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Since linear storytelling doesn't seem to be very important to David Milch, I'm not going to try for linear recapletting either. First, what's up with the Yosts: Cissy is leaving an angry message for a still-AWOL Mitch when Palaka stumbles into the store, shivering with fever. He's gotten a tattoo of a purple salamander (in honour of Freddy, aw), but maybe the instruments were not so clean, because now he has a grody infection. While she's looking him over, the hospital's lawyer gives her a form to sign, indemnifying the hospital for having removed Shaun against medical advice. Cissy tells him to get lost, and naturally decides to take Palaka to the motel, where Dr. Smith is summoned from somewhere to check him out. Dr. Smith sets up a little MASH unit in Freddy's room. Cissy gets Dickstein's advice on the form, and he tells her that the hospital's making Smith its scapegoat. Around this time, Freddy gets freaked out that Smith isn't taking Palaka to the hospital (which Smith himself privately mused might be due to his unwillingness to return to the hospital in disgrace), but Smith intuits that Freddy's sublimating his worry that he's to blame for Palaka's illness (by breaking his wrist) into suspicion over Dr. Smith's methods. Shaun is smoking a joint behind the shop when Butchie finds him, coming with an offer to let the weirdo we met last week build Shaun a website. Shaun thinks the guy looks like a tool (hard to argue), but Butchie smacks him on the back of the head for being rude. Shaun also asks Butchie to convince Tina to stay in town. Butchie takes off, and Shaun skates over to Bill's, where he sadly announces that he wishes Zippy hadn't kissed him. Bill calls Butchie, who comes right over, apologizes, and father and son head for the beach. Because did I mention this show now features actual surfing again? It does -- we kick off with Butchie in the water. Kai watches him for a while, and then goes to a friend's place to get back Butchie's boards. When she presents them to him later in the day, he figures out that she'd put them in storage long ago so that he couldn't sell them for drug money. In non-Yost news: Linc kind of has a meltdown at a Stinkweed meeting, whereupon his VP (Zack Morris) goes to Tina to try to get some information from her that he can use against Linc. Except then she goes to Linc, and the two of them double-cross Zack, and Linc agrees to walk away from Stinkweed for $65 million. And Cass spends the day continuing to pretend to work on her shitty movie, and is delighted at sunset when John comes back to distract her; she's giving him a big hug when he tells her that Shaun will soon be gone. And then he goes surfing with the Yosts. Mr. Sobell will fill in what I forgot when he delivers the recap. Want more? The full recap starts right below!
Previously, on John From Mount Healthy: John, Joe, and Bill went on a rather unproductive field trip. We learned about Cissy's discovery that acid and quality parenting don't always mix. Because of that, Cissy relented in her fierce anti-Tina campaign and allowed Tina and Shaun to bond over tuna fish sandwiches. Oh, and John stopped by the Snug Harbor motel to say a few words. Oh, you missed that and want to know what he said? Nothing important really.
Credits. And we'll have fun, fun, fun 'til that weirdo takes her camera away.
The show opens with Butchie in the ocean, engaged in this strange activity I haven't seen in a good, long while on this show. Let me see if I can summon up the proper vocabulary to explain it: He is on this long board, which he is using to paddle along the waves. When a particularly big wave comes along, he stands up on the board, and he rides the wave -- or the surf, if you will, back in to shore. Then he paddles back and repeats the process. I believe it is an activity best known as "Using a board to ride the ocean's surf in a pleasing manner." Someone really ought to create a show about these surf-ers -- it would be quite interesting.
All kidding aside, Butchie's surfing again, as opposed to, say, injecting himself with drugs. He's awfully good at this. Kai watches from the shore in quiet admiration; her body language suggests that she didn't arrive with Butchie but rather is opting to watch him from afar. Then she gets up and leaves -- almost as if she just got an idea in that pretty little bean of hers.
We're in Cass's hotel room now -- she's sleeping in the bed, and John is sitting on it, awfully close to her. In my Father's Word, there is no such thing as personal space. In my Father's Word, I am in defiance of several restraining orders. In My Father's Wo...OH GOD, THE CLEANSING STING OF MACE! "Some day yesterday, Cass," John observes to his sleepy roommate. "Yesterday was a three-ring circus. I'm going to be with my Father today." The close-up on John's face after he utters that last sentence suggests that he's not looking forward to his little visit. "My Father has more big and huge for me," he adds. Just stay out of Gesthemane, kid. And keep an eye peeled for Romans. "Without the zeroes and ones, Cass," John adds pointedly. "Big and huge won't mean dick." Which I gather is weirdo talk for "stop raiding the wetbar and make with the movie editing." Even though she's asleep, Cass seems to agree with my interpretation: "Work her," she says, sleepily tapping her chest. Would that he could -- but John is out the door.
Butchie is back at his motel room, toweling off after his morning surfing safari -- no, Butchie! The salt water will form an effective barrier against your room's effluvia! -- when he notices that funny-talking bald guy who runs the Butchie Yost web site lurking outside the screen door. "It's a two-stop bus ride, Dwayne, from lurking outside the door to fucking turning into a full-blown homo," Butchie snarls. I believe that's a theme Edmond Rostand first explored in Cyrano de Bergerac. Dwayne would like to know if he can come in. "No," Butchie says, motioning for Dwayne to enter. "Stay the fuck outside." Mentally composing his letter to Miss Manners ("Dear Miss Manners: Is it polite to invite someone with profanities? Signed, Put Off in Imperial Beach"), Dwayne does so. Butchie asks about their cobweb-gathering web page. Apparently, Butchie has gotten the news -- his site is getting hits, hits, hits ever since Shaun's tournament victory/near-death experience. "It's the halo effect from Shaun," says Dwayne, who cuts to the reason for his visit to the Chateau Penicillin -- he thinks Shaun needs his own site. "He's already on MyTube or whatever the fuck you call it," Butchie says wearily. Don't laugh -- by the time I'm done with this recap, MySpace and YouTube probably will merge and you know what that means? Fat Google money for everyone.
Butchie's deliberate obtuseness angers Dwayne who seethes that Butchie has failed to exploit the "commercial portal capacity" of his own site. "You think that's all where it went wrong," Butchie smirks. "Me not exploiting my...portal capacity?" Well, that and the crippling smack addiction. Though perhaps that was your point. Anyhow, Dwayne points out that if Shaun doesn't set up his own site soon, his sponsor probably will do it in a way that exploits the young lad. This hits home with Butchie, who suggests that Dwayne pay Shaun a visit, especially with notorious naysayer Mitch off in Mexico and gloriously off my TV. Maybe Butchie would like to come along, Dwayne hints? "Nah, I got a butt plug exploiting my portal," Butchie snorts. Ah, Butchie -- the stand-up world lost so much when you decided to turn to surfing and intravenous drug use. Anyhow, Dwayne acts all hurt, and Butchie feels a pang of conscience, so he agrees to accompany his funny-talking webmaster along to meet with Shaun. They'll carpool in Butchie's crappy van, saving Dwayne the indignity of riding his kick-scooter halfway across town.
Elsewhere, Kai knocks on the front door of someone we've never met before who is called Janie. She and Kai seem to know each other, as they hug. They also seem to speak one of those special languages that only twins can understand. "Good or bad?" Janie asks Kai. "Good," Kai says. "Everything's good." Janie's expression -- which only we home viewers can see -- suggests she is not buying this, but she's willing to play along. "Good enough to get his boards out of storage?" Janie asks. Indeed, that's why Kai is paying a visit to this character we've never met before and probably won't clap eyes on again.
I don't know about you, but I attend a lot of conferences and get-togethers. And 90% of them are held in the kind of soul-killing hotel meeting room where Linc is now holding court. You've got those terrible folding tables with the metal bars that all adults over four feet tall will bump their knees into for the entire meeting and those stiff-backed chairs you're expected to sit into for hours at a time watching PowerPoint slide after PowerPoint slide. Dreadful. Perhaps the most disturbing thing John From Cincinnati has ever dealt with, and this is a show in which a drugged-out surfer mom helped her teenage son jerk off. Anyhow, Linc is hosting a meeting of his Stinkweed cohorts. He asks if anyone's ever been to Imperial Beach before -- "funky little beach town," he says. "A lot of history for our sport." Nobody raises their hand. Linc's shoulders slump noticeably, as if to say, fuck this noise. He sees a hotel waiter setting up the breakfast spread of days-old fruit and stale, indigestible muffins -- yes, Mr. Sobell goes to a lot of these things -- and tells him to spread the bounty around to anyone wandering the antiseptic halls. One of Linc's associates -- Zack Morris his own bad self -- rolls his eyes at Linc's antics. Anyhow, there is much business argle-bargle -- if you're interested in the balance sheet of this made-up company, I'm sure you can write a letter to David Milch, and he'll send you a Stinkweed 10-K -- and Linc looks as bored with all this as I am. "Break," Linc mutters, before Joss Whedon's kid brother can continue to bore us into a stupor with P&L figures. He stalks out of the room, with Zack Morris following closely behind him, doubtlessly to tell him about Screech's latest get-rich-quick scheme.
When your meeting takes you to the Imperial Beach area, be sure to visit the Naval Radio Receiving Facility, known by locals as The Elephant Cage. If you're lucky, maybe there'll be a weird, Morrissey look-a-like guy standing outside it, looking fatalistic, like there is right now.
Back to the hotel, where Linc is still brooding outside. Linc asks his Saved By the Bell right-hand man what happened in Huntington. Zack Morris wonders if maybe they should be talking about that back in the world's worst hotel conference center. "I thought we would have talked about it before we went in there," Linc snits. In other words, someone's not on the same page with his '90s teen series henchman. Zack mutters something about a lot of traffic getting down to the meeting, which Linc correctly interprets as bullshit. Anyhow, here's the report of what went down at Huntington from Zack Morris: "At Huntington, Shaun Yost won. He wiped out and hurt himself at the end of the heat. The doctor was wrong how bad." Linc finds this to be an inaccurate report, since he was there and Shaun most definitely drowned and suffered a broken neck. So how is it that he turned up alive, Zack Morris asks: "A miracle?" That would be bad, Zack posits, because while surfers-raised-miraculously-from-the-dead angles may get Imperial Beach bums buzzing, it doesn't do much to spur surfing equipment sales or make impatient investors happy. And Linc, Zack Morris cautions -- your impatient investors aren't happy. "Some people never are," Linc snorts. "Tell them to go fuck themselves." Zack figures that message can wait until the large buyout check clears. Back into the world's worst hotel conference room to deal with the pencil-pushing squares.
Back in the terrible conference room, there is much more business argle-bargle. Linc seems unhappy that domestic sales are going to be level for the quarter, which Joss Whedon's kid brother points out is "on plan," which further infuriates Linc to the point where he's blocking the guy from getting a glass of water to rinse down his bagel and lox. "The salmon makes me thirsty," Joss Whedon's kid brother protests. "Get a drink," Linc says, without moving out of the way. And there is yet more back and forth about mature markets and e-commerce, and despite some Linc Stark zingers at the expense of Joss Whedon's kid brother ("So what do you do? Grab your balls and guess?"), the entirety of the past three minutes can be summed up thusly: Linc behaves erratically and grumpily, and Zack Morris doesn't look happy about it at all -- especially after Linc pulls down his pants and moons Joss Whedon's kid brother. The scene ends with Linc storming out of the terrible conference room, muttering under his breath: "And I'll tell you something else; that kid was saved by a miracle." Back in the conference room, Zack Morris asks Joss Whedon's kid brother "what room is she in?" "244," Joss Whedon's kid brother replies, apparently not too stricken by the sight of Luke Perry's posterior to be put off his bagels and lox.
At the Yosts' surf shop, Cissy is being her usual demure and charming self while leaving a voicemail message for Mitch: "If you're not dead, just a quick message to go fuck yourself for not checking in to say you're all right. And have loads of fun on whatever beach or whatever astral plane you're on." Now Lord knows, I'm no fan of Mitch. These past two episodes when he's been gone have been a recapper's paradise, I'll tell you what. But try and look at that message from Mitch's perspective. Say you've just had a nice morning of surfing, you get out of the water, and maybe you head to the local cantina for a round of refreshing cervezas. Hey, you say to yourself, maybe I should check my voicemail and see if anyone's tried to call me -- and you hear that message from Cissy. You going to feel motivated to return her call? Or are you going to order another round and hope that later that day, a vicious riptide sucks you into the loving embrace of the sea, just so you never have to hear that voice again? I would posit that this choice is not so difficult as you might first imagine.
Anyhow, Cissy wraps up her morning scream, just as Palaka enters the shop. He's looking sweatier and twitchier than normal. "Use the café across the street," Cissy barks at him. "Our toilets are for employees. Go across the street." Ah, but Palaka is not here to use the restroom -- at least not voluntarily. Rather, he's curious as to how long the tattoo parlor across the street has been open and whether it's known for high customer satisfaction and a low mortality rate. Palaka, it seems, has patronized that shop, and whatever tattoo he got there -- a purple salamander, "highly valued in certain extinct island tribes" -- has not taken. To illustrate that point, Palaka passes out right there on the surf shop floor, just as the hospital lawyer we met at the beginning of Episode 4; he has chosen a poor time to drop in for a visit, as Cissy pegs him for some sort of ambulance chaser here to sue her for Palaka's tumble. If that were true, you'd have to admire his moxie. Anyhow, Palaka continues his infection-fueled ramblings: "Am I pointing at my neck?" he asks. "Is it painfully swollen and inflamed?" Cissy allows that the neck is pretty red. "A tattoo. A tribute to my employer," Palaka says, with a touch of pride mixed in with his visible trembling. "Possibly fatal."
Anyhow, enough of Palaka's problems -- let's turn our attention to the hospital attorney who is there to get Cissy to sign away all her legal rights close the books on Shaun's case. She's about to do it, too, when the hospital lawyer overplays his hand by indicating that Cissy will agree that they took Shaun off the premises against medical advice. She tells the attorney to buzz off. "Ma? Ma, is that you?" a now-delusional Palaka asks as he crawls around the floor. "Strange way to show your appreciation, Mrs. Yost," the lawyer sniffs on his way out the door, "to the hospital that saved your grandson." "Bill's bird saved my grandson," Cissy counters -- and without attending a highly regarded medical school, too. Anyhow, she vows to have Meyer Dickstein overlook the paperwork, but the hospital lawyer is unimpressed. "The Errol Flynn lookalike on the back cover of the Yellow Pages," he chortles. "You sure you want to go there, Frankenstein?" Cissy retorts. Touché. Also, ouch. The lawyer leaves in a huff, and Cissy turns her attention back to Palaka. She wants to know if there's anyone she can call. "I can boil my own toast," Palaka replies. I would take that as a "No."
Tina is sprucing up in her hotel room, wearing a white tank top with pink spots on it that, at first glance, made me think she was some sort of cutter or performing off-the-books medical procedures in addition to the porn work and occasional hooking. I see now that this was a silly assumption, and I apologize for leaping to that conclusion. Anyhow, there's a knock at the door. It's Zack Morris, dropping in for a chat before meeting Slater for drinks down at the hotel bar. Guess Tina's the mysterious "she" in room 244. Zack introduces himself as both a friend of Linc's and the vice president of his company -- he's paying Tina a visit because he's real concerned about Linc's odd behavior: "Linc's having some sort of midlife crisis." "And you're here to help him through it," Tina says, only a little bit dubiously. If by "help," you mean "exploit for your own nefarious ends," then yes -- that's just what Zack Morris is here to do. More honest than he was with Kelly Kapowski before the prom, at any rate.
Butchie and Dwayne arrive at the surf shop and find it closed. "Ten-thirty in the morning," Butchie marvels. "No wonder they're going broke. Hey, where is everyone?" That last question is directed at the guy manning the skate rental booth near the shop; he's dressed like Jimmy Buffett would be if he were a 1940s detective instead of a pop singer. ("The name's Buffett, James Buffett. And this is The Case of the Lost Shaker of Salt.") Jimmy Buffett, beach detective, tells Butchie that his mother split "with some little guy in her car." That nobody seems the least bit surprised by this suggests that Cissy is in the habit of spiriting at off at all hours of the day with twitchy little guys. Looks like this is another case for...Jimmy Buffett, Beach Detective!
Speaking of things no one should be surprised by, Shaun's out back behind the shop smoking some wacky tobacky. It's a regular reefer this time and not a bong he fashioned out of a Diet Coke can, so he's getting a little more civilized if a little less MacGyver-like. Both Butchie and Dwayne take in this sight with varying degrees of concern. Butchie asks Shaunie what's going on; nothing, Shaunie replies without looking up. See? It's just like any regular father-and-teenage-son conversation (your level of drug use may vary). "Put the joint out," Butchie says. Shaun does, with a remarkable lack of "From you, Dad! I learned it from watching you!" Which is disappointing, frankly. Anyhow, Butchie introduces Dwayne as someone "who wants to talk to you about some informational superhighway shit." Shaun would prefer to take a raincheck. That sits very poorly with Butchie, who, after shooing Dwayne away, asks Shaun why he doesn't want to talk to Dwayne now. Because, Pops, Shaun doesn't much feel like it. Butchie can't understand why Shaun is behaving this way to someone who wants to help him. Like the folks from Stinkweed, Shaun counters -- they wanted to help, too, and "you wouldn't let me sign with him." "Fuck if I wouldn't," Butchie protests. "Who told you that?" A shrug, apparently, because that's what Shaun does.
"So are you saying I can sign with him?" Shaun asks skeptically, after Butchie says that he hasn't seen Linc for days. That gets Butchie's Irish up. "A little weed on your brain, you get a real smart-as tone of voice going," he tells his son. As if to illustrate Butchie's point, Shaun looks over at Dwayne and observes that he "looks like a tool." As perceptive as that statement may be, it isn't very nice, and Butchie responds by whapping the back of Shaun's head, though a look of regret immediately flashes across his face. "That's just great, Shaunie," Butchie mutters. "Hurt a person's feelings comes looking to help you." You talking about Dwayne there, Butchie, or yourself? Shaun asks why Butchie doesn't just leave him alone. "Great, fine," says Butchie, his irritation rising. "If I see Linc Stark, I'll tell him to come sign you." "Oh yeah, I forgot," Shaun snots. "You signed me over to Grandma and Gramps. Tell him to go talk to them." Ouch and double ouch, kid. I thought weed was supposed to make you people jolly. Butchie gets up to leave in a huff -- lot of that going around this episode -- before leaving with this parting shot: "Me being a fuck-up doesn't mean I shouldn't try to give you good advice." Shaun asks if his mom is staying in Imperial Beach; Butchie has no idea. "Maybe you could give her some good advice and ask her to stay," Shaun pouts. OK, so the thing we learned about this scene is that grass makes Shaun a pissy little bastard. Also, there's a crucifixion mural on the wall by the surf shop -- didn't notice that before.
"He'll be all right," Jimmy Buffett, beach detective tells Butchie as the latter stalks off. "Yeah, looks like he's doing great," Butchie snarls, as he and Dwayne go their separate ways. Also, Butchie vows to "get good and fucking high" -- yeah, you say that a lot, my man, and yet you never do it. He also gives Kai a ring, getting her voicemail, which is too long for Butchie's liking, since his message primarily consists of telling her to "find a fucking shorter jingle" after complaining that Shaun was out back smoking weed in her absence. Terrible, terrible phone manners, these Yosts. The only way that Shaun could be any worse than what we've seen from Cissy and Butchie today is if he were to answer phone calls by belching into the receiver.
Remember that scene earlier where Tina was composing herself in front of a mirror in her hotel room when there was a knock at the door? Imagine that scene again, only with Linc playing the part of Tina and Tina playing the part of the knocker. Linc opens the door, sees Tina on the other end, and quips, "Room service?" Tina's not in the mood for playful banter: "A real good friend of yours wants to pay me to ruin your life." Linc invites her into the room to spill the beans on that duplicitous Zack Morris.
John's still standing in front of the Naval Radio Receiving Facility, which I guess is what he meant when he said he was going to be with his Father today, though there doesn't appear to be a whole lot of dialogue. Before we can muse too much on that, it's back to the hotel room, where Cass is busy reviewing footage she shot. "Doesn't work," she mutters. "Doesn't work either." She flings her pencil. Simply a thrilling sequence of scenes right there.
Cissy apparently knew enough to take Palaka to the Snug Harbor, because that's where he is now, musing about how chilly it is. The tattoo on his neck looks less like a salamander and more like a seeping wound. "He's burning up," Cissy observes to a visibly concerned Freddy, who goes from hovering in the doorway to hovering over her shoulder. "Maybe from your hot garlic breath," she adds. "Why don't you get out of the line of fire?" Freddy shoots back. "Well, twist my fucking arm," Cissy says. Look out, Mitch -- the chemistry between these two is palpable. "Purple salamander," croaks Palaka, winking at Freddy. "Honoring a certain someone." Freddy is torn between his concern for his flunkie's well being and his natural impulse to pummel Palaka verbally and physically for being such an exhaustive dope. "If yours hadn't come out green," Freddy stammers, "I would have gotten mine burned off, so as not to have us took for the Boobsey Twins." "I was poisoned and miscolored?" Palaka says, truly shaken by this further evidence of his poor customer experience.
At this time, Cunningham hustles in Dr. Smith, who could probably start a lucrative private practice just treating the owies and scrapes of the denizens and hangers-on of the Snug Harbor Motel. Broken necks, shattered wrists, near-fatal stabbings that actually aren't -- it's run of the mill for this on-the-go doc. Palaka gives Dr. Smith his self-diagnosis: "I am fucked up, doc, to a fare-thee-well. Thank God you and me became friends, huh?" Cunningham offers to run to the pharmacy to pick up whatever Dr. Smith needs. I think this is more serious than just getting some Flintstone's Chewables from the local Walgreens, my man. Dr. Smith, more delicately, suggests that maybe he examine Palaka first before dispatching anyone on a drug run. The diagnosis -- which I think we've all made at this point -- is that the tattoo Palaka got this morning is infected and he needs some antibiotics, stat. Also, the doctor says they'll need more room -- Freddy rushes in, picks up Palaka, and, shoving Cunningham out of the way, carries Palaka over to his bed. Oh Freddy -- I think now you understand what it is we humans call love. Cunningham again offers to pick up medicines: "I have an account around the corner," he offers. Of course you do -- I assume you qualify for the bulk discount rate. Dr. Smith figures he'd better go to the drug store himself to see what's in stock. When he hesitates a moment, Freddy barks at him to get a move on. "I understand you're concerned," Dr. Smith says. "I'm not concerned," Freddy shoots back. "I'll tell you when I'm fucking concerned." He's concerned. It's very sweet, if slightly unhinged.
What this episode needs is more Bill, and John From Cincinnati obliges, as Shaun shows up on Bill's doorstep seeking shelter from the crazy, mixed-up world. "You just missed feeding time," Bill says, brightly, before holding up his palms. "Birdseed. Can I offer you a soda? Twinkies?" Shaun is neither in the mood for Bill's menu of snack foods nor his off-kilter antics. He sets down his skateboard and heads over to the bird cage. "I wish Zippy wouldn't have kissed me," he says, finally, after a long silence. And then he puts his head in his hands and cries. It's all very heartbreaking, unless, like me, you have very little heart to break. But more emotionally mature people than myself swear to me that the scene is very, very sad, so there you go. Bill comforts Shaun as best he can, hugging him, patting him on the back, and saying, "OK, OK," over and over again.
Hey, good news for all of you Deadwood fans who thrilled to Trixie's brief appearance as waitress last week -- she's back again this week, which is good news both for her and for us. Although I do worry that she's going to get typecast in these sorts of roles if that's all Milch keeps lining her up to play. ("We need a foul-mouthed firecracker of a woman for this part. Get me Holly Hunter!" "She's unavailable!" "All right, then get me Trixie from every David Milch HBO project ever made!")
Anyhow, Trixie -- who goes by the name Jerri on this show -- is reviewing the hospital legal documents that Cissy brought over. That seems outside the purview of waitressing, but who can really say definitively with this show? Lawyers surf, surfers levitate, waitresses review liability waivers -- it all makes sense in a way. Anyhow, Trixie/Jerri's verdict is that Dickstein will know what to do. Someone apparently lit up the bald-lawyer signal, because Dickstein walks in nearly immediately to take a gander at the documents. "This is a boilerplate for you," Dickstein says, interrupting Cissy and Trixie/Jerri's chitchat about Butchie and Kai and Shaunie's post-accident troubles. "The doctor is the sacrificial lamb. Typically, the halo effect in these documents bathes the physician in the hospital's light. This absolves the hospital, but your right of action against the doctor is not impaired." Again with the halo effect! Trixie/Jerri makes the same observation, noting that Dwayne -- whom she lovingly refers to as The Harelip -- has been prattling on about the same thing. As this is going on, a woman identified as Doris walks by, points at Trixie/Jerri, and says, "Forty-three days in arrears." She motions at Cissy: "Eighty-two days in arrears for you." So: The hospital is setting up Dr. Smith, which we already knew about; everyone is using the phrase "halo effect," which we sort of knew about, too; and everyone is in debt, which Butchie alluded to a couple scenes earlier. Not the most groundbreaking of scenes. Although we do get to see Cissy demonstrate something approaching human compassion: "Don't let anything happen to the doctor," she tells Dickstein, who points out that it's not necessarily in their hands.
Back at the Snug Harbor, Palaka is still twitching, and Freddy is working through his grief by complaining about how filthy Palaka's side of the room is. "Soup-to-notes renovation in the offing," Cunningham points out. "Well, you oughta off it pretty fucking soon," counters Freddy, who tells Palaka that he plans to sleep in a rollaway bed rather than Palaka's old bed, "just in case what you got is transferable." When Cunningham offers to bring in fresh sheets, Freddy turns his anger at the universe on him: "Stop answering if I'm talking to him." Cunningham decides that discretion is the better part of getting hit upside the head and leaves. Alone, Freddy sits down to Palaka's bed: "Don't you fucking die," he whispers. It sounds less like a prayer and more like a threat.
Meanwhile, in the most meandering episode of Saved By the Bell ever, Zack Morris is using a tape record to debrief Tina about her liaison with Linc. Well, good heavens, people -- you read the recaps; you know what (and who) went down. Goddamnit, Zack Morris, I will not have you cost NBC Universal valuable page-view revenue by getting your recaps from Tina -- you'll read the episode summaries here, same as everybody else. To sum up: Tina Blake, an adult film actress from Van Nuys, California, was offered a contractual arrangement by Linc that would pay her $4,000 a month while Shaun is under contract with Linc. Oh, also, they had sex. But you knew that. The interview concluded, Zack Morris hands over a check to Tina. "Did you ever do drugs with Linc?" he wonders. "Are you asking me to fib?" she counters. "Are you asking me to write you another check?" Zack Morris says. Oh, Zack Morris -- Mr. Belding would be sickened at your ethically-challenged ways.
As Dr. Smith sets up a makeshift treatment center in the motel room -- complete with IV bag hanging from the room's lamp -- Freddy frets about how, if Palaka was really sick, the doctor would take him to the hospital, right? Dr. Smith fixes Freddy with a withering gaze: "I'm trying to remember how I practiced before I met you." "Was it without a fractured skull?" Freddy asks menacingly. Before we can see how well Dr. Smith would practice with a fractured skull, Cunningham bursts into the room with two buckets of ice -- one clean, one with ice that got yellowed from the motel's rusty ice machine. It's like that old Phil Hartman SNL sketch, "The Anal-Retentive Chef." I miss Phil Hartman. Perhaps this scene can continue without me. Dr. Smith prepares to stick Palaka with the IV tube, which is when we learn that Freddy gets nervous around needles. A drug dealer who hates needles -- oh irony, you are a cool, refreshing drink of what the hell.
John's at the Naval Radio Receiving Facility; there's still no dialogue. If there were I imagine it would go like this:
John's Father: So how's it going, Son?
John: Good. Really good. That trick you taught me where I just repeat back what people have said to me...it's working like a charm.
John's Father: Good, good.
John: Actually, it's pretty annoying. I'm kind of surprised no one's taking a swing at me.
John's Father: Oh, they will, John. They will. So, you deliver my message?
John: Yup, yup, I did. I told them about the zeros and the ones and the lines and the circles. Oh, I said that fire was huge. And I was sure to mention 9-11-14.
John's Father: Well that's...wait. What?
John: 9-11-14. Fire huge, mud huge. The whole deal.
John's Father: But that's complete gibberish.
John: I…
John's Father: It makes no sense.
John: If you...
John's Father: I mean, I'm all-knowing, and I have no idea what the hell you're talking about. My message was pretty clear when I gave it to you to deliver.
John: (quietly) I thought I would mystify it up a little. You know, to keep people guessing.
John's Father: Mystify...it...well, that's just great, Son.
John: I'm sorry.
John's Father: No, great. Top-notch work there. You really delivered.
John: I said I'm sorry.
John's Father: I knew I should have sent Jesus instead of you. He got the job done last time.
Jesus (entering): Somebody mention my name? I was out getting tacos.
Anyhow, that's how I imagine things are going. By the way, Cass is still making her video.
Dr. Smith steps out of the motel room to enjoy a furtive smoke, and Cunningham, taking to the role of nurse like a duck to water, walks up with a tray full of orange juice in Dixie Cups. "We have to let the antibiotics kick in," the doctor explains when Smith asks him how Palaka is doing. "Was that all overdone, about cigarettes?" Cunningham asks. Dr. Smith looks at Cunningham and then looks at his cigarette: "No," he says chuckling. "In any case," Cunningham continues, unperturbed by a man of medicine doing something very unhealthy, "I now have a sense of how the great Astaire felt the day he put on tap shoes." Curiously, on that day, Fred Astaire was heard to remark, "Boy, I feel like a lottery winner who's helping treating an infected guy at the seedy motel he bought with his gaming winnings." No really, he said that -- I read it on Wikipedia. At this point, Butchie pulls up in his van, gives a quick wave to the doctor and Cunningham, and, when Ramon tries to ask him about something, pulls out his cell phone and makes like he's having a conversation. Smooth move, Butchie -- you've totally got them fooled. And the reason for that pantomime? Butchie bought some heroin, which he takes out and places on the table once he's reached the privacy of his room. Well, I guess he's going to show me about getting good and high, after all.
If Butchie's going to take the heroin, he better do it quick -- Kai just pulled up in her jeep. "Butchie's about to get caught wrong," Ramon says sadly, as he helps himself to a second glass of Cunningham's thimbleful of orange juice. "Isn't he alone in there?" poor, sweet naive Cunningham asks. Not if you count Sweet Lady H as a companion, Cunningham.
But Butchie is not using. He is still sitting far away from the bag of heroin when Kai knocks on the door. He answers. "Got your message," she says brightly. "Shortened my jingle." Now that, friend, is love -- responding to a dickish phone message with grace and aplomb. Anyhow, Butchie motions with his head over to the table where the heroin is sitting in plain sight. "I copped," he said. "I didn't use. I didn't want to use." He looks at Kai somewhat hopefully. "I think it's off me," he adds. He holds out his hand, she takes it, and they have themselves a nice little moment, which would ruined by one of my wise-ass little comments. So let's quickly cut to...
...the bathtub of Palaka's room, where he's up to his sternum in ice, vibrating like a five-year-old who's gulped down 32 ounces of soda, while Dr. Smith sits on the tub, doing a little introspection. "Is it sound judgment, Palaka, treating you here?" Dr. Smith asks. "Or just fear of humiliation?" "I'll go weeks without selling a sherbet," Palaka says weakly in response to this self-examination. "Not much grandeur for me, steering you into the E.R," Dr. Smith continues, "like some defrocked store-front operator waiting hat-in-hand for a resident to decide to admit you. I pray God that's not what holds me back." Palaka takes Dr. Smith's hand and pats it repeatedly: "Now, now, ma." Which raises the interesting question: If not for the tubful of ice and the noticeable shivering, would you really be able to tell Palaka was all that ill by his ramblings alone? Frankly, I've never found him more lucid.
Outside, Cissy has returned to the Snug Harbor. Ramon, who continues to make short work of Cunningham's orange-juice tray, observes, "Let me avoid this lady's tone of voice," and makes a hasty exit. Would that I could join you, buddy. Anyhow, Cissy's looking for Dickstein, which is odd, since they were just in the same place together and probably could have commuted over if she was that hepped up about keeping him in her sights. Cissy notices Kai's jeep and Butchie's van: "Are they fucking in there?" she demands. "Hard to say," Ramon shrugs, as he barely breaks stride. Indeed, it is hard to say -- "if the gone-to-seed motel is a-rockin', don't come a-knockin'" is one surefire way to determine who's doing whom, but any a-rockin' at this time could be caused by Palaka's ongoing shivering. So who knows, really? Cissy is left to talk to Cunningham, who gives her a breathy overview of the renovation plans taking place while she not-so-silently fumes -- about Dickstein, about her son and Kai, about everything.
Inside Butchie's room -- where Butchie and Kai are not fucking, OK Cissy? -- Kai tells Butchie that she saw him out in the water this morning. "I got your boards outside," she adds. Butchie looks up from the hole that he's been staring in the floor to regard Kai with greater warmth than ever before. So intensive is his gaze that he doesn't pick up his ringing cell phone...
...To receive the call that Bill is placing. "Every call I make, afterwards, I got to use a cuticle scissors," Bill tells Shaunie, while waiting for Butchie to pick up. When he doesn't, Bill leaves a message: "Butchie? Message from Bill Jacks. Shaunie's over here with me. So you may just want to call or, you know, get over here." Bill hangs up. "Voicemail. Not there," he informs Shaun before picking up a book "that deals with anniversaries of people that are dead...there's various chapters, helping the bereaved be at ease." Sounds like light bedtime reading. Or possibly the source of night terrors. "What this has to do you with, thirteen years old," Bill says -- "Fourteen," Shaun corrects him -- "Fourteen years of age," Bill continues. "And thank God you've lost no one to feel grief over the anniversary of." On the downside, that's really going to affect Shaun's ability to write mopey poems about death to try and make girls think he's sensitive, not that I spent several months of my teenage years doing precisely that, no sir. Bill's point for trotting out his Necromonacon or whatever the heck his book of the dead is, is this: "People are sad for various reasons. And sometimes an outside source is required, even to help them know they feel sad. Or, if they know, offer them helpful hints, suggestions, ways to deal with the problem." And if you're looking for such a source, might I suggest Tedious, Out-of-Meter Poems About Death That Didn't Convince Girls To Make Out With Me, by Mr. Sobell, Age Sixteen, available for a very attractive price. I oughta get some return on my investment. Bill, who has become increasingly uncomfortable with this conversation, stashes his book under the couch mattress. "May I be frank with you?" he asks Shaun. "You reek of marijuana smoke." That is perhaps because he smoked a joint before coming here, Shaun confesses. "And you tell me that, without shyness or remorse," Bill fumes. There's the uptight, non-linear Bill I've grown to know and love.
Back at the Snug Harbor, Cissy continues to wait for Dickstein, and Cunningham continues to hold his tray of cups. "That doctor is about to get an ass-fucking from his hospital," Cissy observes out of nowhere. Before Cunningham can inquire as to the nature, length, and ferocity of said ass-fucking, Kai emerges from Butchie's room, and Cissy decides it's been too long since she laid into someone. "Good to see," she sneers at Kai. "I remember when we used to meet at work." Kai doesn't point out that she could say the same thing and continues walking to her jeep, where Butchie's boards are stashed in the back. Cissy starts retreating back to where she was standing before when Butchie walks out of the room. Hey -- someone else to yell at! Cissy stops dead in her tracks and starts moving toward him, muttering, "I feel like a duck in a shooting gallery." Ha! "Hid 'em before I could sell 'em," Butchie marvels as he sees the boards in Kai's jeep. Just then, his phone beeps with message from Bill as to Shaun's whereabouts; Butchie says he'll head on over, and Kai gives him a ride. On the way to the jeep, Butchie and Cissy exchange looks -- they do not appear to be hostile ones, but they're not all that happy, either.
Speaking of someone who's not happy, not at all, Freddy is lying in bed wide-eyed when an idea manages to burrow through his eight layers of skull and plant itself to his brain. He sits up in bed, thinks some more, doesn't pass out from the strain, grunts, and walks purposefully toward the bathtub. I think someone's about to get unwanted medical advice from an unqualified party.
Outside, Dickstein has finally arrived and asks Cissy if she's managed to tell Dr. Smith what's going on, vis-à-vis the hospital's plan to hang him out to dry; Cissy's still pretty stricken by her wordless exchange with Butchie. "No," she tells Dickstein as she walks toward her car. "Go ahead." Cunningham sidles up to Dickstein: "About the ass-fucking?" he asks helpfully. And how many other shows do you hear a line like that? Besides Full House, I mean, where it was Bob Saget's catchphrase.
Here comes Freddy, bursting out of the motel room, and he's got Palaka with him, much to Dr. Smith's general irritation. "Don't do nothin' stupid, Doc," Freddy warns, as he carries his underwear-clad henchman toward his rental car. Dr. Smith suggests forcefully that this is not a very good idea, as Palaka needs to be back in the ice-filled bathtub and that they can't waste valuable treatment time getting him admitted to a hospital. Freddy respectfully disagrees, instructing the doctor to get out of his way. Dr. Smith slaps Freddy but good -- "Another county heard from," Palaka observes -- and Freddy observes that the doctor's lucky he's got his hands full. Not for long he doesn't -- now they've both got their hands on Palaka, and they're pushing and pulling him in opposite. directions. "Thanksgiving," Palaka says woozily. "Make a wish." But now we get to the source of Freddy's agitation: "All your smart-ass fucking talk," he spits at Dr. Smith. "It was me that broke his fucking wrist." Freddy, you see, thinks that the broken wrist is the cause of Palaka's unfortunate state, not the dirty needle from the tattoo parlor. Dr. Smith suggests that he stop acting out of guilt and start letting the doctor treat Palaka. Freddy relents, as Cunningham -- whose been holding the IV tube all along -- runs up with a blanket to swaddle Palaka.
Back at Bill's place, Bill reproduces the book on dealing with death from the cushions of the couches and rifles through the pages in front of Shaun. "Quick review -- how to put people at their ease?" Bill offers. Shaun politely declines. When there's a knock at the door, Bill whispers to Shaun, "Upstairs, talk amongst yourselves." As Bill scrambles toward the stairs, he gestures toward the kitchen: "Twinkies, soda, and the like." He is really hoping to move those Twinkies. Anyhow, the knock at the door was Butchie, as you might have guessed; Shaun invites him in and has him sit down. "Pretty pissed?" Butchie asks after a moderately pregnant pause. Shaun shakes his head no. "Hit me, buddy, come on," Butchie says, offering his son a clean shot. Taking a swing at his old man is not on Shaun's wish list, however; rather, he would like things to go back to normal. Presumably, that means pre-accident, pre-surfing competition, only, you know, without his father being hopelessly wasted on drugs all the time. Butchie agrees that all that would be nice, but "as much it pisses you off, the hand you were dealt ain't going anywhere. Mine. Your gram's. Gramps." "My mom's," Shaun points out. "Or your mom's," Butchie continues. "Or any-fucking-body else's. So fighting it only gets your ass kicked. So if you can learn that now, instead of 20 years from now...fuck." Which is oddly eloquent, especially considering the source, but Butchie nevertheless gets flustered and frustrated dishing out advice. "Just smack me on the back of the head," he exclaims. Shaun puts his hand there, and strokes his father's skull -- it's tremendously touching. It's also sort of funny, watching Bill, hunched over and trying to shield his eyes, but watching all of this from his spiral staircase. "I've been thinking about getting back in the water," Butchie says. "Getting in the way I used to." "Competing?" Shaun asks. "I don't know," Butchie says. "I guess. Maybe." Anyhow, the two of them decide to go surfing together and engage in the sort of friendly father-son competition that family members have used to humiliate each other for generations. "Thanks for the room, Bill," Butchie calls up to Bill, who is still crouched in his "I can't hear you, I can't see you' position on the stairs. "Shaunie and I are gonna go get wet." "Fine, good," Bill responds, not changing his position. Don't ever change, Bill -- though you might want to stretch your legs some before they cramp up.
At the Imperial Beach pier, we catch up with Zack Morris delivering the state-of-the-Stinkweed address to Linc. The good news: company's doing fine. The bad news: "You're the fucking mess." Long story short: the investors want Linc out of the company. And to hasten that departure, Zack Morris produces the tape of Tina outlining the nature of her fiduciary relationship with Linc. Oh yeah, Zack? Well, Linc will see that tape and raise you a tape of you offering a cash inducement to Tina to get her to fib. "Isn't that a felony in this state?" Linc asks. Check and mate, friend. So here's Linc's counteroffer: instead of leaving the company empty-handed or with a piddly $35 million payout, Linc would like $65 million. Zack Morris agrees, so long as that incriminating tape is handed over. Done and done. Linc hands the tape over to Zack Morris, who drops it off the pier into the Pacific, where it doubtlessly kills a sea lion. Boy, I hope Linc made a backup of that tape just so that we never have to deal with this go-nowhere storyline about Stinkweed's finances again. Linc meets up with Tina, recounts what we just saw happen with our eyes, and prepares for life as jobless multi-millionaire. "For a million, can I hold your hand?" he asks Tina. At those prices, you're going to run through that $65 million by Thursday, Linc. "When I strike, it's going to be for the big money," Tina says. That was either very playful or very menacing, I'm not sure which.
Back at the Naval Radio Receiving Facility, where nobody says nothing and nothing ever happens, John is now standing there in a wetsuit instead of his usual tourist togs. He smiles enigmatically. In Cass's room, where movie footage is viewed over and over again, Cass is viewing footage over and over again. This time, though, there's drumming, and we continue to hear it, as we cut to Cissy, doing the dishes. "Cissy Yost," says a wetsuit-clad John, as he appears in her window. "Hey," Cissy says. "Captain Kirk. You were right about being more miserable." To be accurate, Cissy, he said you would feel just as miserable as before or worse -- it wasn't a certainty about being more miserable. But I'm splitting semantic hairs, because John has more to say: "Getting dusted won't be an issue," which is the same thing that Butchie said to Shaun a few scenes back during their glib father-and-son-go-surfing exchange. "Don't get hit by a bus," Cissy says insincerely. And the drumming continues.
Bill is reading from his book now: "'I know I am getting better and stronger when...I can be alone at home, even when the person who died is no longer there.'" He turns to his birds and shrugs: "Where else am I going to be?" "'Memories of the person who died make me smile, not cry,'" Bill continues, adding, "Well, that one's easier said then done. 'I laugh at my friends' stupid jokes.' I don't have any friends." Well, you do have John looming in the background of your home, Bill, which frankly is kind of creepy. But Bill is too engrossed in reading: "'I make stupid jokes.' Well, I try to amuse the kid. I mean, I'm not a comedian." You're selling yourself short, Bill.
The drummers keep drumming, as we go to the Snug Harbor Motel, where workers have finished pouring concrete into the shuffleboard court. The Three Wise Guys -- Dickstein, Ramon, and Cunningham -- are signing their names into the concrete. Dickstein adds a circle-and-line stick figure. "What's that?" Ramon asks. "Don't know," the lawyer replies. Oooh -- deeply symbolic. Or kinda leaden and hokey. Although, who says it can't be all of those things? Ramon blasts a celebratory tune on a horn -- in the background, John appears, mimicking the horn-blowing motion. He sure is making the rounds in the closing moments of this episode. "Shape changer," Freddy mutters. Palaka is lying in bed -- much improved! -- flipping through supermarket tabloids: "If they weren't looking to embarrass the poor girl, they'd blur her out when her dress came up," he says. And that, friends, is how Britney Spears made her inadvertent John From Cincinnati cameo.
And in her hotel room, Cass is crying. I'd say it's because she's watching her own film, but she looks sort of happy about it. Maybe it all finally came together to reveal some great universal truth, though considering who's putting the film together, I'd say that's highly unlikely. Anyhow, John's standing there, too, hovering behind her so that when she gets up out of her chair and backs up, she backs right into him. Instead of being freaked right the hell out, as you or I might be, she smiles and happily hugs John. She isn't smiling for long: "Shaun will soon be gone," John says. Bummer, man.
But before he's gone, Shaun is going to do some surfing with his dad. "How much is that worth?" Linc observes from the pier as Shaun and Butchie make their way to the surf. They're joined by John, who is like some supernatural MaidenForm Lady -- that cat gets around. "The big money is staying in escrow," Linc continues, "for whoever can tell me what the fuck is going on." Don't look at me, man. I'm just the stenographer.
So...some nice moments in that episode -- Butchie and Kai, Butchie and Shaun, Butchie and Cissy. (Hey, here's a thought: Brian Van Holt is acting the hell out of this show.) But also a lot of pointless ones or ones that took five minutes to say what could have been said in two. More troubling, that's another episode in the can without any further indication from David Milch that he plans on rewarding viewers who stick with the show but don't feel like drawing elaborate wall charts and graphs and Venn diagrams to figure out all the clues and portents. So that's a big fat "feh" from yours truly.
week: John tells Cass they made a tape the night before. Hopefully, she won't be editing that for the couple episodes. Cissy moves Mitch's belongings to the Snug Harbor, loudly and ostentatiously. And Bill and Freddy team up to try and get to the bottom of this "Shaun will be gone soon" pronouncement from John.