Picture it: a crisp night in a quaint, New England small town. The twinkle lights are twinkling and everyone's wrapped up in leather, corduroy, and cozy knitwear. Luke's pouring coffee and slinging burgers even though, realistically, his establishment would have closed by 8 p.m. at the latest. People in sleepy communities like this are typically at home after dark, but not in Stars Hollow. In this place, run by closeted gay dictator/knitwear enthusiast, Taylor Doose, there's always something cozy happening, whether it be the Firelight Festival, 24-hour dance marathon, or Poe reading. While this town technically experiences all four seasons, it spiritually exists in perpetual autumn. As Ray Bradbury once said, the denizens of SH are "autumn people, thinking only autumn thoughts," which is probably why we keep coming back to them year after year at the first hint of chill.
In 2024, my site traffic peaked in October and November, averaging 30% more sessions than the next highest month of the year (January, because I guess people are bored post-holidays). Before Google rolled out their stupid algorithm updates and shitty AI bullshit in May 2024, the spike used to be much higher. 80% of my total traffic comes from "Gilmore Girls." This is of course skewed data since a) "GG" accounts for a high percentage of the content on my site and b) FND goes out to a decently sized email list, thus cutting down on traffic. Regardless, it's still indicative of how much pull this show has eighteen years after it's gone off the air. Even the terrible revival was nine years ago at this point. It doesn't matter how much time has passed: when leaves start to crunch, the people need "Gilmore Girls" in an IV and I, your humble nostalgia pusher, will happily supply a hit.
In this installment, you're getting my "GG" fanfiction/hot takes/intrusive thoughts that are hopefully at least one step up from an embarrassing Buzzfeed listicle.
Grass height measuring and unnecessary traffic lights walked so butthole spiders and penis flatteners could run. I've talked about this before, but I fully believe that in real life, Taylor Doose would have gotten the Ken Rex McElroy treatment. For those unfamiliar, McElroy was this horrible man in Skidmore, Missouri who was publicly executed in broad daylight. A suspect was never brought to trial because all the townspeople, many of whom witnessed the murder, refused to identify the culprit. People can only take so much harassment before they snap, and there's no way Taylor hasn't pushed his community to the absolute brink.
Aside from the times Luke threw a frying pan at his head and screamed "ARM-SWINGING LENGTH," the threats of violence against this absolute menace are shockingly low. I have a hard time believing the town wouldn't have banded together to oust Taylor long before Jackson's S4 selectman victory. Remember when a brief Luke's Diner boycott led to the swift firing of Froggy? That little dirtbag was around for a few weeks tops before everyone, including Reverend Skinner, decided they had enough of him... and yet, we're supposed to believe Taylor runs amok with unchecked power for years? I call bullshit. The only way this makes sense is if everyone is dead and they're all in The Bad Place masquerading as The Good Place with Taylor in the role of Michael.
Maybe the town actually has overthrown him umpteenth times, but when that happens, Taylor reboots the experiment and fine tunes his torture. "They'll never suspect they're in The Bad Place if I give them international grab bag night at Al's Pancake World," he mutters to himself while removing crusty used tissues from his cardigan pockets. "How can anyone possibly complain about living in a place with a cat-themed gift shop? The fun is endless!" The Stars Hollow we're familiar with from seasons 1-7 represents Taylor's 802nd reboot. "AYitL" is the 900th, the equivalent to Eleanor's soulmate performing a three-hour spoken word jazz opera. If you don't know what I'm talking about, maybe put "The Good Place" on your to-watch list and strap in for four seasons of melancholic joy.
Marty got married right out of college to the first woman he dated post-Lucy. Did he love her? Not exactly, but his ego was in a really fragile place and he needed someone to rescue him from the depths of his self-loathing. Kristen, a small town Lindsay type (but state school educated), was the perfect person for the job. She was impressed by his Ivy League pedigree and horny for the idea of her future children sharing his genetics. She probably didn't love him either, but her biological clock was ticking and she always wanted to be a young mom (Oh, fuck... is this internalized misogyny? Am I as bad as all the male writers? Sorry, I don't have time to add depth to Kristen, but please know she has a rich/full inner life!)
Ten years post-graduation and two sons later, Marty wakes up to Saturday morning screeching and decides to burn it all down. Everything is sticky, his wife loves his sons more than him, his career is unremarkable, and he keeps getting targeted ads for hair loss supplements. When's the last time he felt alive? Back in college when Rory threw her feet into his lap during their Marx Brothers marathon and he thought he might get to fuck her. Maybe he should look her up on Facebook and send a message. She always thought she was hot shit, the next Christiane Amanpour, but last he heard, she hadn't done much aside from one Talk of the Town piece in The New Yorker. Maybe she was feeling similarly fragile and willing to engage in a round of Let's Bone Away the Sadness.
Marty: "Duck Soup" was on FilmStruck and it made me think of you. How's everything going? I don't know if you heard, but I'm a lawyer at Skadden now. What I do is kinda evil but I make a lot of money, so yay? Kristen and the boys are great. I wake up every day feeling blessed.
6 months later...
Marty: Yeah, so honestly... that last message sounded cocky. I'm actually deeply unhappy and have been for a decade. Probably since the last time I saw you. If you're ever in NYC, please reach out.
6 months later...
Marty: I'm a little drunk and I probably shouldn't tell you this, but I haven't had sex with my wife in 3 years.
1.5 years later...
Marty: Fuck you, whore! You always thought you were so special and what have you done? You don't even have kids!
Back in the 80s, Babette, Morey, and Miss Patty all landed in Stars Hollow. Babette and Morey, a 30-something couple with 5-6 infirm stroller cats, got there first. They left NYC after their apartment building exploded during a tenant's Richard Pryor-esque freebasing accident. Morey, a session musician, was tired of hustling for low wages and saw the opportunity to split when a jingle he composed for Meow Mix hit the big time. Babette used to write a gossip column in the Village Voice, although she never took it very seriously because her first/deceased husband's pension was enough to keep her rolling in Salem Lights and Aquanet. When they discovered SH en route to a Phish concert in Burlington, they impulsively bought a place and began their infamous gnome collection.
Around the same time, Miss Patty was recovering at her mentor's house after a bus-and-truck tour of "Guys and Dolls." One night, she was out grabbing a burger at Jojo's when she heard Babette cackling in the shadows with Stony Morrison. If turns out, the two had scored a bag of primo blow from Gil, who had just gotten kicked off a national tour with Quiet Riot. After a few key bumps, the three became fast friends and hightailed it over to Morey and Babette's for a rousing game of Twister that ultimately led to a proposal, followed by a threesome with Babette, Morey, and Miss Patty. Stony Morrison was there, but he just sat in the corner and watched, so does that technically make it a foursome? Either way, the event was so high octane that it led to Morey taking a temporary vow of silence, getting into transcendental meditation, and only speaking a handful of words each year until his eventual death.
Do you see the vision? Minus Ted Rooney, who was playing semi-pro basketball in Germany in the 80s.
I spent a significant amount of time in my "GG" recaps bitching about Jackson's stupidity, especially when it comes to reproductive health, childbirth, and childrearing.
From "Ballrooms and Biscotti" when Sookie tells Lorelai she's having a boy:
Another person who should be immediately executed is Jackson. When Rory and Lorelai go to deliver Sookie's present, this dingus stands by and shouts dumb things like, "Hey, don't squish baby," when anyone hugs Sookie too hard. Did he flunk out of high school? Has he been eating the fertilizer instead of giving it to the plants? Nothing he does makes sense and there is clearly some kind of brain parasite or undiagnosed disability at play. He doesn't want to know the sex of his baby, which is fine, but what the hell is the point of the buttons? Who does he think is going to accidentally tell him? Sookie and Lorelai are the only ones aware that there is a shed out back stuffed with blue baby garbage.
From "The Festival of Living Art" when Sookie is about to give birth to Davey:
Jackson, as always, is a moron and only useful for mundane errands (a plastic sheet, buckets, and balloons). My husband hates him. When Jackson started prattling on about the sheet, he screamed, "Shut up, you grotesque worm." I don't think Lorelai should be judgmental about home birth, but maybe she has cause to worry about this one in particular. Everyone involved seems to be on a lead and mercury diet.
Far be it for me to make excuses for men, but what if Jackson was involved in a terrible lab accident a la Jeff Goldblum in "The Fly"? By the time he emerges as a serious romantic prospect for Sookie in S2, he has completed his transition into a barely sentient human/rutabaga hybrid, which explains who he is and what he looks like. Imagine RFK Jr.'s parasitic brain worm but with no end in sight and you'll have a solid idea of what Jackson's working with by S7. It starts with ditching a kilo of weed and quickly escalates to dumping a dead bear carcass in Central Park and staging the scene to look like a bicycle murder. It's only a matter of time before his addled shenanigans lead to a prominent political office.
Something the show never makes entirely clear is what happened to Chris after Rory's birth. The most likely scenario is that he was emasculated when Lorelai turned down his teen marriage proposal, so he fucked off to CA and became a total deadbeat, paying inconsistent child support and showing up for sporadic visits when he felt like it. Over the course of the series, we see him slither back into the Gilmores' lives, making several lukewarm attempts to win them over by showing up to Rory's cotillion and using babe of all babes, Mädchen Amick, to fan the flames of Lorelai's jealousy/regret.
In S2, Chris is back on the East Coast and appears to have his life somewhat in order. He buys Rory a dictionary without getting his credit card declined and drinks chai tea lattes at his vaguely fintech office job. He even trades in his bike for a Volvo sedan, which is something a person might do after suffering a life-threatening crash that results in a lawsuit. Circa 2001, Christopher was cruising down Highway 17 when he crashed into a roadside mural thinking it was a real vista:
Several broken bones and a head injury later, he sued the city for irresponsible public art; miraculously, he and his billboard personal injury lawyer were victorious. At the time, there was public outrage reminiscent of the McDonald's hot coffee case, but Captain Dingdong still got his money. The incident put a huge dent in San Jose's pension fund, which they have yet to recover from. Christopher scuttled out of the state a pariah with a fat ass check and a new sense of clueless entitlement.
By the end of the series, multiple subsequent head bonks — from the motorcycle, door frames, his own two fists after knocking up yet another woman unintentionally — led to CTE, putting him in the same boat as rutabaga Jackson. Above all, this is a show about mother/daughter relationships, although I would argue it's just as much about (brain) damaged men who find women to inflict their nonsense onto until they shuffle off this mortal coil.
And of course, I would never rob you of my husband's pitch:
It's never not funny for me to imagine him doing serious shit at work, like keeping people alive, while fielding idiotic text messages from me that say, "Who in Stars Hollow would have had good coke in the 80s?" Either I keep his life interesting or I'm the Jackson in our relationship; I'll never truly know until I read his (nonexistent) memoir.
