Died crying like a bitch

I don't cry often. I used to tell people that I was born without tear ducts, which was true, but then I got the surgery to repair and replace them. The first few days after I got back from the hospital, I cried at most everything. Steak for dinner? Tears. Time to go to work? Unstoppable weeping. Spooning my girlfriend? Broken sobs and sniffles.

Then, after about a week, it stopped. Finally comfortable with my new-found ability to cry, I no longer needed to. Since then, I haven't really indulged. So I was probably just as surprised as the overly touchy man in sweats sitting next to me on the bus when my eyes began welling and I felt that familiar clot in my throat.

And what brought me back into the land of emotion and feeling? Aaron fuckin' Sorkin.

A genius writer, Sorkin is best known for his screenplays (American President, A Few Good Men), his drug use (cocaine, mushrooms) and his television shows (Sports Night, West Wing). Of those six things, I've always been partial to West Wing.

West Wing was a weekly one-hour drama with a subtle undercurrent of snark and empathy that dealt with the President of the United States, his advisors, and his trials and tribulations. For four seasons, Sorkin wrote the majority of the episodes and occasionally directed a few.

During this period, the show was untouchable. Snappy banter, political discussions, and weekly plots that not only resolved in an hour, but often advanced the story arc of one or more characters. That's an impressive, nearly impossible feat to accomplish, and although it's completely unfair, you can't help but wonder how much of Sorkin's success depended on his drug use.

See, Sorkin had an affinity for narcotics that not only bested him, but eventually costed him his involvement on the show. Wikipedia puts it politely:

Sorkin was arrested on April 15, 2001 after guards at a security checkpoint at the Burbank Airport found hallucinogenic mushrooms, marijuana and crack cocaine in his carry-on bag. He was later ordered to a drug-diversion program.

During The West Wing's fourth season, major shake ups occurred. Some fans believed the show had lost its way, an opinion that was not helped when series star Rob Lowe—initially slated to be the central character but given less and less screen time as the show went on—chose to leave the series. Soon after, Sorkin and fellow executive producer Thomas Schlamme left the show in a dispute with the network.

It was inevitable that as soon as the driving creative force left the show, the spark would follow. And it did. And I stopped watching regularly, often catching up on missed shows via Bravo's marathon West Wing Mondays. But even at my most lax, the show still meant something to me.

Detractors of the West Wing often call it liberal porn, prime mastubatory fodder for Democrats in both its intent and execution. I disagree. What I saw the show constantly aspire to be was hopeful. It was about a group of people who cared, cared deeply, and worked hard to make the right choices for the right reasons. And as our actual governing body led us further and further into bleakness, the show eventually became a beacon indicating how far afield we had traveled.

I'm probably not alone in thinking this, especially if you're one of the few who have bothered to read this far, but the characters on the West Wing were not just people I empathized with, but people I wanted in charge. They were the epitome of an idealized government, and I think that's where the "liberal porn" label came from.

But we seek idealization in most aspects of our lives, from role models to art, so why should politics be exempt? It's the same reason I dislike people razzing celebrities for their opinions. To be sure, they are coming to the table from a unique vantage point, but that shouldn't immediately negate their concerns nor should it taint their actions (Sean Penn's douchebaggery aside). If they want to speak, let 'em speak; we're a democracy, it's free speech, and last I checked there weren't limits on it (with obvious exceptions).

So here was a show that showed how it could be, and I respected and loved it for that. Then I moved to Seattle and decided against cable. I knew the show was ending--it had been in its last throes for a while--but I wasn't there to watch it go.

Thankfully, there's a little website called Television Without Pity (TWOP). Offering snarky recaps of popular tv shows, it's a great place to catch up on back episodes, which is how I ended up crying at my desk at two in the morning.

If you were a regular West Wing viewer, you can skip this paragraph. The virginal West Wing viewer, however, should continue on. Earlier this season, Toby, one of the president's senior advisors, divulged state secrets to a newspaper in order to help some astronauts who were stranded in space. Toby had a brother who was an astronaut, back before he killed himself rather than face cancer. Toby also has two young children, one of whom is named for a secret service agent who was killed while protecting the president's daughter. Santos is the incoming president, Jed Bartlet is the outgoing president, and Josh was a former advisor to the latter and current chief of staff to the former.

Confused? Sorry. That's about as good as it's going to get.

This is how TWOP recaps the last scenes of the last episode:

Jed tells Debbie that he's finished, and she asks him what he's doing with the final pardon warrant. Jed claims that there's still time, and she calmly tells him, "Not much." And that's so much less about the clock than it is about her sense of how much Jed is wrestling with himself over Toby's pardon. But he claims to have two hours and nineteen minutes, and she tells him he really has two hours and eighteen minutes.

C.J. enters, and is surprised to see that Jed has not already left for the Residence to get dressed. She's holding Mallory's present and she hands it to Jed, who expresses disappointment that Mallory didn't stop to see him. Debbie's getting frustrated, and tells Jed that he only has sixteen minutes to get ready. Jed: "I'm a fast dresser." Debbie: "Not that fast." She snatches the gift away from him and tells him that she'll see that it's waiting for him on the plane.

C.J. notes that Jed's note to Santos is on the desk, and you can tell that she sees Toby's warrant there, as well. But she restrains herself from saying anything about it, and I think that's a lot less to do with her sense that the President should make that decision than it is about the fact that she's wrestling with herself over Toby's pardon. After a bit, Jed tells her, "It's been a pleasure, Claudia Jean." C.J.: "The pleasure's been all mine, sir." Lord, she's beautiful. She walks out. Jed, looking like a scared old man, sits down, looks to the heavens, sighs, and signs Toby's pardon. And then he stands up and raps his hand sharply on the desk, almost like a judge marking the end of a hearing. He picks up the pardon and walks towards Debbie's office.

(...)

In the Oval Office, Santos thanks the Joint Chiefs for their input and tells him he'll speak with them tomorrow. The military types all leave, and Josh, Sam, and Bram enter. Santos tells them that the military wants ten thousand more troops in Kazakhstan. Sam and Santos talk about whether or not it is good idea. Josh slowly smiles at Santos. Santos asks what he's smiling about, and Josh tells him, "You look good back there." As though Santos hasn't heard Josh say that a million times before. And then Ronna steps in to bram Santos away to the Residence so that he can start getting ready for all of the balls. He's clearly feeling his power, because he tells Ronna to tell Helen that he'll be up in fifteen more minutes. Sam and Bram leave. Santos looks at Josh and asks, "What's next?" They both sit, and Josh starts briefing him on some other issue.

A flight attendant walks through the former Air Force One and knocks on a door. Jed tells her to enter. It was so nice of the government to let him keep the plane. She's there to tell him that they'll be landing in a while. Jed stands up, and we see that Abbey is in the room. Jed puts something in his briefcase and finds the package that Mallory left for him. He unwraps it and opens the box. It's the napkin on which Leo scrawled "Bartlet for America" on that day so many years ago. He takes the framed napkin, hands it to Abbey, and sits beside her. She asks him, "What are you thinking about?" He looks out the window and tells her, "Tomorrow." We cut to an exterior shot of the plane. Credits.

And then we cut back to me, tears welling up in my eyes as I read those last words over and over again. And I guess what moved me is a combination of factors:

1) It's the end. There will never be another episode, and all we know of these characters now is all we will ever know. Just like on any good long-running tv show, the characters became something more than fictional, more than creations. They became friends. Dependable, honorable, witty, these were people with whom I subconsciously wanted to know while consciously aware that it was impossible. By ending, the show forced a reconciliation between the desire and the knowledge, and the result was a palpable sense of loss.

2) It was a fairly shitty season. More attention was paid to the new characters than the old, and the storylines vascillated between retreads of previous episodes and hackneyed, cloying plots. But instead of bowing out shamefully, powered only on fumes, it really feels like John Wells (the executive producer) gathered the writers together and said: "Make it count." And then they did.

3) It ended on a hopeful note. An elder statesman exits stage left, another steps in stage right, and although that's all we see, we know that--in this version of reality, at least--someone is going to keep on trying doing the right thing. And goddamn if that doesn't make me balance some hope against the sadness on the ending measurement.

All I have now are the show's words, which is what I'll leave this with:

Leo McGarry: This guy's walking down the street when he falls in a hole. The walls are so steep he can't get out. A doctor passes by, and the guy shouts up, "Hey, you, can you help me out?" The doctor writes a prescription, throws it down in the hole and moves on. Then a priest comes along, and the guy shouts up, "Father, I'm down in this hole. Can you help me out?" The priest writes a prayer, throws it down in the hole and moves on. Then a friend walks by. "Hey, Joe, it's me. Can you help me Out" And the friend jumps in the hole. Our guy says, "Are you nuts? Now we're both down here." The friend says, "Yeah, but I've been down here before - and I know the way out."

President Josiah Bartlet: "We hold these truths to be self-evident," they said, "that all men are created equal." Strange as it may seem, that was the first time in history that anyone had ever bothered to write that down. Decisions are made by those who show up.

President Josiah Bartlet: Never doubt that a small group of thoughtful committed citizens can change the world. Do you know why?
Will Bailey: Because it's the only thing that ever has.