Previously on The O.C.: a national phenomenon was born. A nation changed its official flower to The Weeping Marissa and its official car to the Death Cab. Then, a national phenomenon tried to make us care over and over for a span of twenty-seven episodes. Now the national phenomenon is back. Only this time it's called Lost, and it's not getting its ass handed to it in the ratings by Survivor. Sorry, O.C. Better luck with some other nations and some other phenomenon.
In what appears to be the version of heaven according to the set designer of What Dreams May Come, we join the action in progress to find billowy white sheets reflecting some sun-dappled lightness from above. We pan down to find ourselves in the midst of some hardcore housing construction, featuring tens of shirtless men just wandering around in what now appears to be the version of heaven according to the set designer of Boat Trip. Oh. Just a note to those of you who have never read one of my recaps before: I guess it's important that I take this moment to point out that all of my pop-culture analogies are derived entirely through comparisons to the movies of Cuba Gooding Jr. Luckily, I am now out of Cuba Gooding Jr. movies that jump immediately to mind, unless you count that one where he and Skeet Ulrich are driving, like, a runaway ice cream truck wired in exploding orange fruities and zooms. Anyway, show me the money. Am I right? I mean, aren't I?
Anyway, tens of shirtless men combine for a combined sixty-six pack, by my count, carrying tools and lugging heavy equipment and forcing a call to my doctor because I have sensitive insides and I fear I might have just eclipsed the USDA maximum of beefcake allowed in my limited diet. Through this firemen's calendar walks Sandy "Don't Forget I'm From Da Bronx" Cohen, listening to a shirted man we'll call the foreman as he explains, "We had to knock down the retaining wall to allow for more flow." Sandy responds incredulously, adopting the language of his oppressors, "When do you think we will have achieved flow?" Shirty Foreman gets a bit...well, shirty, responding in his best dontchoo-try-ta- mess-wit-me- 'cause-my-dialect-coach- also-taught-me-to-be- from-Da-Bronx snarl, "When do you think we'll be done tearing your house apart?" Sandy takes this moment for melancholy self-reflection to retort, "My house is torn apart. The construction's got nothing to do with it." With which the retaining wall threatens to collapse completely, because poets and teamster contractors alike know that a house divided against its own strained metaphor cannot stand.
Shirty Foreman apparently finds the representative language of housing metaphors to be a bit fruity, so he changes the subject in a hurry, explaining to Sandy, "It's September now. I'd say two weeks. A month, tops." Note to Foreman: when you're surrounded by enough shirtless homoerotic energy that eleven states file ballot initiatives against you before the opening credits even run, you might want to avoid any and all use of the word "tops." Sandy starts down another hallway and past a wall that damn near lands on him as he walks past it, explaining to Shirty Foreman, "Could you please try to convince the fellas here to wear something in a shirt? My neighbors have started to refer to my house as The Manhole." Well, they missed a hell of an opportunity to add a colon and then place the words "The Stonewall of Drywall" after it, but, y'know, life goes on and people get busy with work and stuff.
Just then, Kirsten "Somber Momber" Cohen walks down a flight of stairs and bids a chirpy hello to contractor Archie, reserving a far more distant mumble of a hello to her estranged husband. As she passes into the kitchen, Sandy turns back to this so-called "Archie" and tries to commiserate through the power of body language by raising his hands in the international sign for "women: can't live with them, seal that crazy bitch behind some drywall." But Archie, see, is a day laborer, and his blue collar acts as a subtlety filter that can only be penetrated with the power of good old-fashioned misogyny. So Sandy obliges: "Oh, and don't ever get married." Instead of the scene progressing as expected -- that is, with the shirtless throngs shouting a simultaneous "Sister, don't worry about that!" followed by the lowering of a spinning red light and a spontaneously choreographed version of "Everybody Dance Now" -- Archie stands politely by while Sandy continues: "And if you do, don't ever have kids." Oh, great. Is there a ballot initiative coming against that as well?
Back in the kitchen, Kirsten pours coffee and ignores even the people who aren't yet talking to her. Sandy is soon to continue his non-stop house subcommittee filibuster when he comes in and tells her that the house is, basically, never going to be finished, touched, inhaled, or looked at. Noting that Kirsten is totally bogarting the coffee, Sandy snarkily (which I will entreat him to leave to the professionals from now on) informs her, "I'd love some coffee." She holds the coffee pot over her shoulder and pivots around without looking at him, which causes him to keep right on talking about a lawsuit he's going to argue in court about two yacht owners. And considering Peter Gallagher's New-Yawkish, Borscht Belt-y way of delivering much of his dialogue, it sounds like these yacht owners are probably both Polish, know the Pope, and walk into a bar. Kirsten doesn't look or respond, regarding Sandy's story with a lack of interest so palpable she adds "audience surrogate" to her résumé's list of special skills, because, kind of, we don't care either. Incredulous, he finally resorts to barking random words at her (as I did above on the topic of Cuba Gooding Jr.), causing Kirsten to observe coolly, "You know you're doing that thing where you think that I'm ignoring you so you start speaking in gibberish to see if I'm listening." Sandy takes a sip of coffee and smiles his broadest the-best-part- of-waking-up- is-how-much-I- haven't-gotten-laid- in-three-months smile and celebrates, "Aw, you were listening." But Kirsten just stares at a random page of the newspaper, probably the one turned to the section of the classifieds marked, "Equipment, Castrating," and responds, "Nope."
Instead, Kirsten wants to talk about the newspaper, particularly the date on it. Sandy promises, "He's gonna come back." Kirsten counters, "By the time school starts? Or by the time Archie finishes the remodel?" The fight escalating (indicated on this show by a character standing and walking with purpose, to substitute for Botox-compromised facial expressions. See also the entry under "Cooper-Nichol, Julie" for more on this), Kirsten stands and walks with purpose as Sandy asks, "What do you want me to do? Tie him up and stuff him in a trunk?" Not the worst idea I've ever heard, and if I've ever thought about doing that to Adam Brody myself it's only because I'm his BIGGEST FAN so stop looking at me like that because I don't want him dead but just hobbled in a mountain cabin in rural Maine, because that's what love between adults is, people. Kirsten adds that she's had enough of Sandy's "hippie-parenting psychobabble." And it's true. He's all talk with nothing to back it up and concessions are made and he negotiates with those of assumedly less power and this, right here, is why America won't let the liberals run Washington. Sandy, on the contrary, blames Kirsten's "smothering overprotectiveness" for driving Seth away and right into my arms, because that's what happens in the blue states and there's nothing much you can do about it, Nebraska. Kirsten again frets that school is starting, and Sandy assures her, "This is where he belongs. He's gonna figure that out." But Kirsten just can't cotton to Sandy's pre-9/11 mentality, and she takes the hard line, demanding, "I'm tired of waiting for that. Bring him home, Sandy." And, for dramatic emphasis that's twice as nice, rinse and repeat: "Bring him home." The repetition causes the Les Miserables soundtrack to kick up from seeming nowhere, and from behind a scrim a few feet away from the kitchen, twenty shirtless men cry out in unison, "Oh, I just adore this song!"
Credits: Apparently, according to the song, The O.C. is in California. Er, sorry. I mean, "Califorrrrrrrrrneeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeya!"
In a cloudless sky, the sun beats unforgivably down on the tortured residents of Orange County, bleaching their vast stores of cash and, by a miracle of nature, their teeth as well. On two chaise longues by the pool sit Marissa "E-Mischa-Iated" Cooper and "It's A Cruel, It's A Cruel Cruel" Summer Roberts. As Marissa sloshes her way over with a drink, Summer complains about the heat and frets, "I feel like my flesh is melting." Marissa takes a sip of her drink while Summer takes in the local color, again in the form of an overly toned shirtless man performing a laboring task that is just as easily performed with his shirt on. Those poors are so innately libidinous, aren't they? Summer barks a hopeful "Break me off a piece of that!" and you can totally tell Rachel Bilson got the script and was all, "You guys, please don't make me say that line," because she tries to make it sound kind of sincere and kind of ironic and thus all it does is come across with a lisp and a vaguely French accent. If they were going for retro and ironic, I might have suggested "That stone fox is, like, totally mint." Anyway, The Sexy Help ogles back, staring right through Summer and setting his sights on Marissa. The only reason he can even perceive her existence is because her third dimension is now made entirely out of protective fur.
Marissa likes her and her-related topics, and Summer is all too willing to listen patiently. It's nice to depict girls as something other than scheming bitches, but why on earth would anybody be so loyal to Marissa after her history of narcissistic breakdowns? Summer's got spin-off potential, man, and she'll never cash in on it as long as she's marooned in the second-banana role of Captain Bulimia's trusty sidekick, The Finger. Marissa tells Summer that her mother -- that would be Julie -- is trying to drag Marissa to Cardio Bar, which, according to Marissa, is "the new Tae-Bo." And if there's a new Tae-Bo, it means there's a new Billy Blanks crawling around out there somewhere, which means that the construction of my emergency bomb shelter was not in vain, which...whew. Summer says that Marissa doesn't need to do any more cardio, explaining, "And I mean this in the least scandalous way, but you're looking a little thin." Oh, how the The Gods Of Metahilarity have scanned the pages of the tabloids and come up with some winking humor about how Marissa is too skinny. Get it? It's funny because she's dying. Marissa holds up a disorder-ravaged claw to contest this, but it's exhausting -- just EXHAUSTING -- so she gives up the fight and goes back to ruining herself through various other means. Summer takes a sip of her frosty beverage, choking immediately and proclaiming, "Oh, god! You definitely drink. What's in this, lighter fluid?" Marissa explains that what they're drinking is "the Newport Beach iced tea." At which Long Island is like, "Y'all, all we had to call our own was Joey Buttafuoco, a couple of the Stray Cats, and the name of that drink. Don't go all adding 'a twist of sunshine' and expecting you can steal our branding away. By the way, we're also responsible for the Baldwins. And we're sorry about that too." Summer notes that it might be a bit early in the morning for this high-octane a beverage and basically implies that if the sun reflects too strongly off of her teeth she is now in line to completely burst into flame, physics says.
Summer complains that her bikini is uncomfortable, which I thought was going to lead to hot girl-girl action ("Well then, let me just help you take that off, if you...nah, still too exhausted to move"), but instead the plot turns to Summer's suggestion that they go shopping. Marissa suggests Wednesday, which Summer explains will not be possible because of her "plans with Zach." Zach, eh? I smell a new-character sidebar. Let's hear more about Zach as he's explained through the prism of...Adam Brody. "The more time I spent with Zach," Summer goes on, "the less time I have to think about...god, what's-his-face? Built like a beanpole, curly hair? Runs away like a little bitch on his sailboat, leaving nothing but a note for his girlfriend, who cried and cried over him until the 4th of July, when she decided that she doesn't cry over bitches on boats?" Thank you for allowing for that verbatim transcription, but you have to admit: it's awesome, it's well-delivered, and they quoted the whole thing in EW, and I was just trying to keep up. Marissa seems to remember that his name is Seth. I think Summer kind of knew that. Anyway, Wednesday's out because of Zach, but, Summer explains, she'll "never be close to a boy again." And neither will I, if the President has...y'know what? Too easy. Won't do it again. Sorry.
Even in other towns with higher degrees of socioeconomic strife, they still have Chaotic Building Sites As Metaphor. Out in Chino, Theresa drops off Ryan "[Sulk]" Atwood at his construction site, which will apparently one day become a factory that manufactures human sadness, powered entirely by the teardrops of children. Chino's sad. The car -- a cheesy white convertible that was the total "in" automobile on the exact same day in American history when "essence of all that is powerful" and "Iacocca" were synonymous entities -- pulls up to the site. Ryan jumps out, but Theresa is quick to call him back and note, "I peeled your orange for you." And isn't this exactly how they ended up in this situation to begin with har har har har har. Ryan grabs his hardhat and stars making tracks, but Theresa takes one more shot, suggesting before he goes, "Maybe tonight we could rent a movie or play pool or something." He tells her that "pool sounds good," which means, in common parlance, "I hate you."
Julie "Fossil Hunter" Cooper(-Nichol) enters her kitchen, wearing a sarong made up of the same mushy, floating color palette that used to float directionlessly across movie screens before the advent of "The Twenty." She tells her husband, Caleb "Old" Nichol, that she has to pick up her younger daughter at junior lifeguards, setting herself up for the quip, "Maybe she can save her sister from drowning in self-pity." But Caleb has no time to hear about his troubled new step-neighbors-in-law or whatever they are, as he stands at the window preoccupied, warily regarding a flower truck and asking, "What is that flower truck doing in our driveway? I get the feeling it's been there every week." Caleb gives a paranoid glare either because he's worried about the expenditure of weekly flower delivery to his home or because he's paranoid about a truck from "Flowers By Irene" idling outside his house taping surveillance video. He goes with Plan B: Crazy, I guess, asking Julie if she hears a clicking when she picks up the phone. It's Marissa's bones leaking calcium. You can also hear it from space. Julie battles back with a furrowed brow and an "Okay, Nixon," because apparently Caleb is about to become President by proclaiming that it's "sock it to me time" in front of a national television audience. She tells him that he's acting a bit wacko, and he blames it on his "blood-thinning medication," which Mischa's publicist jots down in a small spiral notebook under the section heading "Synonyms For 'Exhaustion'" that she's got in store for any of her clients' surprise visit to Cedars-Sanai.
Julie changes the subject, telling Caleb, "I'm taking Caitlin to look at new ponies." Caleb wants to know what's wrong with China, as if he would have any idea what that beast's name is, and Julie laments in question form, "China? Has Alopecia? I was hoping that the hair treatments would work, but it's bald as a baby's ass." Pause for laughter, then hit 'em with the home run: "It's just not right for a little girl to love a hairless pony." True empathy on behalf of a child in pain? Or direct quote from her own recently-delivered wedding vows? You decide. Julie gives Caleb a chaste, I-kiss-my-dad- with-this-mouth- and-you-kind-of- ARE-my-dad peck on the soft flesh between his third and fourth jowls, and starts to take her leave. But he stops her near the door and asks, "You're not charging that on the company card, are you?" She turns back as some Harbinger Strings Of Encroaching Poverty kick up on the soundtrack, and she asks him why. He responds that it's illegal to claim Caitlin's new pony as a business expense, which brings a flush of color back to Julie's face. She tells him that she'll use "the black card" instead, which is significant because it's (a) an actual current status symbol, brought to you by Amex if the "you" in question is "someone with money" and (b) the only black thing in the history of Orange County that's been allowed to go shopping for its own pony.
Apparently, the construction is taking so long because they've franchised a Trader Joe's in the middle of the Cohens' construction site. Kirsten enters her kitchen holding two brown bags of groceries that people only buy when they go shopping on TV or in a Nora Ephron movie: three-fourths of a bag of padding and Styrofoam peanuts and a healthy green stalk sticking out of the top for flair. As she puts the groceries away, she catches a glance of the family Chrissmukkah card on the refrigerator, and, below it, a Post-It Note reading: "Carson." Carson's number, for those of you with free nights and weekends and even more free time, is (503) 555-0169. Well, dang it, now, that's one of those fake TV numbers you give out when you don't really want the person to call you, isn't it?
But Kirsten does call, and a moment later there's a phone ringing that's ready to be picked up by Luke "Like I Even Know Your" Last Name. Kirsten quickly asks if she can talk to her son, and Luke walks the phone over to Seth "Well, It's True That We Love One Another/ I Love Adam Brody Like A Little Brother" Cohen. Barely turning his attention away from one of those new-fangled videogames all the kids today are playing (I'll use my vast knowledge of recent videogame technology and brilliantly deduce that he's playing, um, Spy Hunter), he balances the phone between one awwwwww-inducing ear and a perfectly adorable shoulder, hears Kirsten's voice, and tries to remember who she is. Let's listen in! "Mom. Hmmmmm. Blonde. Sharp, Anglican features. Cute little nose." Yeah, that's her. It's creepy coming from him, but yeah. Don't call your mom "cute" until she turns eighty. That's a standard rule of thumb. Kirsten sighs and begs, "Come home," but Seth just gets more vehement about the treatment of his joystick as he asks, "Did Ryan come back?" What? He did. He got very vehement with his game console's playing mechanism, referred to in the common parlance of The Past as "the joystick." You can read into that absolutely whatever you want. Leave me out of it. Kirsten barks, "Seth Ezekiel," and he cautions her against using his middle name. She tells him that this whole thing has gone on long enough, though he's inclined to disagree, telling her that he's planning to stay in Portland. Kirsten tells him that she needs him, and Seth leans in, abandoning his joystick completely and leaving a rapid response team of Freudian O.C. watchers scratching their heads and wondering if he'll later use the joystick to kill Peter Gallagher and then take out his own eyes. Now giving her his full attention, Seth shoots back, "I hate it there. I'm never coming back to Orange County." Not for the whole rest of this hour. So you'd better start begging. He does say that he would be willing to live with his parents again if they relocated to "anywhere else on the planet" (Long Island is like, "Pick me! We have a drink, too!" Trust me, you guys. Don't do it), which Kirsten doesn't think is going to work. She was hoping that a simple appeal might work, but Seth's music is way too brooding for that old saw of respecting his breadwinners to work its magic. So he hangs up on her. Oh, to be named the ironically-named "stick of joy" when there is no joy to be found.
Sandy walks in as Kirsten slams the phone down, and he notes that they she "gave in and called him." None for fighting, she simply laments that Seth used to be a sweet kid, but now he is, in Sandy's words, "quite the angry young man." Want to relate to your indie kids? Do it through the power of Billy Joel lyrics. You'll find out soon enough who did and did not start the fire. Kirsten speaks of how the house feels "so empty," at which moment Playgirl's Mr. December (not that I know. Not that I have that calendar. Not that it wasn't a gift. God, people, stop looking at me like that. He looks completely different without the Santa hat on, anyway) walks shirtless through the room and back behind the plastic.
Ding-dong! The doorbell rings, causing Kirsten to roll her eyes and frantically whisper, "That's Jimmy, I said that we were gonna have dinner with him, but..." But the secret ingredient in any delicious meal is canceling on Tate Donovan. Hollywood knows it. Everyone knows it. The Cohens know it. Sandy promises to take care of it and then does, opening the door on Jimmy "It's 11:59 On Your Five O'Clock Shadow, Grizzly Adams" Cooper and quickly explain-lying, "Kirsten's not feeling so great." Jimmy worries after Seth and agrees with Sandy's soft-on-crime approach about not dragging him back kicking and screaming, and Sandy agrees with, well, Sandy, agreeing, "The last thing anybody wants is a bitter, resentful teenager in the house." He complains that Seth won't talk to him and won't talk to Kirsten, so Tate Donovan wonders, "Maybe there's somebody else he'll talk to." Set your joystick on narrative juxtaposition, y'all, because I think this means we're going back to Chino.
Oh, hey Ryan. Yeah, what's up? How was your orange? Choc full of Vitamin C, they say, which is really important for maintaining properzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz. Ryan just kind of wanders around the Chaotic Building Sites As Metaphor until he's stage-directed to be interrupted by the appearance of Sandy, whose tie is way too short for him to be walking around with his jacket open. Seriously, it looks like the clip-on of a five-year-old. Ryan smiles, which I never agree with the aesthetic of, and Sandy shakes his hand. They like each other. Everyone likes each other. Why isn't Seth coming home? No, seriously. Why? I actually totally don't remember. The banter about the dual non-coincidental nature of remodeling, until Ryan cleverly deduces the reason for Sandy's arrival: "Seth wants to stay in Portland?" Sandy notes that everyone has made their position pretty clear, but that he's nevertheless going up to see his son in the Pacific Northwest. Sandy explains, "I've always liked Luke. He's like a big golden retriever." I would support the animal kingdom metaphor, but only to point out that I guess that makes him the kind of person Luke's father might refer to as "a bear." Sandy asks Ryan if he wants to come, but Ryan begs off with the excuse that Seth was "pretty mad" the last time they saw each other. But Sandy knows that's just because he hasn't passed the age of consciousness and righteous rage/ And found that just surviving was a noble fight. He once believed in causes too/ He had his pointless point of view/ And life went on no matter who was wrong or right/ Whoooooa. And thus Ryan begs off, explaining that Theresa has tests and he has work. Just in case, Sandy hands him a plane ticket on Fake Airlines (ack! It's an Oceania Airlines flight and this is just a flashback! Watch out! Don't fly from Sydney to L.A.) and takes his leave. Just then, Theresa and the sporty verve of the '85 LeBaron convertible pull up, and Sandy and Ryan quickly part because of the actual ramifications of helping people in need. Like everyone involved with the creation of that automobile.
It's 6 AM, Chino Standard Time, when the wifebeaters are rising and the grass is still thick with...nah, there's no grass. Ryan lies in bed listening to a plaintive guitar lick on the soundtrack while Theresa lies to him, also awake. Ryan walks outside holding a bag of trash because the baby daddy is always doing the heavy lifting. He gets out to the front walk just in time to see three kids ride up on bikes, the last of whom high-fives a kid in a wifebeater (Wifebeater Junior? L'il Wifebeater? Crushbeater?) who bears a striking resemblance to Benjamin McKenzie. And he looks like him because...he is him? Ryan is looking into the past. At himself. From yesteryear. If I had to guess the exact moment where Wing was like, "Yeah, we're done here and Survivor isn't done," this is where I'd guess. ["Close, but not quite yet." -- Wing Chun] Ryan walks back into the house, sees that Theresa has peeled his orange and packed his lunch for him again, fishes the plane ticket out of the back pocket of his brother-can-you- spare-some-pants work pants, and places the ticket on top of the nearby alarm clock. It's 6:27. It took him twenty-seven minutes to take out the garbage?
Theresa enters the bedroom (it's now 6:26, by the way) and tells Ryan that breakfast is ready. She sees the plane ticket and asks what it is, and he shares with her that "Sandy needs some help." Yeah, seriously. With the tie tying. No one wears a Windsor Knot anymore. Is this 1977? Ryan reiterates that Seth is pretty mad about Ryan's leaving, which inspires Theresa to wonder, "I can't imagine what he thinks about me." Ryan holds his breath until the subject passes, because even cloistered monks, unborn babies, and wishy-washy social moderates are like, "Yeah, like, Theresa. Ew. Y'know?" We know, you guys. We know. She tells him that he should go to Portland if he wants to, but he merely tells her, "That's for them to figure out. It's their family." Theresa asks if Ryan doesn't consider himself part of the family, and he kisses her goodbye and ends the conversation: "Not anymore." He's off to work at a time the Crazy Clock probably tells us is apple-sauce-thirty.
Sandy pulls into a darkened parking garage and pulls his car up to that of Caleb, who is sitting in his car alone. Sandy rightfully asks, y'know, why they're meeting in a parking garage, and Caleb barely keeps the cuckoo that keeps threatening to shoot projectile-style out of his mouth every time he opens it, responding, "Because my office might be bugged. My home. Your home. Who knows what the Feds are up to?" Is this that commercial I keep seeing how the Patriot Act is curtailing our civil liberties? Because I think Caleb is angling for a new part in that ad for the guy in the bunker wearing the tin foil ears whinnying about how the Patriot Act is letting freemasons rule the world. Sandy asks Caleb to make it fast because he has to be at "The O.C. Airport" (OCX) in an hour, flying to where the other compelling plotlines have been outsourced by cheap, rustic labor. Caleb tries to explain the whole thing to himself: "His best friend leaves, so he runs off with another boy and his gay dad." Man, if it really were as awesome as he just made it sound, I would never have gotten up to stroll aimlessly around the place during the course of this episode. In fact, if that could be the pitch for another Fox show coming this fall, that would be just fine with me. Actually, make it for The WB. That way there's a fighting chance to get Chad Michael Murray on board. In the role of the joystick.
Caleb wants to get back to the whole "him" subplot, asking if Sandy finds his paranoia to be unfounded. Sandy proclaims it "entertaining" (eh, it's a 5.5) but, yes, completely unfounded, noting that he hasn't heard anything from his "friends at the D.A.'s office." Caleb notes that that doesn't make any sense, remembering that he was visited by the D.A. at the beginning of the summer, but that he hasn't heard anything further since. Sandy posits that either they realize they don't have anything on him, or "they're building one hell of a case," and you don't need to be a lawyer or even not a monkey to use the logic of "something is happening or indeed, perhaps, something is not happening."
Establishing shots of Portland! I've been in their scenic airport, and I've been there on The Bachelor a couple of times, I think. We join Seth and Luke in the process of sub-Seth-and-Ryan banter, in which Seth illustrates a pencil sketch of Summer kind of looking like Wonder Woman. It's a testament to the talent of the person who actually drew it. Luke asks whether Seth has spoken to Summer, and he levels, "She stopped taking my calls. I stopped making them. She doesn't understand it's not about her." Luke golden retrievingly counters, "You've got some willpower, because she has a killer rack." Speaking of women as casual objects, two sweet young thangs walk through the front door of...wherever...Seth and Luke...work, one wearing a bikini and the other the girl who stands behind the girl wearing the bikini. Awww, it's so cute when Portland pretends to have a temperature that goes over 70 and furthers the sham that it doesn't rain every day. And in September, no less! That is adorable. Anyway, the girls banter with Luke and an aloof Seth about some fat guy waterskiing, so I guess they work at some kind of fat-guy waterskiing facility, if forced to use my context cues. Seth banters adorably but distantly, which causes Bikini Girl to ask Seth what happened to him last night. She went to some bar location, as it turns out, where "[her] ID finally worked." The one that says that you're twenty-five because you're totally twenty-five? That ID? Because that one's foolproof, Grandma. Luke volunteers that Seth want to go out because he had a "fight with his mom," which Seth gratefully reports was "honest and emasculating." The two girls are quick to take their leave, and after adding, "O.C., glorified extra, played role of Adam Brody's fake girlfriend and it was SQUEEEEE!" to their résumé and disappear from the pop-cultural mainstream forever. After they take their leave, Luke cautions, "Dude, you need to close on Jane before the summer's over." I'm sorry, did my TiVo accidentally change the channel to Meatballs? "Close on Jane"? Ew. Luke. First of all, keep Summer's name out of your mouth. Second of all, "close on Jane" is roofie talk, and we're trying really hard to like you.
As they walk from The House Of Winter Waterskiing to Luke's gay dad's house, Seth claims that the point is moot anyway, because he lives in "The P" now, and so does Jane. Gay Dad welcomes them and tells them they'll be eating soon, adding, "And we have a guest." From a hallway that leads, I'm sure, back to a construction site somewhere in the back, Sandy appears. "Hi," he banters. "Sandy Cohen." Seth waves. Sandy raises an eyebrow or doesn't.
In front of the now-almost-entirely-Cohen-free Cohen household, Marissa hops out of the driver's seat of a shiny red sports car and Tate Donovan gets out of the passenger seat. An attending Kirsten thanks them for coming, and they retire inside the house to recap the recapped recap of what's happened so far. Have you talked to Seth? What about Ryan? Kirsten talked at Seth. Marissa doesn't talk to Ryan. Sandy saw Ryan. Sandy is in Portland. Seth can't or won't close on Jane. Tate Donovan is out of shaving cream.
Marissa makes her way to the poolhouse, where she regards the emptiness of it and notes the folded up sheets on the unmade bed. She grabs the handle and doesn't turn it because, y'know, too weak. There. I said it again. Last time.
"So," exposits Gay Dad, all the better to dispatch with all of last season's lingering plot threads, "the last I heard you were opening a restaurant." Sandy tells him that it never ended up happening, adding for incendiary value, "There are plenty of good restaurants in Newport!" Seth reminds his father that he had said all of the restaurants in Newport were "overpriced and oversauced," because when it comes to expats going into self-exile, nine out of ten times it's because of some bad au jus. Sandy tries to change the subject by asking Luke whether he's excited about school, though I'm sure it will be hard to generate any real interest in the topic, because, I mean, who wants to start eleventh grade at thirty? Luke tells Sandy, "It's gonna be a little weird" -- because of being thirty -- "I gotta meet all the new kids. And they don't have a water polo team." But it's Portland! Even fake TV Portland has cool stuff, like a local chapter of the Sierra Club and a some social progressiveness and maybe even a tree that grew naturally somewhere. Sandy ventures something about a new gym in Newport, and Seth volleys back, "Are you working for the tourism board now?" Crickets. And I mean actual crickets, because there's nature in Portland. I've seen it in stories. Sandy tells him he was just trying to be polite, cautioning his young ward, "You should give it a try." Seth says that he'd rather be "honest," whereas I think he should actually be "in my apartment." See? We all have differences of opinion, but that doesn't make us lesser people. Sandy agrees on going for honesty, demanding, "Let's talk about the spoiled brat who's had everything handed to him." Seth tries to say this isn't about him, but Sandy counters, "Yes, it is. Because you're killing your mother and she is killing me." Seth says that Sandy can't just spend his life telling him what's so terrible about Newport and then expect him to go back, but Sandy reminds Seth that Newport is his home. In Orange County. In Califorrrrrrrrrneeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeya. Sandy pulls that dad trick of saying that when Seth's eighteen, he can pretty much move wherever he damn well wants, and Seth wants to know why he let Ryan go and not Seth. This could go on indefinitely but there are other people at the table and awkward.
Night. Booze. Nightbooze. Marissa sits alone on the beach, the crashing waves making her feel very, very sad. She takes a sip of what looks like Rocket Fuel or a Zima or something, and then grabs at her purse for her cell phone. Oh, the curse of the drunk dial. Is there no one who hasn't felt its icy grip? ["This would be where I bailed out on this show forever and started my letter-writing campaign to get Fox to release on DVD already I mean my God." -- Wing Chun]
Ryan wakes up and grabs his ringing phone while Theresa sleeps on...OR DOES SHE? Marissa is silent, hanging up with a small sob-ish thing. Ryan does the same with a minimum of emotion expended. Theresa is awake because, people, those oranges simply are not going to peel themselves.
Pacific Northwest by morning. Pine trees blow in the wind, hundreds of miles of coastline go unguarded, Agent Cooper enjoys a breakfast of cherry pie and coffee, and all is right with the world. Except for the walk of shame that Sandy has to make into Gay Dad's kitchen, where Sandy tells Gay Dad, "I'm sorry about our little family drama last night." Gay Dad is all, "You want family drama? I'm a Gay Dad." Actually he doesn't say that, and actually I had completely eliminated the fact that he was even a gay dad until Caleb reminded us. Gay Dad dispenses wisdom: "He's a good kid, Sandy. He's a smart kid." Sandy worries that Seth is "too smart," which inspires Gay Dad to wax, "When do kids get all the power?" Sandy says that they always had the power, and that this is just a teenage version of chasing after them when they're two years old. Speaking of people who spent some of last night behaving like they were exactly two years old, Seth enters the kitchen, which causes Gay Dad to quickly take his leave. Because he's painfully self-aware in a way that says "I was born after the work of Douglas Coupland was relevant, thank you very much," he calls attention to the fact that Gay Dad was just making "a convenient excuse to leave us to round two." Sandy promises that there won't be any round two, and that if this is really where Seth wants to be, Sandy can't force him to come back home. At least he knows Seth is safe there, and, well, the spin-off potential of this show...wow. Seth thanks his father for this and apologizes for dragging him all the way up there. Sandy reminds Seth that he left home when he was Seth's age, and always wished his parents had told him that they loved him: "And the door is always open." And, hugs. Awwww. That scene was written entirely by a team of adorable puppies pounding away at fifty typewriters.
Meanwhile, back in Chino, Ryan walks into the kitchen, drops a packed back, and finds Theresa informing him that they should leave in an hour for her doctor's appointment. But Ryan has forgotten all about it, and instead expresses a desire to go to Portland. He will be the dutiful baby daddy and go to her doctor's appointment, though. Theresa, however, wants some answers (besides the obvious "How is it other people close their mouths when they're done talking?" that she should be asking), and she starts digging a little deeper about the mysterious plane tickets and the phone calls in the middle of the night. Ryan explains, "I left Newport to make life easier for everyone. Seems like all I did was make everything more complicated." Uh-oh. Theresa seems to have been interpreting things somewhat differently: "That's funny. I thought you left Newport to be with me." That is funny. To the soundtrack string strains of Chino love, Ryan promises that that's, like, totally what he meant and stuff, but he adds that right now he has to "make things right with Seth." Because if this show understands anything, it's making things right between him and his one true love. Theresa pretends to understand, soldiering on bravely that she can take on the doctor by herself, editorializing, "It's just a checkup. I'll be sitting around, reading old TV Guides, listening to bad Muzak." Hey, Miss Chino? Leave Muzak out of this. Sometimes I make appointments to go to the doctor just because I know there's nowhere else on earth I have a chance of hearing "How Deep Is Your Love." Ryan kisses Theresa goodbye and leaves her to her own devices, pondering how she'll know which TV Guide is new and which TV Guide is old. A good hint is that if you're reading the one that screams "Ratings for The O.C. through the roof!," it's time for that doctor to renew his subscription.
Julie finds a slovenly Marissa out by the pool, lying motionless, only her metabolism moving quickly because of how much she eats. Julie comes to stand above her, chiding, "You're not even ready." But Marissa is trapped in her iPod world, where you have the headphones (excuse me, "earbuds") in and you completely tune out everything else around you. It's a condition some behavioral therapists refer to as "fucking selfishness." Julie screams at Marissa to take out the headphones (excuse me, Julie, but..."earbuds"), and when Marissa doesn't oblige, Julie lets loose, turning the iPod off and causing Marissa to be all, "What happened to Rooney?" Because let's be honest. She's totally listening to the O.C. soundtrack. She just seems like a Greatest Hits kind of girl, y'know? Julie grouses that they were supposed to leave for Cardio Bar fifteen minutes ago, because this leitmotif has legs and everyone knows it. Marissa unapologetically apologizes and turns the iPod back on ("La la la la/ We're a Rooney song/ La la la la/ Our fame has gone on too long"), which causes her mother to snatch the thing away and announce, "Fine. I'm taking this away and you're grounded." Marissa stands up with all of her courage and might, informing her mother, "You can't ground me." Julie goes into Mom Mode, telling Marissa, "All summer long, you've ignored me, acting like I don't even exist." Marissa mumbles, "I wish," which would, in my aggressively non-violent family still be cause for a well-placed switch across the jaw. However, Julie relents slightly, all but begging, "Instead of shutting me out, just tell me what's bothering you." Marissa asks in three different ways if Julie really wants to know what's on her mind and whether or not she can, like, handle the truth or whatever. When Julie gives her an honest "Yes," Marissa makes a mistake. A mistake called "ACTING!" She begins a primal scream regimen that finds her stumbling around the deck just belting her vocal chords bloody, a display that culminates with her throwing the lawn chair in the pool because it's the only thing left that she can lift, which I'm sure you knew I was going to say.
Gay Dad finds Sandy on the phone saying something about Caleb, but he interrupts that nearly-abandoned plotline to let Sandy know that his cab has arrived. Sandy grabs his bags and walks outside, only to discover -- what Providence! -- that his arriving cab is also there to drop off Ryan. They pass each other and Sandy offers Ryan a sincere "Good luck," pausing for effect and adding, "And thanks." Ryan nods noddingly and walks inside.
Ding-dong. Also, the doorbell rings har har har, and Kirsten opens the door of her house to find Summer standing on the other side holding a pink Yaffa crate and wearing a Camp Beverly Hills shirt, which absolutely kicks ass on behalf of the fashions popular during the first ten years of my life. I know that they're being mass-produced again and that it's just super-trendy and all, but it still rocks. Inside of the crate, we can see the LP of The Clash's "London Calling," so obviously we're in Seth Cohen territory. Summer asks if she can come in, and when Kirsten asks her if everything is okay, it's time for...monologuing! Here's some of it now: "I'm here to get over Seth. My therapist said the best thing I can do to move on in my life is to divest myself of all of Seth's material possessions. I gotta dump off a bunch of his crap." Kirsten seems to understand the plain language of the latter statement, but not when Summer spins back off into psychobabble, explaining, "My therapist said that it's my best chance of ever again vibrating at a high frequency." She quotes from a book called Excuse Me, Your Life Is Waiting, in which her therapist -- who might actually just be a book -- explains that "human beings have an electrochemical frequency running through us, which is affected by our emotions." The current is at a higher frequency when we're happy and at a lower frequency when we're not. Kirsten just stares. And say what you will about the puff nature of this show, but I've been writing for this site for five years and this is the first time I've ever had cause to use the word "electrochemical" in any of my recaps. Kirsten tells Summer, "You know where to find his room," and as Summer starts up the stairs, Kirsten calls behind her, "For the record, if he wasn't my son, I'd do the same thing." Date him? Yeah, get in line. Summer gets into his room, picks up Captain Oats, speaks the sad words, "I hope we can still be friends," and dumps the crate upside-down on Seth's bed because that Yaffa cube is hers and she's keeping it.
Seth and Luke return home at some later point in the day, and Gay Dad announces, "We've got another guest." And in from the green room of Gay Dad's house walks Ryan, who stands at the end of the hallway while Seth tries not to show his heart-bursting- through-his-chest levels of emotion when he deadpans, "You I would not have expected." Handshakes substitute for wet, sloppy kisses, but that's just how the world is nowadays.
Outside on the porch, Seth stands at the grill tending to a big, juicy burger as Ryan stares on. Ryan celebrates that Seth learned how to work a grill, pattering, "Portland seems nice." Seth responds that there are "real people" and "real weather" like that's a good thing (sorry, but when I'm living in L.A. I just have to believe otherwise or it will cause me to absolutely LOSE MY MIND), and adds "cute girls, too" like that's a good thing either. Ryan asks about Summer, and Seth says that she'll probably never speak to him again. Ryan takes this moment to just flat-out apologize, which Seth quickly puts the kibosh on because sincere apologies leads to makeup sex and makeup sex would just lead to a lot of confusion. Seth tells him, "You did not make me leave Newport, okay? If anything, the truth of the matter is you probably made me stay a year longer than I should have." Ryan asks if there's any chance of Seth's going to back to Newport, and Seth asks, "Are you?" Ryan just broods, which Seth takes as an answer because he has to, but Ryan finally adds, "But Seth, I can't." Seth wants to be just like Ryan, so he tacks on, "Neither can I." And, kiss. I mean "fade."
Julie meets Tate Donovan on the lanai of her enormous house, where she hands him a glass of lemonade and, for the love of god, A RAZOR. Except, not. He asks what's wrong, and she wastes no time: "Aside from our daughter being the spawn of Chucky and Keith Moon?" Eep. Don't give the Chucky people any ideas. Unless they've already made that movie. Which they well may already have. Tate Donovan agrees that Marissa's definitely going through a hard time, and Julie tells him of the "level four meltdown" that resulted with "lawn furniture in the pool." She adds, "Sad part is, it's the most honest conversation we've had yet." She says they have to do something, and Tate Donovan asks what, and Julie suggests trying to give Marissa a "normal family dynamic," perhaps a Sunday dinner. He promises to help the best he can, and Julie tells him, "For the record, I really am happy for you." For the record, Tate Donovan doesn't believe her. For the record, no one watching this show knows what a "record" is.
Hoo-boy, do people on this show ring a lot of doorbells. Caleb shows up at the Cohens' front door, and Sandy opens it. Caleb storms in, looking around furtively all the while, telling Sandy that he can't believe Sandy talked to the D.A. yesterday and that they're only getting around to talking today. Sandy reminds Caleb that he was in The P trying to rescue Caleb's grandson, but Caleb is much more interested in Caleb. Sandy tells him: "The clouds have gathered, Cal. It's about to rain down on you. On all of us. So put your storm windows in, if you know what I mean." No, Sandy, I find your clever use of subtext completely mystifying. First of all, what's "rain"?
More slacker sports videogames in Chino, where the three boys play hockey and Luke begs, "Make me feel pain! Wound me!" Yeah, I've got nothing on that, we'll just forget aaaaaaaaaaaall about it and concentrate on Gay Dad's entrance. He's holding a phone and there's a call for Ryan. He takes it to discover Theresa on the other line, calling to tell him the following: "I went to the doctor's for the checkup, and they couldn't find a heartbeat. I lost the baby, Ryan." He tells her he's getting on the flight, but she cuts him right off, telling him that they should see this as "a sign." He's not happy with her, and the only reason he's stayed because of the baby. And now there is no baby.
Ryan returns to the living room and reports Theresa's news, and then walks broodingly into an enormous guest room. No wonder no one ever wants to leave that place. Seth is soon to enter and sit on the bed (yes? YES?)...
...and back in Chino, Theresa's mother walks into Theresa's room and asks, "Did you tell him?" Theresa nods and her mother asks, "Did he believe you?" Theresa's mom sits to her on the bed (yes? I mean, not yes) and comforts her, "It's for the best. For you and him and for the baby." But I thought there was no...hey, wait just a second.
Back in leafy green Portland, we're back on the porch, where Seth asks Ryan what time his cab gets there. Apparently, soon. Seth asks what he's going to do now, and Ryan says that he's officially homeless again. I wonder where on earth any of this could be going. Seth asks whether he sold Ryan on the wonders of Portland, but Ryan says he can't just leave behind his fabulous job, and that he'll figure something out. Luke walks out and tells Ryan that his cab has arrived, so Seth tells him not to be a stranger and lets him go. But nay! For as Ryan gets into the cab, Seth runs to the front door, and when he opens it, he finds Ryan standing right there, mere tantalizing inches away from his face. They stare each other for a while, Seth asking if they have to hug or anything, and Ryan and I disagree when he says he thinks that won't be necessary. Ryan walks back into the house...
...and a sunshiney cut later, they walk into the Cohen kitchen to find Sandy and Kirsten at dinner. Seth notes that they were gone for three months and it was enough time for them to tear the whole house apart, and Kirsten stands up with a thrilled "You're back?" They are. Happy hugs are exchanged as Sandy tells Ryan, "Good. Nobody leaves this family twice."
Ryan lets himself back into the poolhouse, Seth following right behind him. Seth tells Ryan that his room felt smaller, probably on account of its being filled floor to ceiling with the crap he thought he'd pawned off permanently on Summer. Seth starts to take his leave, but Ryan has one more question: "How'd you make it all the way to Portland from Newport in that little catamaran?" Seth tells him to "sit down, my son," and they sit on the bed together as Seth embarks on his story: "First, I sailed to Catalina. Then, I sailed to Santa Barbara. Santa Barbara, I ran out of snacks. Freaked out a little bit, pawned my boat for cash, took a Greyhound to Portland." We pan back on the happy reunion of the two of them together, happily bantering on the edge of Ryan's bed. Well done, Seth. And welcome home. Good luck closing on Jane now.