The news that Peter & Amanda — the most glamorous couple in the history of primetime soaps — are finally together in real life has thrown me into a complete craziness spiral. It’s like finding out that Real Life Joanie lost her virginity to Real Life Chachi. Probably you already knew this, but I spent the last few months in a cone of silence, imagining wonderful things like this. I should have imagined world peace, you say? Pish. This is all I need.
I never had a huge obsession with Dr. Peter Burns, although his blow-dried hair was luxurious, and his song is quite romantic:
All I need
Is just a little more time
To be sure
What I feel!
Is it all in my mind?
Because it seems so hard to believe
That you’re all I need!
I was more of a Michael Mancini fan. That impish grin, that impulse that murder is always the best solution, no matter what the problem. But of course Michael and Amanda could not be together. They are titans.
Not for me the man-whoredom of Peter Burns. Dr. Mancini got the hottest chicks, attempted to kill them, endured murderous advances from them, apologized and moved on. When Amanda contracted her mysterious cancer, he kept her secret. He was a good and true friend, when he wasn’t drugging you or stealing your practice out from under you or setting you adrift multiple times at sea. When his wife Kimberly came back — from DEATH! — with no hair on her head and multiple personalities, including the murderous Bob, he was there for her. He is also the most attractive person ever to appear, in the entire history of the show, excepting Heather Locklear herself, and I would still run over a senator or Jasmine Guy, or drug and set adrift my crippled, blind sister, or push my brother off a roof and onto a mobster, or join a cult like Sydney did before she accidentally became a porno producer, for just one kiss from his thrillingly inadvisable lips.
If Peter & Amanda were the alpha couple of Melrose, Michael and Sidney were the Willow & Oz: funny, lovable, and vastly more interesting than the main characters. Peter was the male version of Amanda: moussed and unattainable, always ready with five moves down the line. The only person in all of LA that he could not best was Amanda herself.
Their love was powerful because he was created to be her perfect adversary. He showed up, stole D&D Advertising on his second day in town, and by Tuesday the next week he’d managed to sleep with almost the entire apartment complex, push Lisa Marie Presley over the edge, send Allison back to drinking, get Gay Matt hooked on crack, and still had time to operate a very successful private medical practice, which he stole from Michael in like half an hour.
For her part, Amanda spent that week convincing her boss to commit suicide, curing herself of cancer, sending Allison back to drinking again, blackmailing Gay Matt about the crack, and sending Jo on wild goose chases all over the world looking for that stupid baby. They were heroes. They deserved nothing less than the best: each other.
You can have your unclad Billy and drunken Allison, your whining concussed Brooke and Brooke-possessed Evil Billy, your photographer/harpoonist Jo and Botoxed Jake, your Gay Matt and that closeted serviceman with AIDS. Have them and welcome to it.
Just give me Michael Mancini and a love that can last the test of time. The kind of forever love that would cause Michael to drive all the way to Vegas to rescue Sydney from the clutches of that insane fashion-designer rapist who trapped her in her gilded cage and whose wife tragically died when Kimberly blew up the complex. The kind of forever love that would cause you to marry the beautiful prostitute Megan that Kimberly hired to be her replacement when she finally succumbed to brain cancer. The kind of strong, beautiful love that would cause you to testify against Jo in the custody hearing of the baby that got kidnapped every episode for an entire season, even though you knew it was truly hers, and that she’d harpooned her ex-husband in order to get it.
Heather and Jack, this one’s for you. I knew the day that you put Rena Sofer into the mental institution, cheerleading costume all a-tatter and lipstick smeared upon her face, and then faked your own death up at that cabin so that you could steal the profits from the final sale of D&D and have a fantasy wedding in Hawaii where nobody would ever see you again, that this moment would one day come.