Joan walks into school with Adam, her arms wrapped around his. Grace is behind them. Joan wonders what's for lunch; Grace volunteers that it's creamed chicken. Joan complains, "Can't the cafeteria make anything else?" Adam: "Chah, it's Tuesday. Tuesday, the chicken gets creamed." Joan giggles. It's nice to see her so happy. Then they run into Iris, who says, "Hey," kind of stiffly. Joan drops Adam's arm as Iris walks alongside, telling them, "This bowl of fruit I drew totally blows. I'll be lucky to get an F." Adam: "Your shading is totally brutal, yo." I must be getting old, because at first I can't actually tell if he's using "brutal" as a negative or positive. I know "brutal" is usually bad, but it seems highly unlike Adam to be so blunt. But it's accompanied by a quick, dismissive nod, and he immediately turns his attention back to Joan. Iris agrees: "Total brutality!" Adam makes sure to include Joan in the conversation as soon as possible: "Your mom's teaching us so many techniques, like hatching and cross-hatching…" Iris: "Stippling, scaling…" Joan makes an effort to look politely interested; Grace can't be arsed. In unison, Adam and Iris say, "Stippling is so cool." Then there's a teensy little awkward pause while everyone briefly ponders the uncomfortable implications of the simultaneous declaration. Joan: "Sounds cool." Grace: "I fell asleep when she started talking about fruit." Ha! I love Grace. I think Grace needs her own entire show. Maybe they could call it Grace of Leave Me the Hell Alone.
Grace wanders off, as Iris looks slightly bummed but not surprised, and backs away slightly toward the classroom to give Adam a little space while he asks Joan to meet him on the roof after class: "I gotta do this life sketch and I was hoping I could use you." Iris permits herself a mild snipe: "Very Titanic." But her voice wavers just a bit, and it comes off more like brokenhearted envy than Grace-like sarcasm. Iris takes off as Adam watches her with slight dismay and Joan shakes her head to herself. Adam tells Joan, "She's really okay with us." Yeah, you think? Joan: "Happy…stippling." They part, and Joan moves to her locker, where Grace is waiting, bored and impatient. She informs Joan, "Look, now that you and Rove are tickling molars, we need to lay down some new ground rules." Joan: "What do you mean? Nothing's different." She tries to smile innocently and totally fails. Grace: "Yeah, it is. You're totally into that whole whisper-giggle thing." Joan doesn't know what Grace means, so Grace explains, "You know, you get some lame little secret, and you whisper it to each other, and then you push your heads together, and you do that moron giggle thing." Yeah, she pretty much nailed it. Joan giggles to herself, already fond of the whisper-giggle thing: "No, we don't." Grace: "Trust me, dude. Today, in chemistry! I mean, sitting behind Friedman is enough to make me want to hurl. I don't need the extra help." Joan denies this and offers to tell her what it was about, but Grace interjects: "No, no! God, no. I'm just saying, if it happens again, there'll be physical pain." Joan complains that it's hard for her to find things she has in common with Adam: "I should at least be able to enjoy them." Grace: "Tongue wrestling getting old already?" Joan says that's not it: "Adam's an artist, and Iris is, too. I'm, like, nothing. How can I compete?" I love the "Go Away" sticker on Grace's locker. Joan continues, "Hey, I can colour in Ronald McDonald and not go outside the lines. Which, by the way, is a lie."
As they walk off, Grace reminds Joan that Adam dumped Spunky Booster for her. Joan wonders why. Grace is thoroughly disgusted now: "Oh, see, this is why I'm not getting sucked into the whole dating ritual. You got what you wanted and you're more of a mess than you were before." Grace notices Joan's brother and Glynis yakking by the lockers, and she comments, "Luke and the Ostrich seem pretty happy, though." Ha! Ostrich! I call a shout-out. Joan: "That's because they can talk for days about Einstein's hair." Grace can't quite take her eyes off them as they pass, and she says, "I didn't think they would last this long." Joan: "Do you care?" Grace sneers, "Have I ever?" Kinda looks like you might. Joan: "Hey, we're talking about me here, remember?" Grace: "I got bored." She wanders off. Granola Bar God comes up behind Joan and breezes past her, saying, "You seem down, Joan." Joan snots about God's perceptiveness. Granola Bar God asks Joan why she's so upset. Joan: "I don't know, maybe because the All-Knowing One forgot to give me a life." Oy, this girl. First she was whining endlessly about wanting a boyfriend, and finally she woke up to the one God put in front of her in, like, what, the second episode? Now she has a boy with a place in the Lloyd Dobler Boyfriend Hall of Fame and she's still not happy. Granola Bar God: "Oh, I've supplied everything you need for a perfect life." Joan gripes, "Yeah, you just won't tell me where you hid it." Granola Bar God: "Maybe you're not looking." Joan insists she is, and whines that she has nothing to "bring to the party" compared to Iris: "I mean, I want to be good at something. You know, everyone around me has their thing. I want a thing." God tells her the yearbook is going to the printer in a week and they need help. Joan realizes that since her mother's the yearbook advisor, she'd have to be advised by her mother: "Unless…yearbook is where I'll find my 'thing.'" Granola Bar God says knowingly: "Work at the yearbook." She walks off as Joan gets all excited and says she will. She calls out, "And if I win a prize or an award one day, I'll thank you, in front of everyone, just like they do at the Grammys!" Just as long as you remember to pay tribute to your hair and makeup people first -- just like they do at the Grammys. Granola Bar God disappears around a corner with a Godwave. Joan laughs and gloats to herself: "My thing!" I realize that when Joan's giddy or gleeful, her expressions and especially her voice remind me of my yoga teacher.
Credits and commercials. Promo for The O.C.. Man, it's comical to see Mischa Barton's face practically in the same frame as Amber Tamblyn's. Mischa Barton makes Tori Spelling look like Vanessa freaking Redgrave. But I'm shooting fish in a barrel. And here's this Post Banana Nut Crunch commercial with this quasi-Jamie Oliver asshole. Like Jamie Oliver isn't annoying enough. We need sorry imitators?
Okay. The police storyline in this episode felt entirely unnecessary and was mercifully minimal. We won't be spending much time on it. Roy gives Will and Toni and assignment to apprehend a cuckolded guy trying to arrange for the contract killing of his wife. There's a third guy, Carlyle, who will be acting as the hitman in the sting. Frink thinks he's very Gary Oldman-ish, but I don't really see it. Will makes a remark about their video getting on Cops, which causes everyone to stare at him. Will: "Love that show."
Yearbook office. Helen's advising the yearbook editor, Brian, who appears to be exactly what Daniel Radcliffe will be if he grows up to be an insufferable, anal-retentive, Type A nerd in a sweater vest. With curlier hair. He yatters on about the deadlines as he fusses nervously with a nonexistent piece of lint on his orange (yes, orange) sweater vest. Annoyed, Helen finally intercepts his hand and pats it, saying he can relax: "The lint is gone. You're gonna rip a hole in your sweater." Joan walks in, and Helen immediately wants to know if everything's all right. Joan: "Mom, please. I'm just here to volunteer for the yearbook." Helen has that "Now what?" expression on her face. Brian: "Mrs. G's offspring. Excellent, excellent." He introduces himself as Brian Beaumont, Editor-in-Chief. His enthusiasm causes Joan to say, "Gee, I'm doing well and I haven't even gotten to work yet." Joan indicates her mother should vamoose, so Helen complies. Brian wants to know how Joan intends to contribute; what her "thing" is. Joan rambles, saying that her thing is whatever he needs. He needs a photographer: "Can you take photographs?" Joan: "Oh, I must be able to." Brian looks slightly puzzled, and Joan says, "Yeah, yeah, sure." It's interesting how usually Joan's first reaction to anything God wants her to do consists of resistance and refusal, but this time, she seems to think that just because she whined for a thing and God pointed her to the yearbook, she's not going to have any problems. Brian suddenly calls Iris's name. She emerges from another room in a plastic apron, as Brian tells her to give the new recruit a camera. Iris looks dismayed to see she's going to have to deal with Joan, but attempts to be polite and professional about it. Brian: "So you two know each other? Iris is an excellent photographer." Joan repeats to herself quietly, "Excellent!" Brian says they need some candid shots and pictures of various clubs by the end of the day. He goes off to get a list. Iris hands Joan a camera and its manual, along with a baleful look. Joan asks, "Is this gonna be weird?" Iris: "No." Joan: "Cool." Iris says she didn't know Joan was into photography. Joan, as she fiddles cluelessly with the camera: "Me? Yeah." Iris tries to suppress a smirk as she offers, "If you need any help with the camera…" Joan dismisses this: "This baby is a snap…just push this button here…" Iris points out the right button. Joan says she was joking. Iris: "Yeah. Later." Joan continues struggling with the camera. Frink: "Take the cover off the lens." Yeah, that's sort of a hoary old error at this point.
Friedman's walking through the hall, followed by Luke and Glynis. Luke tells him, "Glynis and I are going to a Chekhov-Sulu Star Trek spectacular Saturday night." Frink, the big geek, perks up at this mention: "Cool." Me: "It's so not." Glynis says, "George Takei in the house!" She asks Friedman if he wants to join them. Friedman does not. Luke: "What's up, Aulander?" Or possibly "Owlander," as the closed captioning has it. Some viewers thought they heard "Outlander," but I don't hear a T in there anywhere. Maybe Friedman is the guy's first name, after all. And maybe his last name is Aulander, or Owlander, or whatever. Luke complains that Friedman never wants to do anything anymore: "You have a new friend base?" Opening his locker, Friedman says, "One: Brittany." Luke: "A girlfriend?" Glynis: "Deets. Give us the deets." "Deets"? No. Just…no. Friedman claims to have walked into the wrong changing room at Old Navy: "She's a junior at Stratton Academy. It's all girls. Catholic, pleated skirts, knee-highs, lots of plaid." Shut it, Friedman. Glynis looks slightly anxious. Friedman: "The whole manger." The whole what? Manger? I have to say, I've never heard that expression. Luke's mouth is hanging open slightly, and Glynis nudges him sharply. Please, Glynis. Surely you're smart enough to recognize an imaginary girlfriend when a doofus makes one up. Luke tells him to bring her along on Saturday. Friedman says he'll ask her, as he flexes his right hand sort of uncomfortably. Luke asks what's wrong with his hand. Friedman glances at Glynis and says quietly to Luke, "When we're not in mixed company, dude." Oh, good Lord. If I'm going to have to hear about that sort of carpal tunnel injury from Friedman, I want a raise. Luke's expression is a mixture of curiosity and disbelief and Glynis nudges him sharply again. Yeah, don't marry that one, Luke.
Joan's up on the roof of the school, fiddling with the camera. Adam arrives and steals up behind her, and says, "Hey." I would have exited my skin, but Joan only jumps a bit, and greets him happily. She explains she's figuring out the fine points of the camera. Adam says he didn't know she took pictures. Joan: "Sure. It's my thing. Did you know I'm one of the photographers for the yearbook?" Adam mentions Iris is doing that, too. Joan: "Yeah, I know. But for me, it's more like a calling." Adam smiles and says he didn't know. Joan, flirtatiously: "There's a lot you don't know about me, Mr. Rove." She kisses him. They talk about the pictures she's supposed to shoot. Adam: "It’s really cool, you know, what you can do with a camera. Like catching passing moments in time…and freezing life." Joan looks at him, smiling, and says she likes this: "Talking like this." She has to take off. Adam guesses he'll sketch her later on. Frink and I, in dopey voices in unison: "Sketch you later!" "Jinx!" As she takes off Adam says, "Careful. Have a good shoot."
Cut to Joan taking various candid and club shots. The first one, of the French club, she attempts with the lens cap on. One little dork in a red beret snots, "Le lens cap." If there's something doofier than a man in a beret, I don't know what it is. Joan removes it. Then she shoots the astronomy club. Luke comments, "This seems to be an unnecessarily adventurous angle…" Joan, from her perch up in a tree, tells her brother that "artists take risks." She wants them gazing up at the sky in wonder: "Give me some wonder." She struts through the halls, snapping shots randomly. One is of a couple making out (not Makeout Couple, though). But she takes the picture by just brandishing the camera in their general direction and not even looking through the viewfinder. She hides in some guy's locker and makes a weird face as he opens it, snapping his picture as he freaks. She buttonholes some other kid in the hall with instructions to "look mean."
Joan's at the dining room table that evening, looking at all her prints. That was fast. Helen comes home and notices them. Joan complains that they all suck, and proceeds to point out the flaws in them. Kevin comes in and says he's off to physio. Helen: "At night?" Is that really so odd? I just started seeing a physiotherapist, and she and her associate both have office hours in the early evening. Kevin says it's the only time the new guy can see him: "Every crip in town wants the electrical stim. See your legs move -- keeps the dream alive." He picks up a picture and says, "Hey, freaky ear!" Joan snatches it: "It was supposed to be a whole person." Well, dear, that's what the viewfinder's for. Kevin smarms, "Well, that didn't happen, did it?" He really is an excellent choice for older brother. He takes off. Helen reassures her, saying she's just begun and there's a lot to learn. Joan whines that she studied: "I mean, I really thought I was taking some great shots." Helen doesn't say anything. Joan: "A little encouragement, Mom?" Helen picks one out: "This one looking up at the tree is very interesting." Joan: "This is me, falling!" Heh. "But it's good, though, right? I mean, I do have real talent, don't I?" Helen, unconvincingly: "Sure!" She takes the groceries into the kitchen. Joan: "That was the same 'sure' you gave me when I was six years old and told you I wanted to be a ballerina. That's a -- that's a bad 'sure.'" Helen denies this. Joan presses on: "Yes, it is. You think me being the photographer is the same a pudgy six-year-old busting out of a little pink tutu?" Helen insists she believes Joan can do anything she puts her mind to. Joan: "Iris is better, though, right?" Her mother wonders what Iris has to do with anything. Joan: "Mom, just answer the question! Iris is a better photographer, isn't she?" Helen says Iris has been doing it a lot longer, but she's sure Joan will be fantastic if she keeps at it and learns the technical aspects. Joan agrees: "You're right. You're right. I will. I will rock…because…this is my thing."
Friedman walks through the hall, massaging his wrist. Luke ambushes him, asking, "Hey! So, now that we're not in mixed company…what's up with your hand?" Man, Luke is just dying to know. Me, not so much. Friedman says it's "early stages carpal tunnel." Luke: "From what?" Friedman: "Dude, let's just say, the bra strap doesn't unhook itself." Luke -- along with the rest of humankind -- is incredulous: "You got carpal tunnel from unhooking a bra?" Oy. And this girlfriend, she didn't die of complete and utter boredom while you struggled to the point of a repetitive strain injury? Luke's scientific mind naturally resists this nonsense: "You'd have to do it, like, 10,000 times!" Friedman claims it's more to do with the degree of strain than the number of repetitions. Luke: "Well, how much strain could there be?" Friedman assumes that "you mental midget" tone as he says, "We're talking about the one-handed bra strap release. The triple hook's the heavyweight division of bra straps." Luke still doesn't seem to grasp the physics Friedman's driving at, so Friedman elaborates: "Once the first two hooks are undone, the pressure exerted on the final hook could crush a bird's neck. It's physics: force, gravity…mass…" Frink: "Bozons…" Friedman: "And it's all concentrated on the tip of the index finger. So if the price is a little carpal tunnel…I say bring it." As Friedman takes off, Luke kind of lists toward the wall, thrown off-balance by this astonishing revelation.
Toni and Will are staking out the motel where the sting's going down. They're in a van outside watching everything on camera, along with a guy who I guess is the A/V technician. I think he might be a H!ITG!. Toni bets five bucks the guy will back out before sealing the deal. She clearly wants to believe that. They argue about whether this guy will go through with it. A/V Tech contributes, "Now, nailing hookers: that's fun." I presume he means "running successful sting operations on prostitutes," but I suppose you can take it any way you like. Will thinks any rational function this guy has left has been destroyed by his jealousy (the guy's wife cheated on him). A/V Tech: "Course, we always bust the hookers just when the video starts getting interesting." Who is this guy -- Friedman's uncle? Toni: "You're a pig, Jerry." Jerry couldn't care less. They watch Carlyle and the perp agree to exchange funds tomorrow. Will holds his hand out to Toni: "I'll take singles."
Joan's at the yearbook office, where Brian's working up to ripping her a new one: "I thought you said you were a photographer!" Joan: "I am! Those are photographs! I took them!" Brian is wearing a shirt and tie, which would get him beaten up pretty regularly if he ever left the yearbook office. Joan is wearing a very cute outfit: a sort of soft chartreuse cardigan over a dark coral T-shirt, and a full, gathered skirt in a light beige colour with some kind of vintage-looking print on it. It doesn't sound as good on paper as it looks. I love the way she dresses, particularly in skirts and dresses. Brian, standing to Iris at a light table, says the photos aren't useable. Joan offers to redo them. Brian: "It's crunch time! I need someone who can deliver -- now!" She says she will. Brian: "Look at Iris's work. Now look at yours. I have a responsibility to my readers." Joan: "Brian, you're not publishing Rolling Stone here." No? You'd almost think. I was on the yearbook all five years in high school, and I was editor in the third year. Actually, I was co-editor, because the normal policy was that only people in Grade 13 could be editors, so I talked them into letting me do it in Grade 11 by offering to have a co-editor (yo, Libby!). Anyway, I know that was back in the Mesozoic, but we had nothing on the order of the Arcadia High yearbook office, which is huge, with lots of its own equipment (copiers, light tables, computers, etc.). We did all our layout by drawing and pasting things up on specially designed grid paper provided by the yearbook printing company, and all of the class and club photos were done professionally. Only candid shots were done by students. And I definitely did not go around berating people and blathering about my responsibility to my readers. In fact, if I recall properly, it was more like twisting people's arms and cajoling them to get them to do much of anything. The typing teacher was our advisor (yo, Mrs. K!) and I don't remember actually having an office -- I think we just had some space in the typing room where we kept our stuff and we worked in there after school and during spares (and quite a few weekends, in order to get things done on time). ["We had to use the library." -- Sars] Despite our best efforts, it was all very quaint and amateurish. But I suppose things have come a long, long way now. I would have killed to have a tenth of the operation this guy's got.
Brian tells Joan to return her equipment to Iris, who's been listening to all this quietly with guilty glances. Joan pleads, saying she'll try harder. Brian says he already told some other kid "in Layout" that he can take over. They have a Layout Department. Sheesh. The argument has caught Helen's attention, and she's come out of her little advisor office to listen. Joan: "You can't do this! I'm supposed to be here! You can't take this away from me!" She turns around, somehow knowing her mother's standing there, and says, "Mom, you want to jump in here, advise Brian not to fire me?" Oof. Bad move. Asking Mommy to help you out? Besides, she has to try to be impartial -- she's there as a teacher, not a mother. Helen: "I think you can risk a little more time, Brian." Brian refuses, saying he's not going to cave into nepotism. Joan, weakly: "We won't tell anyone." Brian: "Substandard performance as yearbook editor will affect the extracurricular portion of my college application." Joan doesn't know what to say to that; she glances at Iris, who quickly looks down. Joan turns to her mother and pleads quietly, on the verge of tears, "Mom?" Helen: "The school policy is clear, honey -- I'm not supposed to affect decisions." Then why did you just try? Joan: "This isn't Star Trek! You're not going to disrupt the space-time continuum or something!" She adds, "Or you know what? Maybe -- maybe you will, because maybe I guess I was only supposed to feel good about myself for, like, a minute." She rushes out.
Adam's leaning against the lockers in the hall outside when Joan storms past in tears. When she sees him, she sobs, "Please, don't follow me. I'll see you later!" Adam, confused, as ever: "But…" Joan: "Please!"
She walks along a city street, past an old man with a walker, who's just dropped his grocery bag. She's oblivious in her self-absorption, but he calls to her and asks for help. She picks up his stuff and hands it to him. He replies, "Thanks, Joan." She lights into him: "How could you do that to me? I just wanted something that was mine, something that made me feel special!" Old Man God, he is tired: "Yes, yes, I know, everybody wants to feel special." Joan: "Adam thought I was so cool." Old Man God says that Adam is a very sweet boy. Joan wants to know why God would take that away from her. He says he didn't tell her to be a photographer. Joan: "You sent me there! They gave me a camera!" He wanted her to work on the yearbook: "And I'd still like you to do it. Just go back to the yearbook, and work with the obnoxious kid." Joan's incredulous: "You are so mean! And what's with this stupid walker? You don't even need it, anyway!" She grabs it away and starts walking down the street with it, right into a couple of horrified citizens. She turns around and puts it back in front of Old Man God, with a look that could fry butter. Then she stomps away, leaving him there to look bewildered for the benefit of the passersby. I wonder if God goes home and laughs about these shenanigans later. Maybe God regales the angels with long-winded yarns of awesome gags played on witless humans. And the angels just have to suck it up, because there's never a time God's not around and they can let off a little steam by complaining. ["This is the most reasonable explanation for the genesis of Milton's Lucifer that I've heard yet." -- Sars]
Helen and Will are getting ready for bed as Helen rants about Brian firing Joan: "And there I was, the advisor who couldn't do anything and the mother who wanted to throttle the little twit." Will's sure she was objective and fair. Helen: "Yeah, and now I'm riddled with guilt and remorse." Will: "The permanent condition of parenthood." She talks about being unable to help wanting to take away all of her little girl's sorrow and pain. Will: "I know. But all we can really do is provide a safe and loving environment where our children can fail and be miserable." Heh. Helen: "How Mister Rogers of you." Okay, that might be a shout-out: Will's thread on our forums has been called "Dirty Harry meets Mister Rogers" for several months now. Will says, "We all have drama in our lives. They have to learn that. It's a matter of degree. Us? We're lucky." Helen asks, "What is it?" He tells her about the case they're working on. He doesn't understand how a guy gets to the point of killing the mother of his children. Helen: "After all these years as a cop, that still surprises you?" Will looks down. Helen: "You are a gentle, loving man, Will Girardi." He admits to being a little jealous every so often. Helen says, "Please," as she prowls toward him. He protests, "What? Look at you!" She does look hot, as usual. She's wearing a clingy sleeveless shirt and clingy pyjama pants. Will continues: "Those eyes, the way you move…" She puts her hands on his shoulders and asks if he's going to start singing. Will: "I'm just saying…" She laughs, and he asks why. She explains it's just nice that he still gets jealous; she thought only she did. Will leans back in the chair and asks, "You? With this gut?" Helen: "I've seen women checking you out." Will pulls her down onto him and says, "Oh, yeah?" Helen: "Yeah. That's my gut." They make out. They are so cute.
Kevin arrives home to find Joan on the couch, listlessly churning a spoon in a barrel of ice cream. Mint chocolate chip, I think. ["The old-school fake-o green kind, too. Good for her." -- Sars] He asks what she's still doing up. Joan: "Gorging." He wheels over to the couch as she asks where he's been. He says he was at the paper, working on the big "Summer Fun" issue: "Which isn't really that fun…and not too summery, in April." Joan asks, "How'd you know writing would be your thing?" I hope he tells her he didn't, and that Rebecca had to strong-arm him into it. Kevin admits, "I didn't. I still don't. I just tried it, and so far it's working out." Joan says he's lucky. Kevin: "Wow. That sounded genuine. You must be depressed." When no comment is forthcoming, he asks what happened with the pictures. Joan: "The usual: failure. Humiliation." Kevin thinks for a moment, searching for something he can honestly claim Joan does well, and comes up with: "You can walk." I know some viewers heard that as bitterness or guilt-tripping, but I really don't think he meant it that way. Joan smiles and laughs a bit. She finally says, "Good night, Kevin."
The day Joan returns to beg Brian for another opportunity at the yearbook, but before she can say anything, he launches in with, "I thought I was clear: you cannot take any more photographs! Hey, don't let her have a camera!" Shut it, Orange Sweater Vest. You're not Rupert freaking Murdoch. Joan explains that she just wants to help out. Brian: "Why? Your failure is so fresh. I'd be hiding!" Joan, mildly: "Morale boosting is not your thing, is it?" Brian: "Not at crunch time." Joan says that why he needs her help, and offers to do anything. Brian: "You must really love yearbook." Yeah, that's why she's been hanging around the office all year. Joan shrugs and prevaricates: "Yeah, I mean, it's always been my dream to -- to be a part of a book…that's about the year…" Brian relents and says they need a gofer. Joan: "That's all you have?" Brian says it is: "You know how to work the copy machine?" Joan: "Press the little button that says 'copy'? Yeah." Brian: "Excellent! Why don't you start by taking out all the garbage? You know where to put it?" Joan mutters, "Yeah, I know exactly where to put it."
Cut to Joan gathering garbage. When she grabs a box from on top of a file cabinet without even looking in it, I know there's trouble afoot. I think God needs to give her refresher lessons on paying attention to things. Maybe she should spend a little time with some Buddhist nuns. We get some shots of Joan struggling to fix the copy machine and falling on her ass while doing so.
She's copying some stuff when Iris has to do some work near her. Joan says, "I hope you enjoyed telling Adam about my nosedive from yearbook grace." Man, Joan, you might want to dial it down just a little. Iris: "I didn't say anything." Joan: "Look, you and he were -- and now I am his -- so that makes me, like, fair game, right?" Iris turns to Joan and says, "I miss him. But it looked like things were hard enough for you. Making it worse -- how would that help me?" Aw, she had to go and be all mature about this. Makes it harder to hate her. Joan: "Thanks, Iris." Iris: "I didn't do it for you." Joan: "Adam said you were okay with us." Iris reminds her, "You said the same thing when I was dating him." In the background, Orange Sweater Vest's mild panic is growing into a full-on freakout: "Okay, this is a Code Red, people! We are missing the poetry submissions!" Helen says that "Amy left them in a box by her desk, so if anyone sees them…" Joan quietly tells her mother she thought they were trash. Helen can't believe it. Joan: "They were in an old ratty box." Helen: "Okay. So we won't have poetry this year." Joan: "Okay." Helen: "It was the little creep's idea anyway. Just be cool, and I will cover for you." But naturally, Brian's right behind her, demanding, "You'll cover for her?" Helen turns around, too stunned to speak. Brian: "You would compromise the integrity of this publication by engaging in blatant favoritism and lying?" Oh, for…I mostly see his side of things, but does he need to be such a tiresome little jackass about it? ["Also…it's the poetry submissions. Girl did you a favor, and I say this as the former lit-mag editor. Cram it with walnuts, Brian." -- Sars] Helen says she was just talking to her daughter. Brian: "The one who can't even take out the garbage?" Somebody needs to tell this kid about honey and vinegar. Helen's had enough: "Hey! You watch your mouth, you arrogant little weasel!" With that, I'm reminded that we really haven't seen Mr. Price for a long time. Mind you, he's been all kinds of busy cheating on his wife and spreading a grotesque plague around Los Angeles.
Joan says she'll find the poems. Brian continues being an officious little bastard: "Mrs. Girardi, if improprieties such as these arise, I don't know how we can continue to work together!" Helen tells him that won't be a problem: "For your own safety, I'm going to be suggesting to Mr. Turnbull that he take over my position." "For your own safety"? I can't wait till Mr. and Mrs. Beaumont tell their lawyer about that. Is there really a school left in this litigious continent that wouldn't have a hell of a lawsuit on its hands if one of its teachers said that, especially in front of a roomful of witnesses? For good measure, on her way out, she adds, "Oh, and, could you let me know which colleges you're going to be applying to? Because I might want to write them a little note." Those screeching tires are the sound of the Beaumonts' lawyer hauling ass to the Lexus dealership. Brian starts picking nervously at the orange sweater vest. Helen: "Come on, Joan." Joan stands there like a fawn with a rifle trained on her, and finally says she can't leave. Helen, exasperated, turns and huffs out.
Joan's standing in front of a disposal bin outside, contemplating the task before her with distaste. A guy on some kind of little dumpstermobile drives up behind her and asks, "Hey, Joan, where you off to?" Joan gives him some lip: "Where do you think I'm off to? Back to get humiliated by a dork with a sweater vest." Dumpster God: "What? You're not even going to look?" Joan doesn't think she's really going to find the poems in the trash. He tells her the search is the whole point. Joan: "Digging through the garbage is the point. Are you running a fever?" He walks toward her, asking, "You know the Twelve Labours of Hercules? A bunch of seemingly pointless tasks, that won back his honour? And how about Psyche? When she needed to find her way back to her love, Aphrodite put her to work sorting beans until they were reunited." Joan: "Well, I saw Hercules, but my parents wouldn't let me see Psycho." Oy. I -- aw, I just can't go into it again. He starts to climb into the dumpster, saying, "Come on, Joan." Joan makes a face I'm pretty sure only a teenage girl can make, and complains, "It's disgusting in there!" He smiles and holds out his hand: "Searching for something of value is never easy." Joan: "You mean one of those poems is actually worth something?" Joan climbs in and starts pawing through things with the expected sound effects of revulsion as Dumpster God wanders off. She calls out, "Hey! You're not even gonna help?" His answer is a Godwave. She turns back to her task and looks down, whimpering, "I'm standing in creamed chicken!" It could be a lot worse, Joan. Think Aegean stables.
Luke and Glynis are walking through the hall, holding hands. Luke suggests, "Let's skip the park today. You know, I was thinking maybe we could go to Sal's Arcade, play a little House of the Dead." Glynis: "But the park will be so beautiful. The angiosperms will be alive with burgeoning anthers." Uh…huh. Luke: "I know, I know. It's just that I'm kinda in the mood to play House of the Dead. I mean, I don't know why you don't just give it a chance. You know, the graphics are only 64-bit…" Glynis drops his hand: "Okay. Fine." Luke, seeing he's ticked her off, says, "I'm sorry. It's just Friedman and I used to always go to the arcade." Glynis: "Do I keep you from spending time with him?" Well, duh. Of course you do. The question is, does he mind? Luke falls all over himself denying this, adding, "You know what? I'm being a prodigious dunce right now. We'll get a chance to see the sepals flare on the hydrangeas…" Glynis: "But if you want to play House of the Dead…" Luke: "No. Onto the park." Dude, if you're not using that backbone, Donna Moss desperately needs a transplant. They walk off hand in hand, Luke stuffing his self-loathing into the slot previously occupied by his spine, and Glynis feeling vaguely uncomfortable about having "won." Ah, "love."
Joan, looking rather grubby, has apparently located the poems and is advocating on behalf of one in particular to Brian. She explains she's read them all. He comments on the one she's showing him: "It stinks." Joan starts to argue for it, but Brian says he was being literal. Joan: "Right. Well, you leave tuna out in the sun for an hour and it turns into a weapon of mass destruction." Brian goes off to make a copy of the smelly page as he says, "This poem is excellent. Most excellent. Who wrote it?" Joan: "I don't know. So I guess it's by 'Anonymous.' Who, of course, wrote some of the best stuff ever." Yep, it's like that old feminist slogan: "'Anonymous' was a woman." If you don't understand this, you need to read Joanna Russ's How To Suppress Women's Writing. Brian, whose own ass is always his first concern: "Can't publish it. If it's plagiarized, we could get sued and I wind up going to junior college. Not gonna happen." Dude, wake up: just because someone signed their name to it doesn't guarantee it's not plagiarized. ["And can't you just Google the whole thing and see, Brian? HATE!" -- Sars] He says he'll pick another poem. Joan: "You can't!" He doesn't miss a chance to be an asshole: he points to himself, and then to Joan: "Editor-in-Chief. Girl from the garbage. I think we know who's gonna make the call on this one." Joan protests, "But the others stink! Worse than tuna. This one, this is the one! It's got real value, like finding love in the beans!" Brian tells her to forget it; it's going to the printer tomorrow. Joan: "Then I still have time. I'll find out who wrote it before then!" She zips off.
Will, Toni, and Jerry are watching the perp explain himself to Carlyle. Really, does a guy who kills for money care? Does he give discounts if you have, like, a really good reason or something? Jerry, who I'm not loving, frankly, comments that the guy's wife was pulling his strings: "Now we are." Will: "Feeling like God, now, Jerry?" Jerry: "Nah…Coppola. Not the daughter -- the big guy." Yeah, this is practically The Conversation. Jerry yammers about wanting a second camera do some arty shot here. He's basically the Arcadia PD's version of Comic Book Store Guy. Finally the perp gets around to handing over the briefcase of money while Toni begs him not to do it and Jerry yammers on about directing and scoring this video. The exchange has been made, so off they go to arrest the perp. Uxoricide thwarted.
They lead the perp out of the motel room as he claims his wife was trying to break up his family. Will: "So, you were doing it for the kids, killing their mother." The perp claims he would have taken care of his children: "I'm a good father." Will shuts the door: "Yeah, you're a real special guy."
Joan's up on the roof by herself, reading the poem. Adam arrives and says he's been looking everywhere for her. Joan: "Oh, I was…I was on a search. I smell. And everyone's yelling at me…" Adam takes a sniff, and even at a distance, he agrees, "You're kind of ripe." Joan: "Sorry." Adam: "So, um…are you gonna tell me?" Joan: "Oh…some moron accidentally threw out the poetry submissions, so I had to go dumpster diving." He's actually wondering about why she ran out yesterday. Joan: "I just got in this really stupid fight with Brian, so I, um, pulled my photographs, you know. Yeah. Yeah. He just didn't get me. You know how that is." Adam's sweet, but he's not dumb: "Yeah. You know, if something's wrong, Jane, you know, whatever it is, you know you can talk to me." She says she does. Adam: "So that's the poem?" Joan laughs softly: "Yeah…with extra sauce." She adds, "I'm sort of the literary editor now." Adam's face lights up a bit: "Cool." But you can tell it's only because he's happy for her, not because it matters one way or another to him. She explains that someone submitted the poem without a name, and Brian won't print it unless she can discover the author. "It's called 'Sewer Walking.' It's a crazy title, I know, but it's just…really beautiful." She starts reading it to him: "'You and me, we used to talk / Like a river underground, the sewer / where we used to walk / The hole at the end empties out to the pier / Where paper boats disappear." Second stanza: "Me, I try to send this note / Float it like a paper boat / But paper sinks and words are weak / I try, but I don't speak.'" Joan glances at Adam, whose expression looks distant, and thoughtful, and vaguely troubled. Of course, Frink and I both think Iris must have written it. Joan asks if he's okay. He finally sighs and says he knows who wrote it: "Sewer walking and paper boats. Grace. Grace wrote that." Wow. Joan smiles as that sinks in. Wouldn't she have recognized Grace's writing? She's been sitting to Grace in AP Chem all year; they study together. Whatever. I suppose Grace really misses Adam.
After the commercials, Grace is leading Joan into her kitchen, complaining, "What is it with you and coming over unannounced? You're like a sitcom character." I'm surprised she's got nothing to say about the stink on Joan. I'm also all excited that we finally get to see inside Grace's house. Big place, nice stuff. They've got some money. Joan replies, "I come with -- ooh!" She spies a tray of rugelach and grabs it. Help yourself, girlie. She continues, "…essential info." While Joan's back is turned, Grace notices a picture on the stainless steel side-by-side fridge and quickly snatches it and stuffs it beside the fridge. What was that, do you suppose? It kind of looked like a picture of a baby or toddler. Would they really still have a picture of Grace up there from fifteen years ago? If it's not Grace, why would she be so embarrassed? I enjoy these little mysteries.
Joan: "Because of my keen literary eye and crazy detective skills, your poem will be featured in the yearbook!" Joan, sitting at the counter, flips open the plastic clamshell containing the rugelach. Grace: "Excuse me?" Joan: "Which almost didn't happen, by the way, because you forgot to put your name on it, silly." Grace laughs: "You're a bent pipe, Girardi. I have absolutely no idea what you're talking about." Joan stuffs some rugelach in her hole and snaps open a Ziploc bag containing the odoriferous ode, waving it tauntingly and asking, "Look familiar?" Grace, peanut buttering some bread at the island, is incredulous: "You picked through my garbage at school? Are you sick?" Joan's confused: "No. No, I mean, yeah, I picked…because you submitted it…" Grace: "No, I didn't. I had lunch, then scribbled some crap, and then used it wipe the creamed chicken off my pants before I tossed it." Seriously, Joan, think about it: like Grace would submit anything to the yearbook, other than possibly a threat of some kind. Joan's confused: "So you don't want it in the yearbook?" Grace laughs: "Remember me, Girardi? Do I participate?" Joan: "Wow! This is awesome!" Grace: "No, it isn't. It's creepy, and you're losing it." Joan says the way she found it may seem strange: "But I did find it, and now they want to publish it in the yearbook." Grace: "Tough luck." Joan: "Grace, do you know how that touched me? Huh? You have this whole Emily Dickinson crazy talent that no one ever knew about and now they will!" Great brief look of vulnerability on Grace's face when Joan says this. Grace: "No, they won't! I'm not having some pimply dorkwads pointing me out as 'sensitive poetry girl.'" Joan pleads, "Come on! At first I didn't know why I was at the yearbook, but now I do. I'm supposed to find something of value and print it! If I don't, I'll be, like, this total loser." Somehow it's always about Joan. Grace relents and says Joan can publish it, but only without her name. Joan explodes: "I don't understand! If I could write like that, I'd put my name on it, like, fifty times!" Grace walks out with her peanut butter, banana, and chocolate sandwich while Joan sighs furiously.
Luke finds Friedman playing at the arcade, and greets him warmly: "Friedman, hey! Where's Brittany?" Friedman: "Day off. Glynis?" Luke: "Same." He proceeds to cheer and praise Friedman's playing. Luke glances up at the high scores list and notices "The Friedman" is listed at the top, with 1,470,263,520 points. "The Friedman"? Le whatever. There's also a Polaroid to his name of him brandishing the little gun thingamajig you play the game with. Luke: "Dude, Friedman, you're famous!" The Friedman mutters he's been playing a lot. Luke: "Brittany likes House of the Dead?" The Friedman claims she's a big fan. Luke: "Cool." The Friedman caves, and confesses he made up the whole Brittany thing. Luke asks why. The Friedman stops playing and says, "You and Glynis, man. You're always locking lips and smiling. I was like this extra atom of hydrogen watching a water molecule form…so I created my own compound." Hee. Luke: "What about the bra strap thing?" Friedman smiles: "I do have a natural gift. My mom has a sewing mannequin in the basement, so…I practice on it with her bras. The internet only goes so far." Frink has been smirking throughout this scene, not least because he predicted way back at the beginning of the show that The Friedman had been practicing on a mannequin. Luke's horrified: "You -- you used your…mom's bras?" The Friedman: "I'm Jewish, dude. 'Neurotic' really is part of the deal." Luke can't fathom this. The Friedman apologizes for lying; he says he really missed hanging out. "Battling zombies by yourself can be pathetic." More pathetic than using your mother's bras and sewing mannequin to play "Arthur Fonzarelli"?
Luke says he's been trying to come to the arcade for days, and Glynis just wants to hang out at the park: "You know, I'm a fan of photosynthesis as much as the guy, but if God merely wanted us to smell the flowers, he wouldn't have invented a three-gigahertz microprocessor and a 3D graphics board, you know?" Frink's all over that. The Friedman: "Trouble in paradise?" Luke denies it, but admits to feeling a bit pressured: "Like [when] someone puts a pillow over your face and you can't breathe. But, I mean, just sometimes." The Friedman: "Brittany was cool. She let The Friedman…be the Friedman." Yeah, imaginary girls are great that way. ["I sort of liked The Friedman here. He had a certain élan. Whatever else you can say about him, The Friedman is not afraid to be The Friedman." -- Sars] He offers to spot Luke fifty million points. They happily slaughter zombies side-by-side. Man, why'd Friedman have to go and be all vulnerable and humanoid? Makes it harder to hate him. Actually, I rag on the character a lot, but I really should give Aaron Himelstein props: he does a really good job playing Friedman.
Helen's alone in her classroom when Joan arrives. Her mother asks, "How's Mr. Turnbull? His combover stylish as always?" Joan says hesitantly, "I wanted to leave with you…" Helen: "You don't have to explain yourself to me." Has any mother ever said that and actually meant it? Please. Joan says she does: "You were so on my side, and it was like I just dissed you after we'd been through this thing together." Helen agrees. Joan says she had to stay: "There was a poem I had to find." Helen: "A poem? I'm trying, Joan. I want to be there for you, but when I am, you want me to back off. And when I back off, you say that I'm not supporting you." Joan: "I wish I could explain…but I don't -- I don't get it myself…" Helen: "I know the teenage thing is hard, but…boy, it is not easy being a mother, either. I think I have it down with one kid, and then something springs up and I'm clueless all over again." Joan says in a small voice that she's sorry. They're both kind of teary. Helen: "You just have to understand: whatever it is, if we don't go through it together…I don't want to lose you." Joan takes her mother's hand as Helen cries, and tells her, "You have to trust…that what I'm doing…there are reasons." Helen's look is utter disbelief. Joan: "And it's all gonna be okay." Helen: "Promise?" Joan nods. They hug. Dumpster God suddenly apologizes for interrupting and says he's there to collect the recycling. He sort of beams meaningfully at Joan. Joan says to her mother that she should help him carry things out.
Out in the hall, she asks, "You're not going to make me go through all this stuff, are you?" He isn't. He just wanted to tell her "nice job." Joan: "Nice job on what?" Dumpster God: "Yearbook! You're finished." Joan: "How can I be finished? I don't even know what my thing is yet. Isn't that what this is supposed to be about?" His reply: "Maybe for you. I just wanted you to find that poem." Joan: "Why? Nobody's ever going to know who wrote it. What good does that do?" He asks if she knows who carved the façade of Notre Dame, or the sculptures at the Parthenon. Joan sighs and says she hasn't gotten to that chapter yet. Dumpster God: "No one knows. Their names are lost to everyone but me. But does that make their creations any less beautiful?" Joan: "You know, I'd really love to feel like I've been working on Notre Dame, but…somehow…" He assures her, "Who you are is enough, Joan. You already have your thing. You're a searcher, and you try, and you fail, and you try again." Joan's in tears: "So my thing is…failing? Thanks. That makes me feel a lot better." I think it's more like this quotation from yogi Sri Aurobindo, Joan: "By your stumbling, the world is perfected." Dumpster God tells Joan: "Stop hiding who you are." He nods and raises his eyebrow slightly. That could mean a lot of things, including: stop hiding your relationship with God. He shuffles off down the hall.
Adam's on the roof, drawing in a large sketchbook, when Joan arrives with a box of stuff and sits down to him, asking what he's drawing. He shows her his sketch: "Um…you." It's a nice image of Joan, holding a piece of paper -- probably the poem. She smiles shyly and says, "I never got a chance to sit for you." Adam: "Well, I didn't need you to." Boy has an eidetic memory, remember? The song playing is called "Love and Hope" by 4 Way Street. He draws intently while Joan looks at him, her expression a mixture of fondness and anxiety. She finally says, "Adam…you know how you said I could talk to you about anything, and I said I knew that?" Adam: "Yeah." Joan: "I -- I lied. I think I've been afraid to talk to you about almost…everything." Adam asks why. She replies, "I didn't want to mess up what we have." Adam's dismayed: "Jane…you…" She confesses she didn't take back her pictures: "I got fired. I'm not a photographer or an artist like Iris, I'm not a literary editor or…a science geek or anything. I mean, I tried to be, but I'm not. I'm really just…digging around in the garbage, trying to…find something that matters." Adam puts his sketchbook aside and turns to her: "That's what I love about you, Jane." Joan: "Yeah?" Adam: "Yeah." They kiss gently and smile at each other. Joan remembers why she came up there, and pulls the box closer. Grabbing a few pages out of the box, she says, "Grace can still be anonymous -- but everyone's going to see her poem. Like Notre Dame. Come on!"
They go to the edge of the roof, where it overlooks a courtyard, and we see brilliant leaves of neon-coloured paper -- pink, green, orange, yellow, blue, and purple -- float to the ground, surprising students. Students grab them and start reading. A skateboard rolls to a stop, and Grace bends down to see what's on the page. She reads it and looks around cautiously to see people's reactions. Everyone's reading it; no one's reacting badly. No one's magically figured out that she wrote it. She looks up to see where it's coming from, and spies Joan and Adam standing there. Joan is gleefully throwing more pages down. Grace smiles; Joan and Adam wave. Grace picks up her skateboard and walks off smiling. Man, this show does endings like nobody's business. The final shot is the courtyard, swirled with the colourful confetti, as more papers sink to earth.