Watching The Golden Girls is one of my great guilty pleasures, & watching The Golden Girls here on location in Miami is like, a thousand times better than watching it anywhere else.
The obsession started when I was a little kid living in Barbados, where it was one of the only American shows we got -- that & Days of Our Lives circa 1975. The Golden Girls was on sort of late, so it was one of the last shows I could watch before bedtime. It always gave me this sort of warm safe feeling inside. Back then I used to get really anxious about school & stuff & I'd have trouble falling asleep, so it was good for me to watch something pleasant before bed.
Today, watching The Golden Girls still gives me that same old feeling, & not just because of its killer theme song. It's so reassuring. It gives me hope for the whole human condition. Death isn't nearly so frightening as old age: the prospect of growing old (quite possibly alone, almost definitely frail, feeble & tired, hopefully of "a fading prettiness," if possessing any prettiness at all, & at worst, destitute & forgotten) is a terrifying idea. The Golden Girls, however, live pretty great lives for any age. They live with their best friends, they have families (tho they don't have to spend too much time with them), they work occasionally, they go on dates, they dress well (shoulder pads & sequins not withstanding -- at least they're trying) & when one of them has a problem, they sit around the kitchen table eating cheesecake & working it out together. They're always going out on the lanai for a drink or something. They love calling it the lanai.
I got to meet Rue McClanahan (Blanche) once, last summer, at the Williamsburg dog parade. She was completely fucking terrifying. She was such a diva, rhinestone sunglasses & tropical parasol set against the sun, the star judge of the dog show. I approached her during a lull in the proceedings & told her how much I enjoyed her work. I made very sure to call her "Ms. McClanahan." She was quite gracious, but when I asked if she would mind being photographed with me, her manner became more authoritative.
"When I'm not judging, you may take a picture," she commanded.
"OK," I said uncertainly, backing away a bit.
"I'm not judging now" -- very impatiently -- "so you can take the picture now." A little sigh of annoyance. "Where is the camera?"
Panicked, I grabbed my friend Jay, who was nervous too & fumbled for his Nikon. Rue dictated the shot, motioning for me to sit beside her, under the parasol. I was shaking & trying to smile; as soon as Jay pushed that button I was back on my feet.
"Thank you!" I said, practically halfway across the park already. "Thank you so much!"
The photo came out well; you can hardly see the terror in my eyes or how much I was shaking. The one I'd really like to meet is Bea Arthur. You can tell she's the sort of old school entertainer who'd be a real class act. Drag queens love Bea because she offers them a standard of womanhood men can attain; Bea loves them right back. In fact, you can tell she loves all her fans & would never boss them around or try to intimidate them ... not like some Golden Girls I know ...
