I remember the first time I really got into a TV show — became a fan. I was staying with Anna in L.A. for a week, sleeping on the couch in her living room with Valley heat outside and two cats inside that I was apparently allergic to. Bright blue carpet. I’d curl up under a borrowed blanket and pillow my head on a cushion and drift off.
On my last night there, I couldn’t sleep. I wasn’t ready to go back. I was ready to move here, now, and have a good time at sushi bars with dancing and singing, or at big birthday parties in relatively expensive restaurants, or just curled up on the couch, watching videotapes. All my stuff was packed in my carry-on bags. I was returning the rental car in a few hours, then getting a ride to the airport and leaving behind the city and my friends.
I saw a videotape lying on the end table. It wasn’t in a case, and I flipped it over to see what was written on the label. It said “Becoming 1+2.” I was bored. I couldn’t sleep. I popped it into the VCR. Two hours later, I was sitting on the couch, huddled in my quilt, crying quietly. Because of a TV show. I never would have pegged myself as a crier-at-TV-shows. I wrote an outline for a spec script on an index card, shoved it in my bag, and closed my eyes to get three hours of sleep before morning came.