Pilot

Props to David E. Kelley. Not for this show, which is as subtle as a train wreck, and which rises above mediocrity mainly because of a superb cast, but rather for being married to Michelle Pfeiffer. Rrrrrowrrr. With her waiting in bed, I wouldn't bother to work on my scripts until they made sense either.

There are no opening credits for this show. There may be, in the future, but there aren't any tonight. Instead, just the title, written in what is, I guess, a scholastic font.

Fade up on a mural of some stuff. A thumping beat, which thankfully does not turn into "Gangsta's Paradise," accompanies a tracking shot that takes us to the principal's office, where an angry father is lambasting a young social studies teacher, whom we will come to know as Lauren "Not Scorin'" Davis. In all likelihood, we already know her from the previews, as the teacher who finished seventh in the online poll of whom the male students want to sleep with most ("Seventh?"). And, while she's not the most beautiful woman in the world, by which I mean she's no Michelle Pfeiffer, she's hot enough that I wonder whether we're going to get to see all six of the female teachers who beat her. I certainly hope so. I can't believe I get paid to do this.

Anyway, while Dejected Son and Disapproving Mom look on, Angry Dad is insisting that his son's grade on a test be raised from an F to a D, advancing the highly persuasive argument that "it's a subjective thing. He failed because you didn't like his answers." Ms. Davis counters, "It's American History, Mr. Harrelson, the questions are not subjective. Who is Abraham Lincoln? Jason's answer: He invented the log." Just then, the principal arrives. He's probably wondering how four people got into his office, but he does not remark on this. Instead, when Angry Dad calls him "Harper," he takes the opportunity to let the audience know what his name is: "Steven. Or Mr. Harper. Or this meeting is over." I guess his name is Steven Harper. Good to know, because no one will use his last name for the rest of the episode. I'm hoping Mr. Harrelson will call him This-Meeting-Is-Over, like it's his Native American name, but he doesn't. Anyway, Principal Steven backs up Ms. Davis, asserting that Jason failed the test "because he thought Lincoln was a log, Washington was a Redskin, and Hamilton -- what was Hamilton?" A blender, naturally. Heh. Principal Steven also warns Angry Dad not to point his finger, so we know that he's no-nonsense. Ultimately, of course, it turns out that the Jason needs the grade raised, because otherwise he can't play in the Big Game against Norwood, which will be attended by Important College Scouts. Mr. Harrelson closes with the old "I am not a tree trunk" conjecture -- "I am not some tree trunk," he says, "I am a parent trying to maximize my son's academic opportunities, which happen to coincide with this game. However much we might hate that idea." Well, he's not a tree trunk, so the rest of that must be true. Principal Steven takes a long beat and then says, evenly, "This school fully supports Ms. Davis' decision." I gather that we're supposed to think he's going out on a limb, but it sounds to me like Jason failed that test pretty unequivocally. Perhaps sensing the growing implausibility of his "subjectivity of history" and "tree trunk" arguments being entertained, Mr. Harrelson leaves.

A young woman, perhaps the school secretary, pokes her head into Principal Steven's office and says, "Lipschultz." Steven says, "Gesundheit." No, actually he says, "What now?" Apparently, Lipschultz is trying to send Dana Poole home for not wearing a bra.

Sure enough, Dana "Jailbait" Poole is in the hallway, not wearing a bra. Nope, she's sure not. Is it legal for me to be watching this, or am I committing a federal crime? ["That's why we ask the writers to choose aliases." -- Sars] Anyway, Harvey "Don't You Give Me" Lipschultz is arguing with Principal Weary Martyr that Dana's assets are obscene. Ms. Davis is here, too, for some reason. "Look at those breasts!" cries Harvey. As if he has to tell me to do that. Steven pulls Harvey to one side and tells him he can't do something like this in an open forum. Zuh? Yes, it is always better to quash individual rights behind closed doors, so that no one can hear the screams of the tortured prisoners. Meanwhile, Lauren pulls Dana aside in the other direction, and tells her there's a virtue called modesty. Actually, she says, "There's a virtue to modesty," butchering the English language. Dana counters, "There's also a virtue to individualism." But can you blame her? She learned that nonsense grammatical construction from a high-school teacher, before our very eyes. Lauren wants to know if Dana dresses like this to be popular with the boys, and Dana says no, and then she says, "I mean, I like you as a teacher and stuff but -- are you a nun on weekends?" So, wait, I'm confused. Is this about individualism or boys? ("I better rewrite this scene so it makes some sense." "David, come to bed, I'm wearing my costume from A Midsummer Night's Dream." "Never mind, I'll just send it to Fox like this.") Principal Steven tells Dana to wear a bra, and to tell her parents to take it up with him. I sort of can't imagine Dana's mom arguing this one. When Dana is gone, Lauren makes a few salient points, "What about the flat-chested girls, do they have to wear bras too? Or are you going to do this on a case-by-case basis?" Steven's all, "All I know, right now, is that it's school policy for Dana Poole to wear a bra." She should come to the imaginary school in my head, where it is school policy for her not to wear anything. Meanwhile, there's banging from the inside of a locker. The principal opens it, and that kid from Freaks & Geeks comes out, wearing a diaper and looking disoriented. He looks sort of like Cupid. Anyway, he runs off down the hall.

A classroom gone mad. Boom boxes, paper airplanes, dancing. All thetrappings of dangerous juvenile delinquency. Did I mention the dancing? Anyway, a faculty member hears the racket and heads for the room. We don't know his character's name yet, but the actor is Anthony Heald, whom we like. When he comes in, the students turn off the music and scramble for their seats, so I guess he's a respected authority figure of some kind. "Where's Ms. Hendricks?" he asks. He has to ask it again before he gets an answer. "We think she's dead, sir." He is unperturbed: "And why do you think that, Ms. Washington." Ms. Washington points at the board, where it says: "GONE TO KILL MYSELF, HOPE YOU'RE HAPPY!!!" Hey, they did seem happy, until Anthony Heald came in.

The hallway, where it all, apparently, goes down. Anthony Heald is updating Principal Steven on the status of the Crises of the Day: "The classroom was unattended -- I also got a call from Jason Harrelson's lawyer, he's threatening legal action over his football suspension. And Dana Poole's mother similarly called. She's not happy about the brassiere mandate." Well, I stand corrected. Just then, the dorky friend from The Single Guy appears, demanding to speak to Steven in private. This-Meeting-Is-Over obliges, and gives Anthony Heald some instructions: "Put Harry Senate on dungeon duty, set up a meeting with Harrelson's lawyer, stall the mother." We are beginning to gather that Anthony Heald, too, is an administrator of some kind. Maybe he's Vice-This-Meeting-Is-Over.

The principal and the dork head into Steven's office. Dork from The Single Guy, who's name turns out to be Milton, has a problem with "Cheryl Holt's website." On the website in question, there is an extremely cute animation of Milton leaping headfirst into the anus of a horse. Principal Steven somehow manages not to laugh. In fact, the two have an argument in which they both talk at the same time. Milton quotes some court decisions and talks about obscenity, Steven talks about artistic merit and the First Amendment. "Forget about it," he concludes, which I guess means that this meeting is over. Milton leaves, taking his ridiculous clown hair with him.

The opening credits finally stop appearing on the bottom of the screen. Good lord. This show is brought to you by an entire Third-World nation.

At the Xerox machine, Anthony Heald tells Ms. Davis that, as one of the two teachers failing Jason Harrelson, she needs to be at the 12:30 meeting with his lawyer. She's less than thrilled. So, to ice this cake, he asks her out on a date: "Listen, Lauren, the New York Philharmonic is at Symphony Hall Saturday night. I have tickets. I would love for you to join me." He praises them as the most disciplined orchestra in the world. Which means he values discipline. Which means he's either really boring, or into some kinky business in the bedroom. I hope Lauren's not, like, a nun on weekends or anything.

Lauren bursts into the teacher's lounge, where she kindly announces to the room that she's going out on a date with Anthony Heald against her will. Way to be discrete and respectful of someone's feelings. The room includes Milton, and someone Ms. Davis addresses as "Marilyn." Oh, we know her from the previews, too. She was number one in the poll. Yowza. Also, we learn that Anthony Heald's name is Guber. But I'm still going to call him Anthony Heald, because he's already been in too many scenes for me to change my mind now. Just then, Guber comes in (Who? See? I meant "Anthony Heald") and approaches a new character. "Ah, Mr. Senate," he says, "Marla Hendricks has suddenly taken leave of room 14. You're pro tem until we can find a permanent replacement."

Mr. Senate says, "What, the dungeon?" That's got to keep the student spirits sky-high. "Forget it. I did not sign on here to teach in the dungeon. I subbed in that room, I could not even get them to turn off their boom boxes. They're animals. I'll tell you what. You go. I tried it." Anthony Heald is having none of it. He smiles slightly, and raises an eyebrow. Senate caves like a pumpkin in late November. Anthony Heald smiles at Lauren (i.e., "My exercise of power over Mr. Senate proves that I am well-endowed"), and leaves. "Did you see that? He smiled at me."

Suddenly, a skinny guy who could not look less likely to be a football coach enters the lounge. He is the football coach. "Thanks, Lauren," he snarks. "It's bad enough I have to live in the shadow of the dead guy. Now I have to play without my starting running back?" Lauren points out that it was Jason who failed the test, which is a point everyone seems to be missing,especially Coach Kevin: "You knew he was already failing Geology, you knew the consequences of his failing History." Excuse me, who takes Geology in high school? I sure didn't, and no starting running backs I know did either. Anyway, Milton tries to defend Lauren, but all he gets is a "shouldn't you be trying out for the online equestrian team?" Ouch. Marilyn chimes in ("All right, Kevin.") so we can get some sloppy exposition about her, too: "No 'all right,' Marilyn, what if your lead trumpet got suspended from band the night of the big show?" Displaying a remarkably faulty grasp of the notion of synonyms, which is I guess not surprising for a teacher at this school, she corrects him: "It's an orchestra, and we do concerts." No, wait, it's a musical group and they engage in performances. No, I'm sorry, it's a collection of instrumentalists who ply their craft before an audience comprised of paying members of the viewing public. Anyway, Coach Kevin snarks off.

Unfortunately, we follow him. He encounters the diaper-locker-boy from earlier. "It's none of my business, Anthony. But if somebody puts you in a Huggie, you should stand up for yourself." If someone is capable of putting you into a Huggie, standing up for yourself is usually a moot point, is it not? Principal Steve shows up and dismisses Coach Kevin. Then he tries to get the culprit's name out of poor Anthony. Surprise, surprise: "If I tell, he'll break my head." No luck. Except that Principle Steve-O spots the bully lurking down the hallway, glaring threateningly at Anthony. Bright guy.

Just then, Ms. Hendricks arrives. Remember? The one missing from the dungeon. I guess she didn't kill herself. She does, however, deliver the following monologue: "Oh, don't you 'play hooky' at me, you try teachin' 'em, you walk into the dungeon and try making a dent in those dead-heads, I've had it, you hear me, had it, guy threw a spitball, a big wet wad, weighing two or three pounds, hit me right here, I have had, I've had it, had it, they don't want to learn, they don't want to listen, I'm no parole officer, you got that, I'm a teacher, people don't respect me, I'm a teacher for God's sake, I've had it, HA, had it, I've had it, HAD IT!" The Steve-a-nator says something or other during this, probably about Ms. Hendricks's evident need for immediate medication, but we don't really hear him. She storms off. He looks at his watch wearily. I look at mine. "It's 10:15," he says. As I write this, Steven my man, it's a lot later than that.

Commercial break. Sponsors include Honda, chalupas, the film Lucky Numbers, Capital One credit cards, Big Kmart, chalupas again, and Ally Congeal. David E. Kelley wrote all of these commercials himself.

Back at school (do we know the name of the school yet? Did I miss it?), Milton is talking to Dana Poole and friends in the ever-exciting hallway. She is, I guess, wearing a bra now. Wait, let me pause it. Yep, definitely. Anyhow, Bra-lita is turning on the smarm: "I just want you to know, that horse thing, it's not what the students think of you." Milton appreciates that. "In fact, most of the girls find you incredibly sexy. Sometimes when I go to bed at night I think of you and I touch myself." Milton now realizes she's pulling his clown hair. He snorts away, as the bad girls titter at his expense. Just then, Mr. Senate comes to the rescue: "You think that's funny? What, you're students so you don't have to consider a teacher's feelings?" Teachers have feelings? I thought they had no feelings, like politicians, actors, hookers, and cops. Anyway, Mr. Senate gets rid of Dana's little followers to talk to her alone. He's all, "Dana, why don't you try something new and act like an adult." She's all, "Gee, if I did, that might take some of the fun out of things for you, wouldn't it Mr. Senate?" Wow, they bicker like an old couple. Hmmm.

Meanwhile, Anthony is getting thrashed in a corner by the bully we saw earlier. The bully, using all the mental faculties at his disposal, has wisely chosen to kick Anthony's ass behind a trophy case that looks out onto the bustling hallway ("No one will see me behind this window"). Coach Kevin spots the massacre and comes to the rescue. "What the hell is this about?" The bully's all, "Just a misunderstanding, sir." Kevin tells Anthony to beat it, and then tells the tough guy that if he's so tough he should come play football and then we'll see how tough he really is, heh heh heh . Of course, it doesn't help that the bully is both taller and wider than Coach "Stopped Growing At Eleven" Kevin. Blah blah blah, if I catch you beating someone up one more time you'll really be in trouble. As we shall see, this is some sort of school policy. Everyone gets as many last chances as they need.

In a not-so-private room where random students seem to be milling around, the meeting with Jason Harrelson's attorney is under way. Anthony Heald, Ms. Davis, Principal Steverino, and father and son Harrelson are all present. The attorney, who in eight hundred years will look exactly like Yoda, wants to serve Jason's interests, and avoid acrimony. Anthony Heald says that involving attorneys is not the best way to avoid acrimony, and that he'd like to serve the interests of the entire student body. He's got a point; two, actually. But Mr. Harrelson flips out: "See? This is what we're dealing with!" Uh, what? Cogent reasoning? How infuriating. Anyway, Yoda says, "I wouldn't presume to tell teachers how to assess their students, but exalting Jason's grades to a point where he's disqualified --" If you think that sentence makes no sense, you're not alone, because it doesn't.

Luckily for the show, Anthony Heald notices it too, and mockingly says, "No one here is exalting Jason's grades, I assure you." As if to say, "You obviously got your law degree through the mail. Only natural, you living in the swamps of Degobah, and all." Mr. Harrelson is having none of this, and seeks to top the Tree Trunk Axiom from earlier with the Postulate of Idiocy: "Sir, when you talk to me like I'm an idiot, I become one. And you do not want to be in a room with me when I am an idiot, do you understand me?" Um, no, but let's move on. The ancient Jedi master says, "Since we seem to be embracing acrimony, here is the bottom line: we're preparing to go into court arguing the grade system itself is capricious, and to make that point we may be soliciting testimony from you, Mr. Harper, school principal, who just last month declared in a teacher's conference that the system was not only archaic but also contraindicated to motivation."

There's lots of tense disagreement, antecedent confusion, and at least one made-up word in there, but the gist is vaguely clear. Stevealicious points out that he has to enforce policy, whether or not he agrees with it. He does not point how implausible it is that an attorney would try to take down the public high-school grading system (which would render all public school academic evaluations in the city of Boston legally meaningless, am I right?) over one kid's inability to pass a History test on which, by all accounts, he wrote a bunch of joke answers. Mr. Harrelson wants to know if it's school policy to keep his son out of college. Well, that's a loaded question. So much so that I want Anthony Heald to say yes, and get punched. Instead, When-Will-This-Meeting-Be-Over speechifies, "Mr. Harrelson, we do not help kids one by one here. Too many of them, too few of us. We serve masses, hoping more of them make it than don't. And our best results, like it or not, come with policy. By the way, there could be two or three of Jason's teammates in study hall right now, breaking their humps, 'cause they don't want to miss the game. I like that. Nice to meet you." He leaves, taking his second-in-command with him: "Scott?" Thus, we finally learn Anthony Heald's first name. Too bad he'll always be Anthony Heald here.

In an oddly tiny hallway, The Steve Machine demands to know how on earth Yoda found out about his statements about grading at the teacher's conference. The answer, according to Anthony "Scott Guber" Heald, is Coach Kevin. Principal Mean Green Steve wants to see the Coach right away.

It turns out that people occasionally teach classes at this school, because we finally see Mr. Lipschultz doing just that. He's giving a lecture about how James Madison's diminutive stature gave him a complex about Thomas Jefferson, who stood tall, both literally and figuratively. One student fidgets, snorts, and finally pipes up with the real reason for Madison's jealousy: "Probably 'cause Jefferson was gettin' some." Blah blah blah, share-your-funny-joke-with-the-rest-of-the-class-cakes, yadda yadda, have-you-opened-your-book-all-semester-cakes, et cetera et cetera, maybe-if-you-studied-you'd-have-something-to-offer-cakes. Jesus, does anyone write new classroom scenes anymore?

Anyhow, Mr. Jackson's all, "The book sucks. Offer dat." Lipschultz more or less asks him to elaborate. He obliges: "Jefferson used to sleep with his slaves. The book don't say nothin' about that. They don't even say how he even had slaves. Washington neither. So I don't see why I should bust my black ass reading about a bunch of lies." Quick shot of a white student looking uncomfortable. But Lipschultz is an old pro, and has this response ready: "Well, you see Mr. Jackson, my job is to see that you get your black ass into college. And whether these things in these books be lies or not, your achievement tests that you will be taking are standardized, and you'll have to know all these untruths in order for you to pass them, and how many slaves Jefferson had sex with will not be on the test, and if you fail American History, Mr. Jackson, you'll be sitting here again year, and you'll have to listen all over again to what my shriveled, white, Jewish ass has to say." There is a brief silence, during which he can perhaps predict the shriveled, white, Jewish ass getting canned later this season.

Indeed, cut to Lauren lambasting the shriveled old Jew. "I have to keep control of my classroom," he says. "I told you that the desegs would cause problems, Lauren, I told you all. They're not grateful for their education, they keep getting angry because of those long bus trips, and we don't have chapters on Rosa Parks." Okay, "desegs"? Excuse me? I don't think I need to comment further on that term. But I will. When does this show take place? I didn't know we were in a universe where Brown v. Board just happened last week. Also, all American History textbooks have chapters on the civil rights movement, unless they date back to the forties, and they tend to mention Rosa Parks. The problem is their bland gloss over all of history, not so much neglect of individual facets anymore. But whatever. Lauren says that, as the head of the social studies department, she can protect Lipschultz from those who think he's "out of step." "Ever since Helen died --" she says. But he cuts her off: "It's not that. It's the desegs. You can't blame everything on a dead wife." Oh, but blaming it on those pesky black folks makes a lot more sense, eh? Lauren breaks down the laundry list of Harvey's offenses: the bra thing; calling Madison a midget (Huh? Why on earth is that against the rules? Is he also not allowed to mention that President Taft was big and fat?); and the fact that he apparently forces his students to sing the national anthem. His use of the term "desegs" does not, for some reason, make the list. Harvey stands firm, and Lauren says, "Harvey, don't take advantage of my adoring you. I will do what's best for the school." Apparently, it's best if the students are led to believe that all of our founding fathers were tall when, in fact, some of them were short. Oh, the lies!

Once again, the hallway, where the director gets to steal shots from ER. Mr. Senate spots Marla Hendricks, and sees his chance to get out of dungeon duty. "Marla, hey, you're back," he says, mildly. Being a crazy insane maniac, she flips out: "What do you mean, back? You mean mentally back? You think I'm some cracker? I'm not a cracker." This makes no sense, because cracker does not, to my knowledge, mean crazy, and in fact, not to make any unfounded assumptions or anything, but Ms. Hendricks seems like the kind of person who might know what, as a derogatory term, the word "cracker" actually means. Senate doesn't bat an eye, and instead replies with nonsense: "Hey, I love crackers. And the best ones were meant to crumble." Guh? ("David, honey, are you coming to bed? I'm wearing nothing but crumbled-up crackers." "Uh -- I'll finish this scene later") Anyhow, Mr. Senate wants Ms. Hendricks to take back the dungeon, and, surprise surprise, she is not eager to return to the students who drove her to the brink of suicide.

Scott Guber, by which I mean Anthony Heald, appears and wants to know why Senate is not yet in the dungeon. "I'm on my way." It's a weird question, though, as the hall is filled with students, and the bell has not yet rung. That's like demanding to know where your meal is as soon as you sit down in the restaurant, isn't it?

, Anthony Heald runs into the school bully in the hallway. Blah blah blah discipline-cakes, and when the bully, whom I now recognize one of the kids from Home Improvement, won't look him in the eye, Anthony Heald is all, "Do we need to work on eye contact? You will continue looking at me until further notice." And the stare-down begins. Throughout this conversation, other students walk by, and for some reason they all act as though an administrator speaking to a student in the hallway is the strangest thing they have ever seen. Everyone waves their arms, shakes their heads in disbelief, staring aghast. It's really odd, because there is nothing at all unusual about this conversation. Until they start to stare at each other in silence, at which point all the passersby start ignoring them. Clearly, the extras are being directed by an utter moron. At this point, Anthony Heald starts to remind me of the T-1000 for some reason.

Lauren chases down a girl in the hallway, whose name is apparently Cheryl. We know that she's really smart, but kind of an outcast, because she's wearing glasses. Lauren wants to talk to her about her website. Oh, right, this must be Cheryl Holt, the internet geek, who has made poor Milton so upset. The glasses should have tipped me off. Anyway, Lauren says that the horse anus thing has "really hurt Mr. Buttle's feelings." Oh, god, the clown hair, and the first name Milton, are not enough, right? His last name has to have the word "butt" in it. Cheryl says, "You know, I've got six pages on the upcoming election. I've got two pages on the Supreme Court. I've got another page on human rights. I fire one Lit teacher out of a horse's rump, and that's all anyone wants to talk about."

I like, incidentally, how the number of pages she has devoted to each topic are inversely proportional to their importance. Ms. Davis wonders if Cheryl might find a hobby other than this "web thing," which is a both condescending and ignorant thing to say, so she kind of deserves it when Cheryl's all, "I could join the Gwyneth club, would that be good?" She gestures to a group of skinny blondes in the corner. "Ms. Davis, I have ninety students working for me. I'm already more successful than you, and I -- I'm sorry, I didn't mean that" Oh, but she's right. Ms. Souter appears and summons Lauren to a parent-teacher meeting. And here comes the ubiquitous preview clip. ("Ms. Souter, you finished first in the poll." "What poll?" "Which teacher the male students want to sleep with most." "Oh, how nice." To Lauren: "You were seventh." Lauren, outraged: "Seventh?") Ms. Souter drags Lauren down the hall, but she makes sure we know that her priorities are straight: "The girls think I'm a nun. The boys: seventh." Ms. Souter offers small comfort: "Well, you're first on his list." Down the now nearly empty hall, Anthony Heald is still staring down the bully. The bell rings.

Mr. Senate enters the dungeon. Now, thus far, this show has been riddled with vaguely implausible events and decisions. But this scene, or at least its aftermath, will go down in history as the least realistic series of events ever depicted on television, including the Sci-Fi Network and Murder, She Wrote. The students are misbehaving, but they all sit down and shut up when Mr. Senate takes off his jacket to reveal that he's packing heat. Wow, is he some kind of cracker? I hope he doesn't get exalted for this, and realizes there's a virtue to not carrying firearms. Anyway, he's all, "What's up? Wow, everyone got really quiet. What's the deal? It's not this is it? What? This you respect? Mr. Scott, tell me why'd you get quiet for this?" A slow pan across the students reveals the least threatening bunch of teenagers I have ever seen. Mr. Scott, by the way, knows that brevity is the soul of wit: "'Cause that can kill me." Bwa ha ha! Anyway, Mr. Senate must now deliver a really dumb speech: "You respect that. And we like seeing people get popped, don't we. My favorite movie, The Godfather, even the good guys go around shooting each other in the head. Same thing with The Sopranos. 'Hey Tony, yeah, pop.' That's entertainment, it brings us pleasure. Even the word, 'gun.' It's got a pretty good sound to it, doesn't it? I mean, phonetically it sounds tight, doesn't it?" I could do something really ribald with that remark, and my theory as to why Mr. Senate relishes it so much, but I won't. He goes on, "Gun, pop, boom, dead. Best words got one syllable, and it works out well for you, 'cause that's about all you guys can spell. I tell you what, let's sound it out. Everybody say 'gun.' All together." He exhorts the kids until they are chanting the word gun over and over and over, louder and louder. At the height of their frenzy, he -- oh god, I can't even recap this stupid crap -- he FIRES the GUN at the wall several times. The kids cower under their desks, weeping. Mr. Senate has, I guess, made some kind of point, or something. Oh, here it is: "Aren't these things cool? You can use them to kill a fellow classmate, or you could even shoot a teacher. You guys really know what to respect. I want you to stay on the ground until I tell you to get up."

Commercial break, during which we will discuss some of what's wrong with that last scene. Let's place aside the obvious: that no teacher would ever bring a real gun to his classroom, or use it to terrorize his students, just to make a point. (The fact that he does not get fired, let alone arrested, for this, we'll also choose to ignore, at least for now.) And, furthermore, let's place aside that he's making this point to kids whose behavior doesn't suggest that they need it, as the worst we've seen them do is blatantly not pay attention, and the worst we've heard of them doing is throwing spitballs. I mean, if these are the worst kids at the school, then this show is beyond cowardly, too afraid to show any student as truly dangerous or actually beyond hope, because my God does it ever get that bad in real classrooms. Unless this really does take place in the fifties. Does it? But let's place all of that aside and concentrate on the actual message that Mr. Senate is trying to get across. If these are, as the show seems to want us to believe, "desegs" being bussed in from a dangerous urban area, then theirs is not a fascination with violence born of media portrayals that make it look cool. Violence is a reality of their daily lives. They respect guns not because they get a kick out of The Sopranos, but more likely because they've seen friends get shot. That's why they cower and weep when you fire the thing, idiot. That's why they don't cheer at how cool you are instead. And, by the way, moron, make up your mind. Are you chastising them for finding guns entertaining, or taking them to task for only respecting the threat of violence? Because those messages contradict each other: people who respect guns don't think they're cool, and people who think guns are cool aren't really respecting them. You can't accuse people of both at the same time. And, frankly, what's wrong with respecting guns because they can kill you? So, quite apart from the Herculean suspension of disbelief required to buy his actions, nothing Mr. Senate says makes any sense either. Basically, Mr. Senate, shut up. ("David, I'm wearing that lingerie you like. Just have him fire the gun, and talk about The Godfather." "You're a genius, dear. Give me those handcuffs.")

What looks like every parent of every student at the school is yelling at Anthony Heald, who says, "The gun contained only blanks!" Yeah, just like this show. Anyway, the parents continue yelling, so he says, "Mr. Senate used the gun in a context that disabused firearms, much like prison officials with the Scared Straight program." More yelling. Steve-o-rama comes to the rescue: "This school does not condone Mr. Sennet's actions. He is a zealous teacher who is, on occasion, overzealous. This is one such occasion and he will be dealt with. Thank you." Still more yelling. Oh well.

Anthony Heald heads on into an empty classroom, where he can do some yelling of his own at Mr. Senate. "In this day and age, when students shoot teachers and classmates --" Mr. Senate says that that was one of the points he was trying to make. Well, he at least knows that he was making several at once, if not that they contradicted each other. And I could go into how and why the students responsible for the various tragedies around the country over the last few year don't match the demographic of the students Mr. Senate just shot at, but I won't. Suffice it to say that Eric Harris and Dylan Klebold weren't bussed in from anywhere.

Oh, but why rest at completely ridiculous when we can crank it up to ludicrous speed? Anthony Heald says, "So much as bring a weapon in for show-and-tell, and you will be fired." Yes, the two strikes policy for discharging firearms in a classroom: time you'll really be in trouble. I mean, it's just not fair to expect teachers to assume that this is a blanket rule of some kind; there's got to be some leeway if he's never been explicitly told before not to shoot guns at the walls. Oh wait, that's the STUPIDEST FUCKING THING EVER. Oh, and, Mr. Senate? You best shut the hell up. Anthony Heald's parting shot: "You know, for someone who professes to love teaching, you seem to have a career death wish. I don't know what's stopping me from making that wish come true." The answer is nothing, except the crappy writing. But, my word, to what is Anthony Heald referring? Could Mr. Senate have one or two other skeletons in his closet? Could one of those skeletons be refusing to wear a bra?

The hallway. Cheryl, wearing glasses so we know she's still smart and unpopular, wants confirmation from Lauren that Guber asked her out, and that she said yes but regrets it now. Lauren's all, "Our private lives -- you can't print that story!" Cheryl grins and says, "It's news!" and twerps away. Technically, she's wrong. It's not news, it's a fluff gossip piece, and since Ms. Davis is not a celebrity or public figure, she can sue for libel, despite whatever freedoms student publications have in a liberal city like Boston. But who cares? Let the lies stack upon the implausibilities until it all collapses in a giant heap of phenomenal inaccuracy.

This-Meeting-Is-Over's office. Steve. Coach Kevin. Throw down. Principal says, "Did you tell Jason Harrelson or his father or his lawyer what went on in a closed teacher's conference?" Coach Kevin fidgets. "Those meetings are sealed for the express purpose of encouraging candor. When you go behind teacher's backs and reveal --" Kevin interrupts, "Steven --" Steven yells, "I'm talking now!" That is now his new name. I'm-Talking-Now says, "Those meeting are based on candor. On trust. You broke that trust." Coach Kevin gives the spiel about how no one cares about his athletes' grades, and that he has to win tonight or he's out, "like the fat boy in dodgeball." Colorful. Steven yells some more, but the secretary from earlier pops in again: "Sorry, Steven. Anthony Ward is in the emergency room."

The pretenses are now gone, and we are actually in an ER. Though, here, the frenetically tracking camera is oddly still. "I want to know who did this!" Anthony's mom is shrieking. Blah blah blah protect-my-son-cakes. Anthony's dad keeps a level head and leads the principal into Anthony's room.

Hey, speaking of level heads, Anthony's is now a new shape, 'cause there's a big gash in his forehead that a doctor is stitching up. I guess he got some Dome Improvement. Ba-dum-bum. "Anthony, the worst has happened. He broke your head." But Anthony still won't talk.

Principal Bad-Ass knows who did it, though, and stalks the hallways back at school until he finds Malcolm White: School Bully. "Hey!" he says, "I just left Anthony Ward in the emergency room. Do you have any idea how he got there?" Best line of the episode: "I guess his parents probably drove him, sir." Steven, though, is not amused. Malcolm says that, not that he's admitting anything, but whatever happened to Anthony happened off school grounds, and is therefore none of the principal's business. When Malcolm tries to leave, Steven slams him against the lockers and yells, "Oh, you want to take a swing, is that it?" Uh, no, he was trying to walk away, but whatever. Anyway, Steven slams Malcolm White against the lockers over and over until Ms. Davis come out of a convenient nearby doorway and stop him. Principal says, "If Anthony Ward gets so much as a hangnail, I will take your head off." And books.

I think that David E. Kelley has the following taped to the wall above his desk: "How to threaten someone in dialogue: 'If you so much as [some extremely minor infraction], I will [some extremely major consequence].'" This is the second time he's used that construction and it sucked both times.

Down in the basement, Dana "Naughty Tail" Poole flags down Mr. Senate, who has for some reason not been dragged away from school grounds in chains. She says, "I need a favor. Jason Harrelson is a friend of mine, and if he doesn't play tonight --" Mr. Senate says there's nothing he can do, and Perky says that of course there is, and we learn that Mr. Senate is the other teacher failing Jason. Then she reveals to the audience what we've all already figured out, "If you don't pass him, our little secret might get out." Harry's all, "Our little secret could hurt you, too." But he knows he's beaten, and doesn't really need her to say, "Not as much as it could hurt you. I'm just an innocent student who didn't know better. You're a teacher." And with that, Ho-lita leaves Mr. Senate alone so that he can regret, a little bit, banging her, but still probably conclude that it was worth it, because you only live once. ["Dude, didn't he see Election?" -- Sars]

Ms. Davis' classroom. Jason Harrelson waits by the board, and when Lauren comes in, he says he wants to speak to her. "Is there any way you can help me to a D?" That would be a negative, as she points out: "I know you know who Lincoln is. But saying he invented the log, or Hamilton invented the blender; you were daring me to fail you." Jason has obviously picked up some reasoning skills from his father, and reveals his true strategy: "I didn't want you to think that I was stupid. I knew I wasn't going to pass the test, so I made it look like I was trying to fail on purpose, like I was defiant or something." This is, in my opinion, a poor choice for someone who does not want to be thought stupid, since he doubtless was also aware that failing would prevent him from playing football anymore. Maybe his real mistake was taking Geology. Blah blah blah Emmy-clip-about-his-father-and-the-whole-school-thinking-he's-dumb-cakes. Lauren offers to tutor Jason after class, but he's got practice. He says, "I don't count until someone gives me the ball. Once they give me the ball, I can --" But Ms. Davis cuts him off, her seventh-most-sexy gaze smoldering: "Well, maybe that's the problem we have. I mean, you think everything's going to be okay so long as they keep giving you the ball. Better you learn that's not the case now." He says, "Please. Let me play." And she just shakes her head. The Oboe of Shattered Dreams tootles us into the commercial.