The cancellation of Don’t Trust the B in Apartment 23 came as news to few people (although it had its fair share of fans who bemoaned its cancellation). On January 13, a paltry 1.76 million viewers tuned it see the show and by January 22, its network, ABC, announced that it was (mercifully) putting the show out to pasture. To my mind, little was remarkable about Don’t Trust the B except that it featured a gay black character – a rare species in network television fare. Luther, played by actor Ray Ford, was the series’ gay black character, who was the assistant to James Van Der Beek (playing a version of himself).

Don’t Trust the B received little attention. Clearly, not many viewers tuned in to watch the series (thus resulting in its cancellation). And few stories were written about the series after its initial televisual introduction with the majority of recent stories revolving around Luther’s promotion to series regular for the series’ second (and final) season. The series has been met with virtual silence from the Gay and Lesbian Alliance Against Defamation (GLAAD), the self-appointed organization that polices gay representation. The series failed to garner a nomination for the organization’s GLAAD Media Awards, whose aim is to celebrate “images that moved [lesbian, gay, bisexual and transgender people] closer to equality.” So, what was wrong with Don’t Trust the B? Part of what was “wrong” with the show is that Luther was not a “respectable” homosexual subject. Sure, he was professional (he was Van Der Beek’s assistant), but not only was he single (which seems to increasingly be a no-no in gay televisual representation), but he also embodied far more hegemonically (and problematically) feminine traits. With series like Modern Family, The New Normal, and the now-cancelled Partners, the more “masculine” characters temper the more “feminine” characters. But Luther is the only gay in the village and as such, his feyness is untethered to “respectable” straight-acting homosexuality. He typically prances and preens his way through scenes and provides some of the series’ comic relief – a break from the ways gay characters have been imagined in recent years. In some ways, he also embodies the lecherous homosexual subject. He secretly (and sometimes not so secretly) lusts after Van Der Beek and in his “diary” on ABC.com, Luther celebrates the success of a billboard featuring Van Der Beek and suggests that now the world gets to “see what [he] see[s]… the tight package of a beautiful creature… James Van Der Beek.”

For his embodiment of so-called “negative” stereotypes, one would think that I would be suggesting that we keep Luther safely locked away in television’s closet, never to be seen or heard from again. Quite the opposite, I believe Luther is far more important representationally than he has been (and likely will be) given credit. Long after the cultural memory/DVD archive has forgotten that there was even a show on the air called Don’t Trust the B, we should remember Luther.

Luther is/was an important contribution to the network television canon of gay black characters for three reasons: first, he creates visibility for a population largely ignored on television (although, black gay men were likely not watching the show en masse). As a run through the canon of gay and lesbian characters on television demonstrates, very few of those characters are of color. The list of usual suspects include Jodie Dallas on Soap, Ellen Morgan on Ellen, Will Truman and Jack McFarland on Will & Grace and Cameron and Mitchell on Modern Family, thus reinforcing Richard Dyer’s assertion in his book White that “to be gay… is to be white.” Second, while I will not suggest that network television will ever educate viewers about gay culture, there was always something campy about Luther and his writer’s willingness to let him trend toward embodying more “feminine” characteristics and being proud of his feyness. Third, Luther was actually portrayed by an out black gay man, which alone is cause for celebration. Excepting the men of Noah’s Arc, those black actors who have portrayed gay characters on television have been heterosexual. I am not suggesting that these actors did a bad job at “playing” gay, rather I am suggesting that in Hollywood, with few exceptions, out gay actors are often understood as incapable of convincingly playing heterosexual characters, while concomitantly, because of their personal lives, are “too gay” to actually play gay characters, and thus unable to work in Hollywood.

So as we bid farewell to Don’t Trust the B, we also bid farewell to a part of gay black visibility on network television. Luther was a character written in a mold that has (problematically) been deemed passé and disrespectful to the middle class, married/coupled, suburban model of gay televisibility. And for that, we should be saddened.

This time of year is always particularly interesting for me since I have no real interest in the holiday: I don’t particularly like candy, I’ve never been a fan of suspense- or fear-driven activities, and since it doubles as my older brother’s birthday it was always “his” holiday. And yet I find Halloween episodes of television fascinating because of the unique opportunities available to writers and producers.

Take, for example, this week’s Halloween-themed Modern Family: in “Halloween,” the curmudgeonly patriarch ends up dressed as a gargoyle, while the rebellious teenage girl starts off with a “naughty cat” costume – both costumes are aggressively on the nose, but that’s part of the appeal. It’s meant to be a moment of recognition, where we realize that Jay really is a like a gargoyle and Haley would dress up as a naughty cat. The show isn’t interested in the transgressive nature of Halloween costumes, as evidenced by the lack of connection between the episode’s costumes and the conflict between Jay and Gloria in regards to her accent; instead, the show is interested in the idea that it’s fun to see the characters the audience loves dressed up in extremely elaborate Halloween costumes, a simple pleasure and little more.

Although many Halloween episodes boil down to this sort of narrative, what makes the holiday so interesting is its versatility. It operates more or less independent of class: Modern Family’s characters are considerably wealthy (just look at the quality of their costumes), but the blue collar family on Raising Hope is also able to take part in Halloween festivities in their own way. It also works across all demographics: the cast of Friends or How I Met Your Mother aren’t going to go trick-or-treating, but between being a kid and having kids there is a stage where Halloween is an excuse to party. The holiday is similarly versatile in terms of situation, as it is just as relevant to a workplace environment or educational setting (like tonight’s episodes of The Office and Community) as it is within a more domestic space.

However, the quality I think creators find most appealing about Halloween is that it blurs the line between fantasy and reality. It gives The Simpsons the license to abandon its normal structure for the “Treehouse of Horror” episodes, which are sort of the cornucopia of Halloween television tropes: casting the show’s characters within famous works like The Shining, Nightmare on Elm Street, or The Fly is similar to putting characters into costume (which also happens on occasion), and within the series’ twenty-one specials (the latest of which airs next Sunday) the show has tackled the holiday from almost every imaginable angle. Halloween is associated with so many gruesome and compelling ideas that it seems as if this trend will never run out of ways to represent the holiday.

To my surprise, though, there is some room for innovation in how these these elements of fantasy are used to a show’s advantage. Last week, Parenthood built its Halloween episode around Max, who suffers from Asperger’s syndrome. Having been sheltered from the holiday by his concerned parents, Max’s determination to take part results in a dissection of the Halloween experience: his mother has him practice trick-or-treating with his sister, they ask neighbors to replace candles with glow sticks (since Max is afraid of fire), and they plan out a route to avoid the elaborate haunted house in their area. And yet, after discovering that his younger cousins are willing to face their fears, Max insists on going to the haunted house’s door.

It’s a great scene because it uses the same tools as one would expect from a horror film: time seems to slow down, Max’s senses become highly active, the camera takes on his point of view, and his family waits anxiously as if they have just sent Max into an actual haunted house. And yet, the horror dissipates: Max screams, but of joy rather than terror. While the episode has the costumes we expect (including a bit of meta-humor in Mae Whitman, late of Arrested Development, wearing a Banana costume), it is less interested in humor of recognition and more interested in showing us a perspective on the holiday that we have likely never seen before, but through the use of a set of fantastical tropes we come to expect from the holiday.

This is a particularly populated year for Halloween episodes: since last year’s success stories mostly avoided the holiday (outside of Community, which is doing it twice), this is the first year for full-on Halloween episodes for Modern Family, Cougar Town, The Middle and Parenthood, and news shows like Raising Hope, Better with You, and Outsourced are jumping right in. It’s an ideal test case for the effect on ratings and critical success of such episodes (ABC’s Wednesday comedy block was up sharply, for example), so I am curious whether anyone else has felt tricked or treated by this year’s crop of ghoulish takes on your favorite (or potentially least favorite) shows.