1:00 PM -- 2:00 PM

Blip blip blip. "24." Longest day of Kiefer's life.

Previouslys. Get back, Stupid Spawn! Buh-bye, Gaines! Where are you, Rick? Shut up, Spawn! My Kieferettes are finally safe! Don't mess with your evil rich backers, Palmer! Alberta, stop staring at Nina's tits and get ready for a second shooter! The following takes place between the hours of 1:00 PM and 2:00 PM on the day of the California Presidential Primary.

Hey, speaking of the California primary, what a turn-out for Gary Condit, huh? Was it the missing intern and that whole "failure to cooperate with the police" thing? Jeez, some people are so petty and put personal stuff before job performance. I mean, look what happened to Clinton. Oh, wait -- he still kept his job and, well, Monica is still alive. Bad example. The thing that makes me feel all warm and toasty about this whole thing is that Gary Condit was the most outspoken Democratic Clinton critic. And not even about job performance stuff. Condit spoke out tirelessly about how badly Clinton had soiled the White House by letting Monica blow him in the Oval Office. He wasn't even smart about it like most people and simply expressed outrage over the fact that Clinton had lied under oath and encouraged Monica to sign a false affidavit. No. Condit literally expressed his disapproval of Clinton's sex life and urged people to remove him from office due to his lack of morals. And according to what we know now, he was making these accusations at the same time that he was schtupping Chandra Levy and Anne Marie Smith.

"Hello, Karma Architects! Can I help you?"
"Can I speak to Philip Johnson? This is Senator Gary Condit returning his call."
"Speaking!"
"You said you had some concerns about those building materials I'd selected for the new house I'm building?"
"Oh, yeah, Gary. I've got the plans right here. Are you absolutely sure about building yourself a glass house? They can be quite visually striking, but I have to say that I'm a little concerned that the house wouldn't be the most durable structure -- you know, for the position you're in right now."
"Uh, I don't know what you're talking about, Philip. Don't you yourself live in a glass house in New Canaan, Connecticut? If glass is good enough for the home of a brilliant architect, it's good enough for a California Congressman. Am I right?"

"Well, not quite. Glass is durable enough for the elements and all, I was just thinking about, uh, other extenuating circumstances that might shatter your walls."
"Like what?"
"Like, say, stone throwing."
"It's not like people don't throw stones in New Canaan, Connecticut, Mr. Johnson."
"True, but they rarely throw them at my house. You see, Mr. Condit, I'm a bitchy gay architect in my nineties who used to hang with Jackie O. You're a lying government official with a Peter Pan complex, a bad eye-job, and a missing ex-girlfriend. Do you see where I'm going here?"
"I guess I can see your point. Um, so what would you recommend besides glass?"
"Slate has a lovely texture. Why, just the other day, Linda Tripp commissioned us to refurbish her Annapolis, Maryland refrigerator box. We redid it in slate and added a Plexiglas carport. It rhymes visually with the 7-11 parking lot in which it's situated."
"Plexiglas? I must say I'm intrigued."
"It's easy to clean. You'd be amazed at how much ripe fruit and vegetable matter pile up on that thing whenever she leaves the house to get into her car. Just go over it with a damp cloth on a daily basis and it's good to go."
"You know, my long-suffering wife and I were just over at Linda's eating Thai takeout and watching The Legend of Bagger Vance on DVD. We loved the renovation but I had no idea that was you. I must say, I'm getting very excited about this project, Philip. Can I call you 'Philip'?"
"'Mr. Johnson,' if you would -- thank you."

Since these recaps are starting to become a shopping guide for furniture and other finer things in life, I'd like to dedicate this one to the vineyards of Navarro Correas in Mendoza, Argentina. I don't know much about wine, but lately I have been winning all sorts of credibility among my peers when I show up at a dinner party with a Cabernet or a Syrah from the Navarro Correas vineyard -- the oldest vineyard in all of South America. It all started by accident. I was in my local wine shop, and my favorite salesperson wasn't there. This woman -- I call her "Wine Lady" -- resembles Zelda Rubinstein from Poltergeist. You know, the dwarf who's all, "Go into the light, Carol Anne!"? She wanders around the store all day with a half-full port glass in one of her hands and will usually select a wine for me based on what I'm serving for dinner. When I tell her that can spend $30, she'll choose a bottle for $7. When I tell her that I can spend $10, she'll make me buy a bottle for $27.50. And she's never wrong. My wine snob friends are always impressed by whatever she chooses for me. And these people don't hesitate to tell me if I've bought shitty wine -- which I'd normally buy if it weren't for Wine Lady. So one day, my friend John is making hangar steak and I'm in the shop looking for an accompanying Cabernet, and I can't find Wine Lady. Wine Lady's husband is trying to sell me something red, but I'm not feeling any conviction in his voice. I walk over to a random bin, yank out a Cabernet from Navarro Correas, and go, "What about this?" It was like that scene in Excalibur when Arthur pulls the sword from the stone. Everyone in the store backs away from me cautiously. One of the younger salespeople calls out, "That's an excellent wine," but then the guy to him elbows him surreptitiously in the stomach to shut him up. As I pay for it, everyone is giving each other these silent looks of concern like they'd hid a pound of marijuana in the oregano jar and I'm some mom who's using it to make spaghetti sauce for a church bazaar. From that day forward, I have been a huge fan of the Navarro Correas vineyard, and every time I walk into a liquor store and buy a bottle -- be it a Cabernet, Shiraz, or Merlot -- the salespeople look at me like I'm holy. I'm drinking a 1999 Malbec right now and I just love that heavenly combination of raspberry, spice, and smoky aromas. It makes me want to finish off the bottle and call up an ex-boyfriend or two in the middle of the night just to say hello.

Uh, wait, there's a show I'm supposed to write about here. ["No rush." -- Sars] The KieferKopter is flying back to CTU, with Kiefer and Bride of Kiefer making out in the backseat. The Kopter is no longer giving off a M*A*S*H vibe. It's reminding me more of a local news station's traffic copter. Alberta VO5 and Nina are standing out in the CTU parking lot, waiting for the return of Kiefer. Alberta is wearing some styling shades, and the wind from the chopper blades is blowing Nina's new jersey cloth top perilously close against her, uh, Neeners. The Kiefer Kopter lands, and the Kiefer Klan piles out. Someone gave Spawn's hair a layered bob on the ride back to CTU, and Bride is having another mysterious stomach pain. Kiefer asks after them. He doesn't -- as I incorrectly speculated earlier -- know anything about their cause. Bride explains that her stomach's been bothering her for the past couple of episodesI mean, "hours." "Sweetheart? Did something happen there?" asks Kiefer. You mean besides being kidnapped at gunpoint and almost executed twice? Uh, Kiefer, you're the CIA agent. How often are a couple of women of child bearing age kidnapped by terrorists and not raped? Haven't you seen Patty Hearst by Paul Schrader? Spawn shoots Bride a look of concern, and Bride is all, "No, it's probably from all the stress." Yeah, I imagine it's pretty "stressful" to screw some guy to save your idiot daughter's ass. Kiefer explains that an ambulance is coming to take the Kieferettes to the CTU clinic to check them out.