Okay, look, I should have had this recap all wrapped up and on the site by Tuesday but I'm currently fostering a well-earned relationship with Absolut Citron and soda as well as suffering the after-effects of a pretty big promotion at my day job, so cut me some slack, here. I apologize profusely for being so late with this damn thing, but seeing as I've been at a goddamn user experience seminar for the past three fucking days, two of which I can barely remember because they were so mind-numbingly boring, I'm surprised I'm even able to look at my computer, let alone actually USE it. So, sorry. I mean that sincerely. Sort of.
Anyway...
Dave's reclining on some random slab of wood backstage on the set. He's reading yesterday's Variety. Like that's gonna help his career. Oh-ho. Uh-huh. Kevin shuffles up and asks him where the hell Johnny is because the table read is in, like, five seconds or something. Dave tells Kev that Johnny's probably still waxing his board. Heh. Heh heh. "She said 'waxing his board.'" Heh. Kev's all peeved and says, "Man, I'd like to be good-looking enough so the whole world waits on me." Word. Dave sits up and tells Kev that when Johnny gets older he'll get all wrinkly and ugly, and Dave and Kev will still be smart and interesting. Kev is so confused by this statement that he just stares blankly at Dave. Dave realizes, justifiably, that Kev's not all that smart. Or interesting. Or awake, for that matter. A light bulb shines above Dave's spiky hair as he comes to the unspoken conclusion that he's certainly the smartest damn person in the room, on the show, off the show, and, quite possibly, in the universe.
Kev walks off with Dave in tow. Kev's all concerned that he's going to get blamed for Johnny's lateness, and that really bums him out, because the new producer starts today and he really wants to make a good impression. "Oh," says Dave, "then you'll be promoted to Executive PA?" Ouch. Dave wonders aloud why the network would even bring in somebody else. "Don't they think Rob can handle this job by himself?" says Dave. "If all the stress eating he's been doing is any indication," says Kev, "then he can't." Ho. The boys share a giggle while Rob scoots up and shoves a bakery box at Kevin, saying, "I need Pepperidge Farm Mint Milanos." Then he sticks his tongue into the corner of his mouth, ostensibly to free the last remaining bites of a Sara Lee coffee cake from his back molars.
Rob pulls Kev away from Dave and asks him what he thinks of the new producer's script. Kev says that it's "different" and, after ramming some sort of baked good into his hole, Rob emphatically says, "Yeah. Yeah. Exactly. God. We're in trouble." I have no idea what he's talking about yet, but I'm definitely considering walking over to the local market and picking me up some Double-Stuf Oreos...
The credit sequence runs, and right after it there's that commercial for cotton that shows James Carville and Mary Matalin rolling around between cotton sheets. I just love them. Come on. A Democrat and a Republican who give each other holy hell on a regular basis and then do a commercial for cotton wherein they offer us a little window into their sleeping patterns? I dig that, baby. I dig it the most. Oh, and there's also a commercial for a movie that I will NEVER see; The Grinch. Bleah.
Back at Grosse Pointe, Tori2 alights from a golf cart, and Courtney skips up to talk about the "killer script" they're about to read. Tori2 hasn't read it yet because she went out with a friend last night and the friend drank too much and Tori2 had to wake up early to take her bedspread to the cleaner. Hunter, cell phone firmly placed against ear, joins them on their way to the table read, and Courtney asks her if she's read the script yet. "No," says Hunter. "And take it down a thousand. I've got the worst hangover." Tori2 looks at her disgustedly. "What?" snaps Hunter. "I told you I'd pay for the bedspread." Snicker. And what in the holy hell is UP with Hunter's caboose? Is it just me or are those jeans threatening to bust their seams? She's this teeny little thing with a GIANT REAR. Put her in skirts, put her in dresses, put her in ANYTHING but those skin-sucking jeans!
At the craft table, Hunter pours herself some caffeinated nutrients while Courtney effuses about the script and how she can tell this new producer is an awesome writer. "You can totally tell she used to work for My So-Called Life," Courtney states. Yeah. Cuz that's what I think of when I think "good writing." Sure. ["Wow, tough crowd." -- Sars] "So, um, like, what'd you do then?" "What?" "Like, after the thing, ya know?" "Oh, nothin'." "Oh, like, cool." Blah blah blah bad dialogue-cakes.
Tori2 hopes that this new producer can do for Grosse Pointe what she did for My So-Called Life. What, make it suck ass? That's exactly what Grosse Pointe needs. Once again, Hunter reads my mind. "What, get it cancelled?" she mumbles. "No," lectures Tori2. "Make it real and relevant and poignant." "Yeah," says Hunter. "Cancelled." Heh.
Everyone takes their seats for the table read as Rob makes an announcement introducing Shawn Shapiro, the new producer. There's just no easy way to put this. She's scary. I'm trembling right now. She's got on these nasty-ass thick-rimmed trendo glasses, a black sleeveless top that's doing absolutely NOTHING for her gargantuan arms, black sheer stockings, and black ankle boots that remind me of that scene in Flashdance where the Jennifer Beals dance-double is up on stage in nothing but some skimpies and a smile and she's wearing boots JUST LIKE THESE. In short, THEY'RE WAAAAAY OUT OF STYLE.