Oh, lord, wait, I have to get this. (Rewindingplay.) "Tonight, first-year lawyers will discover that the best years are the first years." How original.
Two scoops of Urban Jumble with whipped cream and cherries to Mr. Totalot for his legalese, Mr. keckler for his unfailing patience and laundry detail, and to the rest of the jury on the First Years forums for posting more rigorously than this show really deserves.
Early morning sunlight filters through a stained glass door. The door flies open, and an aged Samantha Mathis walks into the lavender foyer, shouting, "Just because you don't open your mail doesn't mean you don't have to pay your bills." God, I can't believe we're two seconds into the show and I'm already having issues. Point of order: if the mail were sitting outside, it's fairly safe to hazard that it's just been delivered, and if it's just been delivered we can conjecture that the receivers aren't yet aware of its existence, and if the receivers aren't aware of its existence, there is no proof they weren't going to leave the mail unopened or unpaiddo you see where I'm going with this, Your Honor? Sigh. Besides, isn't taking someone else's mail a federal offense? Some lawyer she's going -- oh, I give up already. I mean, really, how many times can you predict I'll be saying that in each recap? Sydney Poitier comes tripping down the stairs. "Anna, you're here. Good, good, good, good, good!" she says. "Yes, Riley, I got your message, I'm here," Anna tells her. Okay, do we know who's who on the docket? Poitier is Riley and Mathis is Anna. Riley leads Anna into the kitchen, and Anna complains about all she has to do: "You know I have to clean my bathroom, write a three-hundred-page summary, find a husband because I don't know when I'm going to have another day off again, and I think my ass is beginning to fall, so this may be my only window of opportunity." Probably thinking the only way to shut up that whining maw is to get it drunk, Riley says, "Beer?" and holds up a cold one. Mmmm, a cold one
The side door opens and Exposition walks in, helping a bearded Andy Moffat (because I'm sorry, but that's who Mac Astin's always going to be in my eyes) haul something heavy. "Actually, I met him at Jeffrey's," Andy Moffat is saying, and then he sees the two lawyerettes. "Oh, good morning, Anna," he says in precise tones. "Warren," Anna says, surprised. "How's it going?" "Ah, moving day," Andy Moffat comments vaguely, as if that answers her question. Anna turns her attention back to Riley, who's fidgeting with a bottle of Dos Equis. "Warren's moving in?" she asks. Riley tells her they needed another roommate. "You know, we have an extra room to rent," Riley offers hopefully. "So those were Warren's friends?" Anna states, staring after the men, the Light of Prospective Sexual Conquest dying out of her eyes. "Top floor, nice view --" Riley continues. "No, I don't want to live with friends," Anna tells her, chewing on an apple. "Right, only men who steal your credit cards," Riley says as Exposition takes the Dos Equis out of her hand and swigs long and hard. Anna turns around and makes a threatening fist. "I love you," Riley says sweetly, and they both chuckle. "You know," Anna continues, stepping on Exposition's foot, "just because they are Warren's friends doesn't mean they can't be straight." Yes, yes it does. It says so in the Gay Guy's Guide to Being a Lawyer. Right there in chapter eight, paragraph five: "Straight friends are strictly not allowed if you are to achieve the pinnacle of lawyerly gaiety."
"Five minutes," mutters Mr. keckler, grabbing the stain stick, "and I already object to this whole show." Overruled. The jury will watch the show because the cats need shoes!
Wading through her friend's raging hormones, Riley tells Anna she asked her over for a special favor, and she doesn't want Anna to get pissed. "Soda?" Riley offers hopefully. I'm sure everyone is supposed to be flummoxed by that offer and the beer offer. Not me, I'm smarter than that -- I know the soda and the Dos Equis are all a part of an elaborate favor that Riley apparently asks of her friend all too often. The writers are just trying to be crafty -- getting us right to the collective edges of our seats, they are. What would a can of soda and a beer in the morning have to do with a favor asked of a friend? Let's puzzle it. Anna looks weary. "Not again," she says. "Please?" "Riley." "Please?" "Riley." "Please?" "Riley." Oh, please. Weird: typing it that many times, the word has lost all meaning and it looks really foreign now.
Two actors pretending to be first-year lawyers and roommates come down the lavender halls. "All I'm saying is that I could spot you five points. It's something nice I could do for you," says a shag rug in human form. "You're talking a lot of trash talk, five foot nine," says the spitting image of PlasticMan. It's "talking trash," you goober. Might as well tie a sweater around your neck and meet Mums and Daddums for a really top-drawer round of golf. And is five nine supposed to be some sort of insult? Ever heard of Muggsy Bogues? "How do you expect to compete in jeans and deck shoes?" Shaggy says. "I can compete against you," snerks PlasticMan as Riley comes out of the kitchen. Shaggy kisses Riley on her cute little Exposition nose and says, "We'll be back three-ish." Riley asks where they're going. Rather thick of her, if you ask me, since they're "talking a lot of trash talk" and throwing a basketball around. However, Shaggy says, "A little street ball." Yeah, "street ball" on Nob Hill. PlasticMan makes some cryptic no-hard-feelings-better-luck--time comment to Riley. "Honey, you lost fair and square," the Shaggy D.A. tells his girlfriend, "and let's face it, it's a man's sport." Riley half-heartedly throws the basketball at his stomach. "It's a matter of genetics really," PlasticMan says, counting some money that suddenly appeared in his hand and handing half of it to Shaggy. "Don't be so sure," Riley says, stepping aside to reveal Anna slouched against the kitchen sink. "What's she doing here?" PlasticMan says in a panic as Anna walks over (man, Samantha, sweetie-darling-sweetie, put some cold tea bags on that luggage under your eyes, this isn't a cargo hold). "No, no, she can't play," Shaggy whines. "You said boys against girls," Riley insists. The guys complain, "She doesn't even live here." Riley tells Anna that normally she wouldn't ask this of her, "but these two --" "She brought in a ringer," Shag-Man whispers. PlasticMan says it's okay, because the contest is over and they won. Wait, boys against girls, they said? And of the people competing who live there, two were boys and one was a girl? Yeah, two-against-one sounds like even teams. Riley is still coaxing her friend: "I know you consider this a gift and I wouldn't want to exploit it, but," Riley gestures at the two guys, "they think that we can't beat them at this." "I can't believe this move," Shaggy says. I can't believe this dialogue. PlasticMan keeps saying Anna's not a threat. Riley offers Anna the can of product-placed Diet Coke, but Anna holds up a hand. "For amateurs," she says and walks past the guys. Heading towards the door, she opens her mouth and lets out a long, low BREEAHURUHERP. Anna walks past Andy Moffat, still gassing, and leaves the house. "Did I miss something?" he asks. Riley slings an arm over each of the chagrined talking-trash-talkers and accepts a dollar bill from each of them. "Clearly, she's a threat," Shaggy avers. PlasticMan laughs. Yeah, yeah, belching game, genetic code, the legal profession, male-dominated world: it's all the same anvil-laden metaphor they intend to shove down our throats for the rest of this series. Yawn.