraged when I didn’t. I wake up hung over hoping to find a pineapple on my bed stand. I wanted to meet someone that stirred something inside me, spurring me to steal that Blue French horn.

I’m always disappointed when I don’t make friends with the Taxi driver. I’ve never tried the Naked Man, but I’m convinced it’d work (2 out of 3 times). I want to correct everyone’s pronunciation of the word “Renaissance.”

I force Bro into random words and I didn’t make fun of a friend when he bought The Bro Code. I firmly disagree with the “Nothing Good Happens After 2 AM” mantra, but I can attest that most of the bad things in my life have come after that fateful time.

Of course, it hasn’t always been pretty (Daphne. “Son of a beesh.”).

To me, the first five seasons were practically bliss, some of the funniest, most inventive and heartfelt sitcoms in history. It was my favorite show during early seasons, and probably the only show that I would save on my DVR after watching it, leading to innumerable repeat viewings. I listened to “Sandcastles in the Sand” and “Let’s Go to the Mall” an embarrassing number of times. The Slap Bet is probably the best long-running joke in the history of TV. If I had recorded The Perfect Week on a VHS tape, it would’ve been destroyed. Who hasn’t felt like the Sexless Innkeeper at some point in their lives?

When I was backpacking in Europe, one night I found myself returning from the clubs of Barcelona (well after 2 AM). I was heading into my hostel for sleep when I bumped into a girl named Karlee. She was Canadian, and more importantly, was as obsessed with HIMYM as I was. We talked beside a fountain, which would’ve been romantic had it not been for the thieves and vagrants circling us like vultures, asking us for money and preparing us for the sex trade. But still, we chatted passionately for hours about our hopes and dreams, about marriage, TV, the future, the important things. We were both playing a part in re-enacting HIMYM…both falling in love for one night.

The problem was that we were both Ted’s. It was a perfect conversation, where everything the other person said made perfect sense and enlivened the heart and loins…and we both built up the other person impossibly in our heads, that the next morning…when the illusion (and drunk) had worn off, that it felt weird. We maybe weren’t the ones for each other, and probably never had been. We had played our parts perfectly. For that night, it was exactly what we wanted and needed…and by seeing each other again, we had kind of ruined it. Like Ted, I met the Slutty Pumpkin again, and it simply wasn’t the same. How do you follow that? You don’t.

The same problems plagued HIMYM. The last four seasons have been more like a rollercoaster, with a few unbearably long waits to get on the ride itself, as CBS and its creators dragged out this tale with seemingly no end in sight. It was becoming a major bummer (*salute* Major Bummer). The characters didn’t feel as fresh, and the relationships didn’t crackle with the same electricity, and the guest stars felt more like stunt casting than stumbling upon treasure (does it get better than Wayne Brady and James Van Der Beek?), and we all were just ready to meet the damn Mother already. Like the immortal Murtaugh, we were getting too old for this stuff, and so was Ted and the McLaren gang.

It’s taken three seasons to get us to Barney’s wedding, and 9 seasons for Ted to tell us the story of how he met the mother of his children. Sometimes it’s been like pulling teeth. At first, I would be practically giddy with a small morsel of information about the mother. She’s in a band? She has a yellow umbrella? Soon these “revelations” were met with sarcasm, eye rolling, and impatience.

Like Ted, we were tired of waiting. The show needed an intervention, and an endgame. Plus, with this massive snowball effect of expectation…doubt seeped into my brain. After 8 seasons of buildup, how could they possibly find a woman that would be worth the wait? This “Mother” wasn’t just for Ted. It was for all of us.

And then, in the finale of season 8 (“Something New”), we met Cristin Milioti.

Her hiring was probably one of the greatest TV casting decisions of all-time.

Sarcasm, doubt, impatience, all of it gone. Cristin Milioti is everything.

While getting a few random curly fries with your regular fry order is cause for celebration…Cristin Milioti is the dream. She’s the most adorable, sexy, funny and wonderful woman, and the  brilliance with which Carter Bays, Craig Thomas and Pamela Fryman have weaved her into the HIMYM tapestry has cemented their esteemed status on TV once again. “How Your Mother Met Me” is one of (if not) the best episode(s) of the entire show, injecting years of backstory and emotional investment in a character that already had an unfair amount of baggage and expectation before we even met her, all in 20 plus minutes. Cristin is the best part of every scene she’s in, and every interview or moment I’ve seen of her off camera has made me melt into the 5^th grade version of me after discovering my first crush.

After I watch/cry continuously during the two-part finale on Monday March 31^st (I’m debating whether or not I should eat a sandwich first), I’m going to miss HIMYM. For a few years, I was ready for it to be over, discouraged enough to consider removing it from my DVR entirely. Had I done so, I clearly would’ve been the Blitz. But come Tuesday morning, after HIMYM has no doubt come to an emotionally satisfying conclusion…I’ll want HIMYM back, and I likely won’t wait three days before trying to call her back.

Daddy’s finally coming home, with the Mother in tow, and it really was, impossibly, worth the wait.

It really was Legendary.