The Night the Lights Went Out in California

When I first moved out to California from Georgia, an ex-boyfriend of mine gave me a country song to listen to. He wanted me to go for my dreams...but he also wanted to say "I hope you still feel small when you stand beside the ocean." And with the ocean right in my own backyard now, I'm constantly reminded to keep humble and remember my roots.

The longer I'm away from the South, the more I miss it. And the more of my life I spend studying other cultures, the more I appreciate the beauty of my own. So it's no wonder that I cling to whatever tenacious roots that push through the cracks between all those Hollywood Stars.

That's why when the "new CW" decided to cancel the Reba show, I was devastated. Just hearing those elongated accents every week was like a warm blanket.

Despite the fact that it was the WB's #1 show, the new network apparently decided it was attracting an "undesirable demographic." They didn't want families (gasp!) tuning in...they wanted the same old youth market everybody always goes after. I mean, how many crap teen TV shows set in Orange County or Laguna Beach or some other Californian spoon-fed, hippie-loving, NPR-listening suburb do you need?

So the Reba show re-shot what was originally intended to be a season cliffhanger and painfully forced it into the series finale. No more would I have Barbara Jean's backwoods barbie antics to laugh at. No more would Van be my Southern gentleman TV boyfriend. No more would I hear Reba take the word "crap" from one syllable to three.

But California wasn't through with me yet. Before I'd had a chance to truly grieve for Reba, they pulled my favorite country music station out from under me. One day, I punched the #1 preset on my radio tuner and instead of the comforting twang of Kenney Chesney serenading me, all I got was MC Has-been Hammer still trying to claim he was 2 legit 2 quit. Suddenly my beloved 93.9 KZLA had been "flipped" to the kind of station that plays those 90s one-hit-wonders usually reserved for wedding receptions.

Now all I've got left is Paula Deen. If she weren't still around on the Food Network sending me best wishes from her kitchen to mine, why there's just no tellin' what I'd do. If they take her away to make room for some new Asian-fusion cooking show, I swear to God I'm packing my bags and boarding that midnight train on back to Georgia.

So in honor of Reba, I've got one last story for you. The only gay bar we had at the University of Georgia was called Boneshaker's. And every Saturday night they got our bones a'shakin with a drag show that included the fabulous Cherilyn. Now Cherilyn used to impersonate Cher, but she was never very convincing and usually only performed mid-show when most people got up to refresh their drinks or their dance cards. All that changed one day when inspiration struck and she suddenly donned a red wig, pulled on some boots and took the stage with newfound spitfire in her veins. The resemblance to Reba was uncanny and she remains to this day one of the most impressive celebrity impersonators I have ever seen.

I guess no matter what happens to our "undesirable demographic," the most important thing us Southerns can say at the end of the day is that no matter what: I'm a survivor.

PS: If I've at all moved you, sign your name here. I may not be able to resurrect Reba on-screen, but maybe - just maybe - I'll someday hear her on the radio again.