“ Max, his formal shirt still tucked in but the top few buttons on his tux undone, is missing only a signed contract with Chippendales and a neon sign reading 'please place dollar bills here' with a blinking arrow pointing directly at his crotch. ”
Props to Wing. And hi.
First, some background, if I may. Full day of work today. Full day of work tomorrow. Tomorrow, after aforementioned full day of work, a nighttime flight from Los Angeles to New York in a world where "nighttime flight from Los Angeles to New York" should only be uttered and subsequently undertaken by select members of the military and other thrill-seeking kamikaze members of society whose names are comprised, at least in part, by the words "Evel" and/or "Knievel." So, in an attempt to maintain some control over this very harried existence of mine, I present to you the first Roswell all-nighter in the history of MBTV. Think this show makes you cry under optimal circumstances? This show has never watched the sun rise. This show has never faced the encroaching perils of flight. This show has never run out of Red Vines at 3 AM and taken its recapper onto his balcony screaming, "This site still exists, goddammit, so where in the living hell is Webvan when I need it?" So hold onto your browser windows, people, and here's hoping that writing this recap is the only project I undertake in the twenty-four hours that's characterized as being a "bumpy ride." Meep.
We're on the set that makes us think we're outside of the Crashdown in post-wedding darkness. The fine folks at Monogamy Inc. get a product-placed thumbs up, as the back window of a car proudly reads "Just Married" in white, soaped-on letters. Standing around the open trunk of the car are a jubilant Jesse "Yo, I Have Gots To Have Sex Tonight" Ramirez and a slightly-less-than-affable Max "At Best The Fourth Or Fifth Best Man" Evans. Max helps Jesse load a large parcel into the car. It appears to be golf clubs, and I pretty much resolve from the get-go that if those clubs don't merely function as a metaphor for Jesse's impressive wedding-night virility, this is about to become the least intriguing honeymoon in the history of televised nuptials. Max and Jesse partake in a moment of golfer/caddy mutual club handling (if you know what I mean, and Max certainly does), until Kyle "Eeny-Weeny Teeny Little Shriveled Little Short Short Man" Valenti runs up behind them and asks in a panic, "How's it going? Everything okay?" Jesse proudly sports his wood and smiles so broadly that he inhales the three iron right out of the bag, responding, "Fiiiiine." Max, his formal shirt still tucked in but the top few buttons on his tux undone, is missing only a signed contract with Chippendales and a neon sign reading "please place dollar bills here" with a blinking arrow pointing directly at his crotch. Only Kyle is still decked out in his full wedding finery, so intent is he on finding Isabel, who he learns from Max is "upstairs, changing." Kyle ditches the Town Car action and runs at twice the speed of a normal-sized boy to find her. Dude. This here isn't even a limo. I'm sure the trip to the airport will be just lovely, what with Isabel in the passenger seat glancing over her shoulder on the hunt for her long-lost alien captor, while Jesse sits in the driver's seat searching for in-car entertainment and loudly commenting, "Look, honey, it's Dorf on Golfon tape!"
“ Oh, and if that damn huge carnation on Kyle's diminutive lapel doesn't spray water into at least one person's face to hilarious comic effect really soon, Spencer Gifts can kiss their corporate branding tie-in goodbye. ”
Ruzzah ruzzah and community-theater-esque blocking (I swear that with good speakers you can actually hear it when Max's parents keep accidentally referring to each other as "Mr. and Mrs. Webb") as the regulars move into position for whatever galvanizing sequence is to follow. Kyle rushes back into the diner, followed by Mr. and Mrs. Evans, just as Michael "With This Ring, I Thee Bedhead" Guerin walks past them and right into Liz "I Do Not Like Her On A Lark, I Do Not Like Her In A" Parker, who is returning from some ambiguous outdoor locale holding one of those busboy trays filled with dishes. Well, like, three dishes. Michael sees her walking toward him and notes, "I'm not washing all these." Yeah, don't go breaking your back sudsing off that one spork there, Mr. Paid Diner Employee. Liz merely barks an unfriendly "go" before returning to the enchanted Flatware Forest to pick more dishes off the town's fabled Dish Vine.
Isabel "Just Cause" Evans descends the steps of the Crashdown wearing a new, non-curtains-y dress, which I guess means we've mercifully broken the borrowed mom items. I'm sad to see the formal tradition of "something old" (Max's age), "something new" (the ill-begotten chalk marks on Max's driver's license where he tries to convince the remaining nine of us that he's still in high school), "something borrowed" (the time that this show is living on) and "something blue" (I don't know, Max's varicose veins?) didn't make it, but I am pleased to see that the passing down of the wedding dress may span numerous generations but did not bridge two whole episodes. At the bottom of the steps, Isabel runs into Kyle, who asks her in a panic, "What are you doing? You didn't tell them?" Isabel snaps back that he can tell them his darn self, but he'll have to wait until she's gone. Kyle shows even more concern, following up, "Isn't this guy, like, an alien killer or?" Isabel snaps that she only gets "one honeymoon," and that her interstellar, velvet-collared, Celine-Dion-video-conjuring lover we met last week isn't going to ruin that for her. Kyle tries to reason with her, but his giant pink corsage and what appears to be actually declining height make him vaudeville-ishly difficult to take seriously: "Isabel, I'm all for denial as a way of life, but you can't just run away from this one." Isabel pauses for a moment, before shooting back an impassioned "Yes, I can" and taking her leave of the kitchen.
Michael takes his drippy (ha! See what I did there, with the washing-dishes subplot?) subplot about dishes into the kitchen, asking Kyle if he wants to "wash or dry." As opposed to Max's "you really have to try both ways before you're completely sure which one you're more comfortable with" response, which I'm sure scared Michael into the kitchen to begin with, Kyle stares angrily after Isabel and mutters, "I can't believe she didn't tell you." Michael calls out, "Tell me what?" before taking the dishes deeper inside the diner. Silly man! Dishes are supposed to be found, collected, and harvested outside! Haven't we learned that those little saucers need lots of sunshine and fresh air or they'll never grow into full-sized plates? Oh, and if that damn huge carnation on Kyle's diminutive lapel doesn't spray water into at least one person's face to hilarious comic effect really soon, Spencer Gifts can kiss their corporate branding tie-in goodbye.
The Ramirez party of two takes off, the parents and friends yelling, "Ruzzah ruzzah blah blah bye George and Emily" after them and establishing through the line "Have a good time in La Jolla!" that they are, in fact, having their honeymoon in La Jolla. Hugs are exchanged, and Bangs calls out a plaintive "We'll miss you!" This comment actually stops Isabel where she stands, because the script quite explicitly expresses that it must, and she turns from the door and tells her mother, "Mom, it's a week! I'll call." Which is basically the Roswell foreshadowing equivalent of a horror movie's "I'll be right back." Max and Bangs stand together, sharing a moment of understanding when Bangs notes sadly, "Everything's different now," and Max rivets us anew with his studied response, "Yeah. It is." Wow. He talks the way actual people talk. It's so natural. Those two were born exactly nine minutes apart.
Kitchen. Again. Kyle stews shortly until Michael and Max enter to hear Kyle rant, "I can't believe she didn't tell you. About Khivar." Max and Michael exchange worried glances, and Kyle asks even more bitterly, "What, did I say his name wrong?" Heh. The one good line makes all the bad lines look so, so very much worse. Kyle continues on that Khivar was dancing with Isabel, and that he looks like "a human." Michael: Worried. Max: Furtive. Me: Dammit, my plane is practically taxiing right now and we're still hanging out before the opening credits here.
Opening credits: Hey, Ringo? I thought I told you to tell that bitch to chill.
Crashdown. Liz, Maria, Max, Michael, and Kyle sit around a video camera and watch the wedding they attended six minutes earlier. They watch as Khivar khuts in on Michael, and they freeze the frame at Isabel's you-are-the-star-of-my-liquid-dreams moment of recognition. Michael asks, "How can that be him?" as Maria makes an "ooh la la" face that indicates she'll be seeing him in her own Celine Dreams shortly. Michael gives her a jealous glance, and she retorts with an "I'm just sayin'" shout-out to the MBTV community at large. Kyle inquires of the group, "Now, the way I see it, most people watching this show are doing so on a dare. What quickie backstory can you offer these media bottomfeeders?" He may have phrased it somewhat more elegantly, but Max obliges in answering my exact question regardless: "In our other life, Khivar was our enemy. He was trying to take over my throne. Isabel fell in love with him and helped him overtake us. It was a bloodbath. We were all killed, including Isabel." Kyle glares down at Max, silently begging him to put down his ninety-sided Dungeons & Dragons die and just tell the freakin' story, but Max keeps the dork-o-babble knob turned way, way up to eleven: "Our genetic material was mixed with human DNA, and we were sent here." Kyle tries to lighten the mood by asking, "Nothing's ever simple with you people, is it?" Fleh. I'm not any more endeared to a script when the writer starts to make fun of himself just for realizing how much it sucks. Note to "David" "Simkins" and his challenged sense of self-parody. Max and Michael believe there is only one solution; they have to go to La Jolla. Michael waves a hand over what appears to be some "past due" bills ('cause he's a slacker, see), turning them into two first-class tickets to La Jolla. I won't even go into a rant about how many plotlines in show history could have been rendered totally moot with the simple waving of a hand we just saw. If they can turn bills into plane tickets, why not turn an ugly wedding dress into a pretty wedding dress? Why not turn those bills into cash with which to pay those bills? How about if they can turn ketchup into mustard, why on earth not turn blood into a different kind of blood? Oh, damn. I've gone and given the speech again, haven't I? Anyway, they're going to La Jolla. To khill Khivar. 'Til he khant be khilled no more.
“ He carries her over a threshold into the ugliest, most discolored Honeymoon Suite committed to celluloid since Superman and Lois stayed in that room where you could start your own fire by pulling down on the giant rope. And that room was just kidding. No one let this room in on the joke. ”
I know we're in La Jolla, California because of the MS Word Alien Bold subtitled announcement that we're in "La Jolla, California." A cab pulls up to a very Club Med-ish resort, and out jump a smiley Isabel and Jesse, free from care and obligation and, soon, pesky virginity. Thank goodness for vows. But not all is well at Khlub Khivar, for Isabel thinks she spies the scarlet-collared one kharrying a bag and walking just inches away from her. But a car pulls up between them, and when it passes, Isabel realizes that it wasn't Khivar at all. Tease me, Khivar! Tease us all, you teasy teaser! Jesse smarms up behind a distracted Isabel, all hands, and asks her if she's okay. She's "tired," which bodes well for the numerous non-sex-oriented activities one can enjoy on a honeymoon. Jesse, in the mood for love, suggests that they check in and "slip into something a little more married." I have no idea what that means, but I'm still calling for a planet-wide moratorium on the expression "slip into something" due to the high level of unsexyness it always inspires in me. It's got all of the sweet-talking cache of someone asking me if I wanted to "make whoopie." Which no one has done. But do feel free. I am home, with not a heck of a lot going on at the moment.
He carries her over a threshold into the ugliest, most discolored Honeymoon Suite committed to celluloid since Superman and Lois stayed in that room where you could start your own fire by pulling down on the giant rope. And that room was just kidding. No one let this room in on the joke. They just painted the door bright pink and hung up some curtains whose primary purpose would be to outfit the drapery-inclined Mrs. Evans, should she decide to marry again and needed to throw together something patterned and familiar and horrible in a hurry. They "ooh," and then they "aah," over the beauty of the room. Jesse takes six pointless minutes tipping the bellhop (oh my God, get on with it, show. If you have something to share that won't take an hour, avoid making an entire episode), and once they are alone, he throws her down on the bed and they smack smackily for another hour. Those two must have sixteen rows of teeth between them. It's creepy. Jesse asks Isabel if something is wrong, and then crawls behind her on the bed (now this is where things could get interesoh, no they couldn't) and gives her the "comforting guy" speech: "We're gonna be married for a long, long time. No reason to rush anything anymore. Everything's gonna be fine." They both smile too big again, and I forge both of their signatures on the back of my driver's license, just in case I ever need an emergency enamel transplant and Toothie-Dee and Toothie-Dum are the only ones out there who seem to have any left.
Crashdown, cover of broad daylight. Maria pours salt into saltshakers and eavesdrops as Monopoly Nazi Evans strolls in and sits down at the counter. He beckons Slackjaw over, and the two refer to each other as "Jeff" and "Philip," and I briefly think these are names they've adopted for each other because perhaps they're rehearsing a play or something. Anyway, Monopoly Nazi kicks it off: "I feel kind of funny about this, but can I speak to you about something?" Slackjaw assents. Monopoly Nazi clarifies, "In private?" Discreet men cavorting privately? Well, like father, like son. Slackjaw suggests, "Let's go in the back." Oh, la la. Like father's son's girlfriend's father, like son.