RIP Six Feet Under

Ana and I just finished watching season 5 of “Six Feet Under” and, well, despite the beautiful weather today I feel spent. It’s not just because we burned through 12 episodes in two sittings (or six hours at a time), but because — pussy alert — I’ve never cried so damn much for such an extended period of time.

Seriously, I must need my head examined for not being able to cry when my own family members pass away, but then bawling uncontrollably when Nate Fisher dies of a brain hemorrhage we all saw coming a mile away. Maybe it’s that concluding 5-minute sequence, where we see all of the Fishers keeling over, one after another in a series of flash-forwards, that still has me reeling. It’s kind of like watching a surrogate family die. Only, much as I was troubled by the loss of the Keatons when “Family Ties” concluded, nobody ever died there, and no way was I still getting emotional when I thought about the ending a day later.

The only consolation in this whole blubbery, pathetic mess was when I did a search for SFU merchandise. Ana had bought me a Fisher & Sons T-shirt after season 4, but what with my sweaty glands, I went and turned the armpit areas yellow — so I need a new one. If you haven’t seen the last few episodes, you won’t have the foggiest idea why a T-shirt like this one on CafePress would brighten my day so much. But those who watched the show should know exactly what I’m talking about.

Call it a rallying cry, a SFU survivor motto. Like “Sic Transit Gloria,” the words of another great Fisher (Max from Rushmore), it urges us embrace life and to remember that, in the end, you’re getting all worked up over a friggin TV show, you nincompoop.

Say it with me, all together now: Narm!