By Wing Chun
We open with a sweeping helicopter shot of the pristine Alaskan (actually British Columbia) vista, as Patrick blah-blahs an intro on the radio. Apparently, this is Marin's cue to tear ass out the front door of the Inn. It's called an alarm, Marin. If you can't be arsed to get a wake-up call (or the Inn doesn't provide that service), you could at least set the alarm on your cell phone. Just because you're from New York doesn't mean you can't exercise a little common courtesy, damn! Sara appears behind her to throw her a scarf, and as she's wrapping it around her neck, of course she sinks her patent platform pumps in a mud patch. Sad! But Zappos probably delivers to Alaska, right? Patrick's radio voice-over tells us that it's nearly time for the premiere of Marin's new radio show, First Things Frist. Ick.
So Marin -- apparently in too much of a hurry to drive the truck she just bought -- trots through town on her silly little heels, boobs a-bobbling in her silly little sweater. Patrick offers some local-colour updates: Buzz is flying two mail runs to Sitka, Theresa and Ben are bringing in a fresh keg for the Seahawks game: "And if anyone sees Jack..." Marin nearly gets hit with some flying wilted produce. "...Tell him the bear's in the dumpster again." In his truck, Jack pulls a U-ie. Marin flags down a passing pick-up truck, its bed full of dudes, to bum a ride to the radio station. Once in, however, her gratitude turns to horror as she sees she's sharing a lift with a whole bunch of big dead fish. Beggars can't be choosers, Late Beckinsale. Presumably to kill time, Patrick offers some Marin fun facts: she loves dark chocolate and sushi (not together, I'm guessing, but who's to say?), was raised in New York, and, in matters of love, believes one never knows which road will lead to one's husband. My guess is that Marin's may not be Cannery Row.
At the station, Marin is helped out of the truck bed by her knights in stinky armor, and is about to run pluckily to her appointment to arrive right on time when she gets her heel stuck between the slats of the the wooden pier and takes a spectacular digger, spilling the contents of her purse all over. The chivalrous fishermen (I loved their third album, Don't Carp At Me For Holding The Door For You) hurry over to help her, puzzling over her exotic cosmetic pencils and eyelash curler. Suddenly, Jack is among them, wallet-size photo of Graham in hand. Marin goes to recover her trapped shoe, but the heel, of course, is going nowhere, and breaks off stuck in the pier. Marin limps off half-shod.