Thanks this week to the Biscuit and Wing.
Fade up on Sanctum Dawsonorum. Dawson "Cracklin' Oaf Bran" Leery in his customary color-tipped J. Crew v-neck and so-'94 teardrop necklace stammers, "Come on, Jen, you're killing me," and meanwhile a voice from the TV whines, "You're not even trying -- you're taking the easy way out." As Porky Pig sticks his head through the Merrie Melodies sign and announces, "Th-th-th-th-that's all, folks!" -- oh, sorry, my mistake, as Jen reads Dawson's script and murmurs distractedly, "Hang on, hang on," Dawson watches "The Partridge Family." Dawson's hair looks a little less Muppety in this episode, but Jen's looks like a matted vegetable brush. Jen says, "All right. Dawson, you can unclench. I'm done," and Dawson makes a big old high-school-musical production of dashing over to sit to Jen and saying very intensely, "Okay. So." Jen stares at Dawson: "Wh-wh-what do you want me to say?" Dawson: "The truth!" Jen: "Okay, the 'truth' truth, or the 'what Dawson wants to hear' truth?" Ouch. Dawson says, "So in other words, you hated it," before burying his head in his hands, and Jen demurs, "No -- hey, Dawson, Dawson, no, I didn't hate it. I just thought it was, I don't know, for lack of a better word -- fluff." Ouch! Dawson can't understand this dismissal of his magnum opus, stammering, "Fluff? Fl-fluff? How could it be fluff, Jen, my heart and soul went into that script!" and pinching the bridge of his nose. Jen calls Dawson's portrait of "the lives and loves of these teens in a small town" naive, and Dawson splutters that "it's supposed to be naive" and gabbles on about "the age of innocence, sexual awakenings, the magic of first love," and Jen paddles furiously to keep her head above water in this torrent of triteness: "Dawson, look. Your script is good. It's funny, and it's timely, and it's smart, and it's well-written," and Dawson actually nods his head in agreement as she says all these things. Um, Dawson, why don't you go down to Book Barn, buy about twenty copies of William Goldman's Adventures in the Screen Trade, stack them up, climb on top of them, and get over yourself? Anyway, Jen goes on to say that Dawson's work "lacks relevance to today's society -- you go out of your way to comment on teen life, and you end up saying very little about it," and Dawson thunks his head against his Hook poster and makes a limp joke about the knife in his back, and Jen doesn't want to depress Dawson, but she thinks the script lacks "oomph," and that it needs more anger and passion and "that raw dark pain that comes with being young." Dawson objects, "I am raw and dark." No, really. He really said that. Jen, to her credit, laughs in his face.
Dawson wants to know what he has to do to prove that he has a dark side. Jen tells him to loosen up, "start writing from the gut, stop responding from such an adult perspective." Dawson asks how, and Jen suggests, "Teenage 101? Maybe it's time you start pretending that you really are fifteen," and Dawson and Sars both snort derisively as Jen says, "I think I could actually show you how to reclaim those missing years -- come on, Dawson, what do you say?" and Dawson stares straight ahead. I suppose this scene operates as a response to the critics who have complained that "real kids don't talk that way," but first of all, yeah, I do believe we get the point, and second of all, I can only think of one thing more absurd than Dawson having a mid-life crisis before he has even learned to drive, namely that the writers think we would have the remotest interest in Dawson's so-called problems. Great -- the episode has barely started and already I need to lie down for a few hours.
Credits (estrogen-fueled braying, Gap-clad frolicking), another You've Got Mail ad in case we all live under Ayers Rock or something, and Jennifer Love Hewitt using a bunch of teenspeak euphemisms for zits you get on your butt.
Capeside High exterior. Andie "Dexatrim" McPhee dashes up to Joey "Two Hairstyles In One" Potter, babbling eight to the bar about something or other, and Joey informs her, "It's seven a.m. Cheer down." Heh. Anyway, Andie basically ignores this and prates on about not sleeping the night before and having had an "epiphany" involving Joey. Joey gently refers again to the early hour, but Andie pays her no heed and announces her intention to effect positive change by running for sophomore class president. In December. She wants Joey to run with her as her vice president. Joey says "no way." Andie persists, citing Joey's good grades and high recognition factor; Joey refuses, citing her "sordid family history" and saying that she'll only ruin Andie's chances. Joey takes off for class and Pacey "Rapier" Witter sneaks up behind a disappointed Andie, and as he hugs her, Chris "Howling" Wolf hands Andie a flyer and tells her to "vote Chris and Abby on election day," and then Abby "Single Entendre [tm Wing]" Morgan materializes and says to Pacey, "Wherever you go, Pacey, the slacker vote inevitably follows." Pacey makes a sarcastic comment about Abby's "irrepressible charm" and chucks her under the chin, and he and Andie walk on down the hall, Pacey sniping, "Fabulous. James Bond and Pussy Galore are gonna rule our class." I don't recall 007 wearing a super-tight choker or having his hair cut by Miss Moneypenny, and if memory serves, Pussy Galore had a lot more going on than Abby's bowling pin shape, but what the hell -- heh. In any case, Andie intends to beat the Dorkardly Duo, but Pacey doesn't see why she wants to run for office when she could spend "oodles of quality time" with him instead. Andie says, "It all falls into my master plan [sic]," telling him that although she hasn't found a running mate, she wants Pacey to serve as her campaign manager, and that way they can have their oodles of quality time.
Cut to Jen walking up to Dawson at his locker. Dawson responds passive-aggressively to her "what's up" by referring to his "same old painless fluff-filled irrelevant existence" blah blah blah fishcakes, trying to make Jen feel guilty for calling him on his pretentiousness the night before. Sars and Jen both roll their eyes and Jen asks why he doesn't do something about it, and suggests cutting class, "something normal students do at random." Interesting -- at my school, "normal students" showed up for class, or they got suspended. Anyway, Dawson naturally says no, because he doesn't think the experience of cutting class will "unleash the answers of the universe" to him, and also because he has a quiz in history class. Jen informs him, "In order to write about being a teenager, you actually need to experience being one." Memo to the writers: please set your time machines to 1998, because nobody between the ages of thirteen and nineteen has referred to him- or herself as a "teenager" since sometime during the Korean War. Jen continues to lay on the non-insightful pseudo-Beat Generation insights into art and its relationship to experience, sagely intoning, "Life is composed of moments, and you have to take those moments as they come -- impulsively." Dawson pretends to agree with Little Miss Carpe Diem and says, "Let's go," and they head for the door, but at the last moment Dawson vanishes into a classroom and leaves an irked Jen standing outside. Like, ha ha. Not.
In the kitchen of the No-Fault Hacienda, Gail "Faithless Hussy" Leery sighs, "I'm sorry, Mitch, I just didn't know who else to call," and The Flash tinkers with the dishwasher. How about calling a plumber? Or the service department at Sears? The Flash, clad in jeans and a tight white t-shirt with one sleeve inexplicably rolled up '50s greaser-style, tells her that he has fixed it, but when Gail turns the dishwasher on, the door pops open and sprays water all over The Flash. Gail guffaws as The Flash peels off his t-shirt to reveal a Fabio-esque body and grumbles, "You think this is real funny, don't you?" Gail thinks "it's hilarious -- look at you," and The Flash flicks some water from his shirt onto her and says, "You're not so dry yourself," and Gail looks at his so-not-a-straight-middle-aged-man body and again says, "Well, look at you," and she sort of helps him dry off, and they stare at each other, and Gail literally starts panting, and she sort of moans, "Mitch," and this, boys and girls, represents a perfect example of Bad TV Corollary #121: when two people of the opposite sex get wet, sex must ensue. So, The Flash and Gail start kissing, and The Flash plunks Gail down on the butcher block table and peels her sweater off, and he carries her over to the dining room table and knocks a bunch of stuff off the butcher block with her legs and it all crashes to the floor, and didn't we see the "broken crockery = wild passion" motif before with Jen and Billy Budd? Anyway, as The Flash prepares to mount Gail, Dawson wanders in the back door, sees his parents going at it, and slinks out again with a hopeful smirk. Shudder. Sing with me now: "Alka-Seltzer to the rescue!"
Cut to Café E. coli, where Joey and Jack "Pinhead" McPhee make a pyramid out of single-serving creamers. Joey has made up her mind on the "up or down?" question and rolled her hair up into a messy bun. Jack has a chorus of angels dancing on his head. Joey quizzes Jack about where he got his clumsiness from and about his family, and to distract her from this line of questioning, Jack offers to clean the deep fryer, but he doesn't know how, so Joey will have to "stay late and help [him] with the proper procedure." As someone who used to work in a pizza parlor and spent a number of hours heaving a fifty-pound mushroom slicer in and out of a shoulder-height sink, I can tell you that washing commercial food-preparation equipment does not create the most romantic atmosphere, but whatever. As the two of them continue back-and-forthing about Jack's unwillingness to share, Abby and Chris walk in and seat themselves. Abby demands menus. Jack and Joey exchange a "whatever" look and Joey goes over to the table with the menus. Abby snarls, "Preferably a couple without yesterday's special rotting on them?" Joey wipes Abby's menu on her shirt and drops it on the table. Heh. Chris wants to know why Abby brought him "to this dive," and Abby says pointedly that they "have to discuss strategy in private, and you can always count on this place to be deserted." As Joey stalks back to the counter, Abby observes gleefully that "the service here is even worse than the food." Jack tries to talk Joey into running for class president with Andie. Joey doesn't deal with school activities, but Jack points out that she only got into art recently blah blah blah interests can change blah blah blah Joey's "amazing girl--door quality" blah blah blah fishcakes. He keeps trying to sell her on the "born leader" idea, and Abby pipes up, "More like 'born loser.'" Heh. Joey turns around holding a pitcher of water, and here we see Bad TV Corollary #48 in action, namely that any container of fluid present during a catfight must wind up cascading over someone's head by the scene's end. Abby tells Joey that she has no hope of beating her and Chris, remarking with her usual over-the-top sneer of hostility that "you throw the trash out -- you don't vote it in." Joey and Sars sort of say "whatever," but Abby barrels ahead, referring to Joey embarrassing her family even further and adding yet another disappointment to her "meager and depressing existence," and while on the one hand I admire Abby for having the stones to say such obnoxious things to people's faces, on the other hand I have to wonder why nobody has medicated her for an obvious case of Tourette's. Anyway, Chris smirks, and Joey dumps the pitcher of water over Abby's genie-ponytailed head as Jack's mouth drops open in delighted shock. Abby, not even that wet, narrows her eyes and snarls, "You're dead," gathers up Chris and the rest of her things, and storms out on her chunky little legs. Joey says to Jack in a grim tone of voice, "Tell Andie I'm in." Jack gasps with laughter. Okay, let's review. First of all, nobody in the history of secondary school education (with the possible exception of Greg and Marcia Brady) has cared this much about a school government election. Second of all, no voting for class officers has ever taken place in November, or December, or whatever godforsaken El-Niño-ized month the writers have assigned to this show. Third of all, Chris, wipe that face off your head and stop letting your mother cut your hair. Fourth of all, whatever.
Another Kevin Williamson movie. Ugh. A Tidy Cats ad with a really really cute kitten.
"Downtown" Capeside, at the "McPhee and Potter" campaign headquarters picnic table. Andie seems determined to ignore the essential popularity contest nature of the election, and assigns Pacey to put up Kinko's-copied color posters "all over Capeside, not just the high school." Wouldn't she just say "at school"? Anyway, Pacey has picked up a book on the Clinton campaign, and he predicts that the election "is gonna get ugly," but Andie doesn't care so much about that as she does that Pacey has bothered to do research for the campaign. Aw. They kiss (aw), but Andie breaks it off in favor of pontificating about "virtue and integrity" in the campaign, and how she wants to take the high road, and how her goal "is to make government good and safe again." Pacey responds to Andie's overly ambitious Great-Society nattering by telling her, "You know, the way these sound bites just flow out of your mouth, you really have a future in this stuff." Pacey compliments Andie's sincere sexiness, Andie compliments Pacey's sexy sincerity and Pacey's intelligence, and as they start kissing again, Joey flops down on the bench to Pacey and clears her throat to interrupt them. Thank you, Joey. Anyway, Joey asks, "Did you get a glimpse of Chris and Abby's smear campaign? This is exactly what I was worried about." Pacey gets excited, saying that they can "just hit them back harder -- there's a whole chapter in my book on mudslinging," but Andie doesn't want to do that: "No. We are not stooping to their lows [sic]. Government is about balance and order." Joey wants to fight back; Andie doesn't want to "respond in an emotional, knee-jerk fashion," and continues over Joey's protestations that they should stick up for themselves, "Look, Joey, I know they got to you, but let's not let them get the best of us. I mean, those were just words. They carry no weight whatsoever." Good thing the foreshadowing in this line doesn't approximate an iron skillet to the head. Oh, wait -- my bad. It does. Andie wants to focus on their debate issues and claims that "winning will be our best revenge."
Jen at the Urban Decay make-up counter again, trying on lipliner again. Jen offers herself to Dawson as his "regression sponsor." Dawson would prefer not to take life lessons from the bedheaded alcoholic chop--door, whose own parents kicked her out of the house, whose grandmother had to save her from getting raped by a merchant marine on her kitchen table, and who pukes after two beers, and he says so, but a little more nicely. Jen overrides him, appoints herself anyway, and orders Dawson to shoplift. Dawson refuses. Jen insists. Dawson pretends to do it but puts the item in question back before leaving the store. Jen busts on him for his honesty and "over-analyzing." Sars dislocates her jaw yawning as the writers struggle frantically to make the doughy-faced, bed-headed Jen seem naughty and cutting-edge and to make Dawson's non-midlife non-crisis seem compelling instead of like the dictionary definition of solipsism.
Sars swoons into a full-length faint of apathy as Jen delivers yet another lecture on Dawson's need to respond viscerally blah blah blah hiding behind a psychology degree he doesn't have blah blah blah "there's a reason we go from infancy to old age -- think about that" blah blah blah fishcakes. Sars regains consciousness and prays for Grams to reappear and ground Jen until she turns thirty so that we no longer have to endure her half-baked yammering about Dawson' "reaching his audience" and "allowing for the process" -- like, Jen? Shut up!
Cut to the gym, where restless sophomores listen to the campaign pledges of Kenny and his pencil-necked running mate, and of Andie and Joey, and of Chris and Abby. Montage of debate shots; Abby, kitted out in her best East Village poser-wear, comments, "It's about trust." Apparently, whether or not to allow Walkmans in study hall constitutes the primary point of debate at Capeside High. Chris calls himself "a man of the people," observing that "I've probably partied with everyone here at least once." This earns a glum stare from Jen, a snort of disbelief from Dawson, and an audible gag from Sars, because I hate people who use the word "party" as a verb even more than I hate Chris's hair. Oh, and shut up, Chris. Then Abby rolls in the big guns: "This all comes down to one simple question -- who do you want to run your class? Us, the geeks, or Little Miss Perky and the convict's daughter?" Joey blanches as Andie, super-flat hair neatly barretted, points out the irrelevance of this statement. Abby snarls, "You would say that, considering no one here knows your background. Just to bring everybody up to speed on an issue that is relevant, Andie McPhee, your prospective president, has a mother that's about, hmm, one shock treatment away from a permanent residence in the loonybin." Andie literally flinches. A worried Pacey sits up straighter in his seat, and the other members of the gang furrow their brows; Chris shoots Andie a totally fake "gee that's too bad" look, and Kenny and Pencil-Neck gape unabashedly at Andie. Andie looks at Pacey, her lip trembling, and Pacey gives her a thumbs-up. Sars yells at her TV, "Come on, Andie, grab the back of Abby's neck and slam her face down onto the podium! Bloody nose! Bloody nose!" Joey gamely takes the floor: "You know, for once, Abby, let's stick to the issues. You know, Andie's personal life has no bearing on her ability to handle the job as sophomore class president." But Abby in her so-not-appropriate-for-daytime eye glitter and fur-trimmed top has just gotten started, and as Andie's eyes turn red and she stares around the gym deer-in-the-headlights-style, Abby snaps, "Whatever. We have hard evidence that Andie's mother was responsible for the death of Andie's brother in a car crash less than a year ago." The faculty pile-on that would have promptly occurred at my school after a comment like this unfortunately fails to happen. Murmurs sweep through the gym. Pacey closes his eyes. Andie's lips move but no sound comes out.
Even Chris looks uncomfortable as Abby continues, in a voice strangled with inexplicable fury, "The fact of the matter is that Mommy McPhee is a wacked-out nut, and we all know that mental illness is hereditary, so -- you do the math." She smiles smugly as the ancient teacher in charge of the debate tells her, "Abby. That's quite enough," like, NO KIDDING. Abby explains, "Hey, I was just trying to ascertain the truth for the safety of my fellow students." Pacey stares daggers at Abby as she shrugs innocently and says in a little-girl voice, "Andie?" Andie hasn't moved; she just stares straight ahead as tears roll down her face. Everyone watches her. She tries to respond, saying, "I, um," and then "I," and then she leaves the podium and first walks, then runs to the door, and as Joey looks miserably at Pacey, Pacey watches Andie take off, then follows her with his Clinton campaign book in hand. Good acting in this scene, especially by Meredith Monroe -- I found it difficult to watch, and I actually mean that as a compliment.
Why don't they just make one film, call it The Chick Movie, and get it over with? Then I wouldn't have to sit through the barrage of ads for crap like Stepmom. And no, I do not "got milk."
Joey runs up to Jack outside Capeside High. Students, prepare yourself for Bad TV Corollary #3: men will resist attempts at closeness, while women will seek them persistently. And now, back to the show. Jack can't find Andie; Joey hasn't seen her either, and asks grimly, "So you heard about the assembly?" Jack, head resolutely down: "Yeah." Joey says she feels "really stupid" and apologizes profusely for "grilling [him] about [his] family" and "pressuring [him] for answers." Jack tries to blow her off with, "Joey, I'm looking for my sister, not your sympathy, all right?" Joey winces and says she hasn't seen Andie since the debate, then asks if she can do anything to help, only to have Jack round on her: "My family situation is complicated, Joey, all right? It's just not something I feel comfortable talking about, so I'll, I'll see you later." Joey grabs his arm and says, "No, Jack, don't push me away, okay? I want to help." Ironic, considering that Joey pushed Jack and Dawson away with both arms, but anyway, Joey goes on, "Look, I've been through something like this with my own family, and -- I understand." Jack cuts her off: "All right, don't you get it? I didn't want to talk to you before, and I don't now! God!" If I've said it once, I've said it a hundred times -- you can have a big old attitude, OR you can have a runty little head, but NOT BOTH. Jack stalks off with his K-Mart-brand backpack cinched way too high on his shoulders, and Joey makes her patented "uch" sound of bewilderment.
In the hallway, Pacey picks up a ripped "McPhee and Potter" poster and sighs. After easing the door of the girls' room open and asking, "Andie? You in there?" he announces, "All right -- listen, I'm coming in there, so, just there's no confusion, I am a man, so if there're any objections, please speak now." Pacey goes into the bathroom and starts checking over and under the doors for Andie while telling her that he knows she's in there, and that his book has "a whole chapter on what to do when scandal breaks -- it's not such a big deal. We can get through this." Eventually, after getting down on his knees to peer underneath the stalls, he locates Andie, which reminded me of the time in college when I got really upset about a boy that didn't care about me, and I locked myself in a bathroom stall and sobbed, and this other boy, a friend of mine, tried to get me to come out, but I wouldn't and I just kept crying, so he crawled underneath the door to come keep my company and hand me toilet paper to blow my nose with, and this friend of mine has behaved really obnoxiously on many occasions since then, but I always forgive him, because he got down on his belly on the disgusting floor of that bathroom just to make sure I was okay. Anyway, Pacey opens a stall door to find Andie crouching on top of a toilet. She tells Pacey the distance between the pitching mound and home plate, and Pacey asks, "Are you okay, McPhee?" and Andie answers, "Tim taught me that. He tried to teach me a curveball, too. Turns out I throw like a girl." Pacey leads her out of the stall, and she wrings her hands and frets about everyone knowing about her mom and the accident and everything, and she thinks that everyone will look at her and laugh when she goes out into the hall. Pacey comforts her by saying that nobody will laugh, everyone comes from a dysfunctional family, and "the only happy families are in TV syndication." Andie wriggles out of his hug, talking about how "politics used to mean something -- we've just become such a lessened society." As Andie paces back and forth and chews on her thumb, Pacey tells her, "Andie, this is high school. I mean, trust me, me of all people, this'll all blow over. Tomorrow everything goes back to normal." "'Normal'?" Andie says, still biting her thumb, and then someone throws the switch from "depressive" to "manic" as she says really quickly, "Ohhh god -- that's all I ever wanted, you know, a normal family, with a normal life, balance and order, order and balance, but you know, that just doesn't exist, I mean, not anywhere, not here, and, and it never will, because you know, it was all just this big false hope," and Pacey grabs her from behind so she'll stop walking back and forth and asks, "Don't you think you're being a little hard on yourself? Normal never existed. It never did." Suspiciously insightful for someone still in high school, but I have to agree -- go, Pacey. Andie laugh-cries that she looks like "a total and complete mess" and starts to leave the bathroom, but not before saying, "I hate this. I really hate this," and she throws Pacey's Clinton book at the mirror and shatters part of it as Pacey ducks away and stares at her. Andie takes off, and it seems that Wing's repeated predictions about Prozac may soon come to fruition. [Yeah! -- Wing Chun]
Cut to the Loft Of Sleeveless Superheroes. Dawson gets off the freight elevator to find The Flash varnishing a chair. Dawson has brought over The Flash's mail, and plunks himself down to fish for information about the status of his parents' marriage, or, more precisely, the status of himself in relation to their marriage. The Flash, dismayed: "Mom told you, didn't she?" Dawson, knowingly: "She didn't have to. I saw it for myself. Not -- the main attraction, just the previews. So." The Flash hems, "It's complicated," and haws that he doesn't know if he feels comfortable talking about it with Dawson, and Dawson says no problem, he just wanted to let The Flash know that he is "okay with it." Um, Dawson? Nobody consulted you, so, like, shut up. Dawson's reaction takes The Flash by surprise. Dawson keeps talking, mentioning the possibility of The Flash staying over sometimes, and that it won't "mess with [his] head," and that he knows "reconciliations have their straying and varied paths," and when it dawns on The Flash that Dawson thinks he and Gail plan to get back together, he nips the idea in the bud: "There is no reconciliation, Dawson. It was a slip -- a sex slip, and a mistake, and it won't happen again." Dawson: "Now I don't understand." The Flash: "Well, we, we just, we fell back into what was comfortable, and, and easy, and used it to cover our problems." Dawson offers, "It helped your problems," and The Flash says firmly, "No. It, it worsened them. Because I realized that it's insane to keep taking the same action, expecting a different result. It changes nothing -- it's the action that must change." Can we at long last crown The Flash as Gym Queen? Dawson pinches his lips into a cat-butt pucker of dismay and flares his nostrils to one-hundred-percent capacity.
As Jen pushes some clothes back and forth in her closet, Dawson intones somberly from behind her, "You were right. I do have a perception disorder." Jen, sorting clothes, wonders, "What brought this on?" Dawson begins blabbering that he doesn't respond like a typical adolescent, but that emotionally he does, and that emotionally he acts his age, maybe even younger, and nothing he has just said makes any sense, but that only matters if you give a crap what Dawson says, and since Jen doesn't seem to, why should we? Dawson flings himself around Jen's bedroom like an extra in Damn Yankees, flapping his arms, holding his head, twirling around whenever he has a non-revelatory revelation, and rambling, "My feelings are in constant conflict with my overachieving self-aware brain, and it's this constant battle, and that's what's driving me crazy! Am I making any sense?" Jen, as if she actually listened to one word of this indulgent hoo-hah: "Yes. Completely." Sars: "No. Shut up." Jen goes back to alphabetizing her clothing, Sars goes back to reading a book, and Dawson goes back to gazing at his navel and blithering, "Okay. Thank god. So I keep on waiting, for my feelings to catch up, so that maybe, you know, I can finally grow up, and I can finally get over Joey, or accept that my parents may or may not work things out," and -- HOLD on, WAIT a minute. First of all, for your feelings to catch up to what -- your record-setting self-absorption? The size of your head? Second of all, never mind getting over Joey -- why don't you start by getting over yourself? Third of all, everyone has problems, so get in line. And fourth of all, could you please please please give some thought to SHUTTING UP?
Well, I get an answer to that question when Dawson KEEPS TALKING about how he has it "backwards" and how he has to change his actions in order to change his feelings, and excuse me, but modeling one's behavior on The Flash probably won't get you anything but bigger biceps. Jen says, "You're too smart for your own good, Dawson," and Dawson turns a chair around and sits in it backwards, remarking in a world-weary tone, "Right now, Jen, I feel incredibly stupid," and Jen walks over to Dawson with that weird hands-in-pockets cowboy-swagger she has and asks if she can do anything to help, but before she can borrow a needle and thread from Grams and sew his lips shut, Dawson says, "I think I need a sponsor. I need to go out and indulge in some incredibly appropriate teenage behavior." Jen, rubbing Dawson's shoulder, laughs, "That sounds like something right up my alley -- did you have anything specific in mind?" Dawson says portentously, "Just something nonsensical, completely spontaneous, the good, the bad, the ugly -- you're the expert, I will follow your lead." Well, it looks like they've got the bad and the ugly well in hand, doesn't it? Jen smirks, "Let the revelry begin," and I celebrate by yelling, "That's-a one-a spicy meat-a ball! All-a except for-a the spicy part-a!" and dropping another six Alka-Seltzer into a glass of water.
Pan across a brick wall to the window of Andie's bedroom; Andie looks out the window (open, of course. In November. Or December. Or whatever damn month) while rocking slowly. A guitar-picking Lilithite warbles in the background. Jack wanders in with non-casual studied casualness and says, "I finally got Mom to bed." Andie doesn't respond. Jack sits down on the bed and says, "It really scares her to see you so upset," and when Andie still doesn't answer, Jack adds, "Look, Andie, this hasn't been an easy year for any of us. But we all do what we have to to hold it together, to cope." Andie looks down, listening, but she doesn't say anything. Since when does Jack, who barely deals with their mother at all, have any right to talk down to Andie like that? Like, shut up, Jack. Jack swallows and looks, pained, up at the ceiling before saying, "Your highs and lows are becoming really intense lately," and this gets a reaction from Andie: "I'm fine, Jack." Jack snaps back, "You're not fine, Andie! I mean, one minute you're laughing, and the you're in tears!" Andie tries to put him off with, "Please, just leave me alone, okay?" but Jack says softly, "I think it's time you went back on your medication." Wing, you may now take your bow for calling that one. Jack goes on, "It might make things a little easier for you and for everyone." Jack really has a diplomatic and sensitive way about him, doesn't he? Well, all except for the "diplomatic" part. And the "sensitive" part. Andie curls up farther into the rocking chair and says without turning around, "I said I'm all right, okay? I just had a rough day. That's all. I don't need any medication," and Jack sort of rolls his eyes and stares at her in frustration as she says again, "I'm fine." After looking at her some more, Jack finally gets up and leaves the room, glancing over his shoulder. Memo to the writers: please try knowing at least one thing about bipolar disorder before attempting to work it into a plot line. Thank you.
Cut to some underbrush, through which Jen and Dawson run giggling. Oh god, I don't think I can talk about this, but I'll try to get through the whole thing without speeyacking. Okay, Dawson has a roll of toilet paper in his hand; presumably, he has just taken a typically adolescent and liberating outdoor crap. Oops, no, he has just toilet-papered someone's house, and he finds that very exciting, and Jen congratulates him. Whatever. Dawson asks what comes on his whirlwind tour of stereotypical immaturity, and after asking if he feels "bold," Jen tells him, "Drop your pants." Dawson: "What?" Jen points out that the presence of clothing makes skinny-dipping somewhat difficult. A bit of non-witty badinage ensues, as Jen implies that Dawson has something to hide in the penis department; Dawson denies this and accuses Jen of thinking that he won't do it, and she admits that no, she doesn't think he'll do it. Dawson says he won't do it alone; Jen says she "never intended" for him to do it alone. Jen strips down behind Dawson's back while Dawson worries aloud about getting caught, drapes her bra over Dawson's shoulder, and splashes into the water, and Dawson turns around and splutters, "Jen, you're --" and she finishes, "-- naked, and all wet," as she wallows in the water. "Dawson, come on in, the water's great," she says, and giggles enticingly. Oh my god, I really have to lie down for a few weeks.
Fade up from commercial, as Dawson sheds the last of his clothes behind a bush. Jen comments, "Dawson, is that a tree branch, or are you just happy to see me?" Pardon me while I bury a ballpoint pen in my left eye. Dawson chastises Jen for looking and makes a mad dash for the water. Fortunately, we don't see anything, but let's just say that the mere thought of Van Der Beek in the Van Der Buff has proved marvelously effective as a dieting technique. Dawson and Jen splash and tease each other, and Dawson cackles at his newfound and utterly uninteresting adolescent emancipation as a gall-ternative band strums away in the background. After the compulsory splash-fight, Jen says, "Let me ask you something. Nightmares aside, um, have you ever -- dreamt about me?" Dawson, doggy-paddling in a circle: "Yeah. I mean, everyone I know has come through my dreams at one point or another." Jen, her hair slicked back in a weird reptilian shape: "That's not what I mean. I mean, have you ever woken up sweating, your blanket in a little pup tent?" Oh god, please, could we NOT revisit the "walking the dog" convo of last season, please, please? I only have so many places in which to stab myself with writing implements. Dawson responds, "You first. Have you ever dreamt about me that way?" Jen, not meeting Dawson's eye: "Possibly." At this point, the two of them have swum around to face one another, and Dawson leans in to kiss Jen. Bad Idea Jeans! Jen stops him: "Dawson. [You're] crossing the line." Let me get this straight -- you go out with him, you dump him, you throw yourself at him for weeks, you give up and start sleeping with other guys, you crash out in his bedroom, you nearly barf all over him, you offer to serve as his "regression sponsor," you strip down and lure him into the water with you, naked, both of you, and you ask him whether he dreams about you and wakes up with an erection, but when he kisses you, he is "crossing the line"? What line? WHAT LINE? Show me this line -- I want to see it!
ANYway, a nonplused Dawson stares at Jen and stammers, "Crossing the line, you don't want -- I thought you wanted this, Jen. You've been -- I mean, you've hinted -- implied, offered." Jen murmurs, "I know, Dawson, it's just --" and Dawson, not content to say something once when he could rephrase it to the musical sound of his own voice another seven or eight times, gushes on: "I mean, I was just taking your advice -- don't think, do -- something completely spontaneous, you know?" Jen says, sort of pre-crying, that she's glad Dawson has "embraced the philosophy," but that she doesn't want to mess up the friendship they've finally come to, and that she followed his lead on this one, "hoping that different actions might create different results." Dawson, circling Jen in the water like a hammerhead shark: "So the different action is -- no action?" Jen, backing away from him: "No, the different action is being your friend." Dawson, passive-aggressively: "The way Joey was my friend?" Jen, patiently: "There's [sic] lots of ways to be someone's friend, Dawson. We'll just have to figure that out." Sars: "Could someone please pass the salt? I'd like to pour it directly into the gaping wound on my cornea. Thanks." Then they get in another splash-fight as I begin the painstaking process of removing several dozen toothpicks from under my toenails.
Cut to Capeside High, with the presidential candidates doing some sort of Crossfire thing over the school PA system. Chris says something which I won't even dignify by repeating it; I will, however, tell him to shut up. Shut up, Chris. And take off that stupid pendant. And for god's sweet sake, stop letting your mother cut your nappy-ass hair! Thank you! Anyway, Abby grabs the mic almost before Chris stops talking -- thank you, Abby -- and refers yet again to the "losers" running against the Dorkardly Duo. Abby has some sort of Shirley Temple-on-a-coke-bender pin-curl fiesta going on on her head, and while she strafes the competition with below-the-belt insults, Joey whispers to Andie that they can still withdraw from the race without shame if Andie wants to. Andie says, a little too calmly, "I'm fine. I can do this," as Abby winds up her speech with, "So get off your butts and vote Chris and Abby. You'll enjoy the ride." Switching off the mic, Abby remarks, "It's as locked up as Joey's father. [Heh.] Schedule says the cuckoo bird and the convict's daughter are up ," as she gets up to leave. Andie repeats, "I can do this." She and Joey sit down at the microphone, but when the mic is turned on, Andie opens her mouth and nothing comes out. Joey gives her a concerned look and Pacey chews his lip. Then Andie says, "I can't do this, I'm sorry," jumps up from her chair, and pushes her way out of the room. Joey goes after her as Abby simpers, "I hope it wasn't something I said." If looks could kill, the one Pacey lays on Abby would put her six feet underground on her back in a box as Abby comments, "I mean, it was just good old-fashioned politics." Chris says, "I'm outta here. I'm gonna go kiss some babes," and when Abby snaps, "It's 'babies,' you idiot," Chris answers, aiming for suave and taking a wrong turn at Larry from Three's Company, "My way is a lot more fun," and ducks out of the room, sniggering. Pardon me while I escort Chris to the cafeteria, where the kitchen staff has baked the world's largest sheet cake and written the words "SHUT UP, CHRIS" on it using two-and-a-half miles of pink icing. Abby rolls her eyes.
Pacey wanders over to the chairs to the mic and sits down in one, subtly switching on the PA system and asking Abby why she bothers "slumming as vice president for [Chris] when [she is] so obviously the brains behind this campaign." Abby seats herself to Pacey and unwittingly reveals herself to the entire school: "Well, I'll let you in on a little secret there, sport. I'm just using that walking penis for his popularity, and ultimately, I'll destroy him, just like I destroyed your little girlfriend. It's just so easy, and victory is so much sweeter when you have to walk on top of other people to get it. I'm gonna rule this school, and you and all those other halfwits are too stupid to stop me." Reaction shots of Dawson and Jen and their fellow students in biology lab, dissecting frogs and listening to Abby crash and burn, and shots of speakers in the hallway blaring Abby's political demise. On the one hand, go Abby for the "walking penis" comment, but on the other hand, um, Abby? Sophomores never, but never, "rule" anything. Seniors do that. Reread your handbook, and shut up. Pacey smiles gently and says, "Yeah, you're probably right. I mean, I'm so stupid I didn't know that when I pressed this button on this little thing, that your annoying nasal whine was broadcast over this entire school. Oh, no -- god, wait a minute. No, that's exactly what I meant to do -- sorry, my bad," and he departs from the room in triumph, informing an overjoyed Kenny, "School's yours, pal," and giving him a high-five. Meanwhile, Abby stares down at the little red light on the mic in defeated horror. First of all, go Pacey. Second of all, memo to the writers: since I use that rhetorical device all the freakin' time, shouldn't I get a "tm" on that line? [Seems to me someone down at the WB has been doing a little research. -- Wing Chun]
Over at the No-Fault Hacienda, Gail has gone on a cleaning and cooking spree of obvious sublimation. Dawson goes to get a snack and finds the divorce papers that The Flash served Gail with that morning. Dawson: "Are you okay?" Gail, sighing loudly: "Yeah. I'll be all right, honey. I'm movin' on." She continues dusting and vacuuming as Dawson's nostrils flap a Morse Code distress signal. Three words, Dawson: Not. About. You!
Over at the Botulism Bistro, Jack's reflection appears in the door as Joey locks up. Joey, either put ALL the hair UP, or leave ALL the hair DOWN. Jack asks if he can walk her home; she shrugs and says, "Sure." Jack apologizes for "being such an ass," and although he's had a rough couple of days, he doesn't want to use that as an excuse. Joey tells him she wanted to "be there for" him but he shut her out, and he explains that when things "get rough," he goes "on autopilot" and closes down to everyone but the family. Joey says again that she wants to help him, and Jack says, "If you really want to help me, find me a BIGGER HEAD!" No, he doesn't really say that. He does say, "Joey, I -- I can't allow myself the luxury of opening up. I mean, with my brother gone and my father missing in action, my mother and my sister, they depend on me, you know, to be the rock, and I don't know, sometimes I just, I feel like -- god, I can't even explain it." Well, how about using a few more clichés, Jack? Not. Please don't.
Joey eyes him with concern and he whines, "It's like my whole life is just one big secret." Joey tells Jack about when her mother was dying, and about a friend she had that she could just sit with even if she didn't feel like talking, and "towards the end, when things got really bad," the friend would reach out and hold her hand. I assume she means Dawson, although I find it difficult to imagine Dawson acting in such a selfless manner. Then Joey takes Jack's hand, and they look at each other, and they both sort of nod at each other, and they both nearly start crying during their Vulcan mind-meld. Great scene -- except for the writing, the acting, the wardrobe, the hair, and the music in the background.
Cut to Andie's bathroom. Andie, obviously in the middle of a crying jag, splashes water on her face. She has parked the phone to the sink for some reason, and when it rings, she picks up in spite of her wet face. She says, "Hi, Pacey," trying to sound cheerful through the tears in her voice. She tells him she feels a lot better, and opens her cabinet to reveal, among other things, several product-placed Neutrogena bottles and a squat prescription pill bottle; she hesitantly takes the pill bottle out of the cabinet and looks at it as she gives a little shuddery crying sigh and says, "No, um, tonight? Um, I don't think so, um," and she struggles with the pill bottle and shakes two out, and then she sighs, "Yeah, it's not a good time. Yeah, I'll be back to my old self tomorrow though. I promise. Okay, bye," and she hangs up. Heaving a sigh, she fills a mug with water and downs the pills while crying, and her teeth rattle against the mug, and she closes the cabinet and stares at herself in the mirror. I rewound this portion of the tape at least two dozen times, and no, you cannot tell what drug she takes, but the writers should really do some bloody research, since psychiatric drugs like Prozac take several weeks to kick in, not one day, and by the way, nice going on the whole stigmatization-of-mental-illness thing. Not.
Over at Jen's, Jen does homework or something on the kitchen floor. No evidence of Grams anywhere; apparently she has moved to New York to live with Jen's parents or something. Dawson comes in without knocking, which shouldn't surprise us, really. Jen asks what he's doing there, and Dawson announces without preamble that his parents are getting a divorce. Halt in thy tracks, o world, and acknowledge Dawson's pain! Dawson slumps down on the ground to Jen, whose hair has somehow gotten even more snarly, and says, "I guess I just needed to talk to my sponsor."
Jen looks uncomfortable, probably because she knows she should care but, like us, she doesn't; like us, she just wants Dawson to shut up, but does Dawson shut up? Nay. He says something like, "All this perception and psychobabble has left me with quite a dilemma," and I may have missed the exact wording since I had to concentrate on jamming a sharpened dowel into my eardrum, but basically Dawson doesn't know what to do with this news: "I knew it was over; all the signs pointed to it. I guess I just kept hoping that -- they wouldn't go there. And now they have. So now, um, do I have a self-aware, adult reaction to it, or, or should I allow myself to feel the, the hurt and the, and the shock that a kid in my position would feel? You know, I mean, should I --" and here James Van Der Beek does a very unconvincing imitation of starting to cry by snuffling and tightening his voice -- "what, what should win here, my head or my heart, my emotions or my brain, what'll win out?" and Jen says softly, "What always wins out, Dawson? Dawson?" and Dawson makes this little snurfly chewing noises and starts crying on Jen's shoulder, looks up briefly to say, "Thanks for being there," and Jen says, "Thanks for letting me," and makes "come here" and "it's okay" noises to comfort Little Lord Flashleroy, who begins bawling in earnest after the disappointing discovery that the world doesn't revolve around him, and Jen looks like she would rather spend a week in a sensory deprivation tank than spend one more minute with Dawson, and I can totally, totally understand that.