Panacea

Fade up on a nondescript exterior establishing shot of a glass-and-chrome building that once held an impromptu Nelly Furtado concert when the building used to be in Las Cruces, I think. The building has now been re-designated "Meta-Chem Corporation, 11:29 PM," as we learn from the subtitle written in MS Word font Alien Bold Sans This Show's Future On This Network Or Any Other Please Oh God Please For The Love Of God In Heaven Already Bold. Inside the building, a wall's worth of video surveillance screens goes unmonitored, and we pass the surveillance equipment to discover Michael "Time To Call Your AgentWait, What Agent?" Guerin sound asleep on his security console deep inside Sector 7-G. One of his worker drone pals to whom we were introduced in "Michael, The Guys, And The Great Snapple Caper" -- and about whom we totally forget somewhere in the length of time it takes to fight through that episode's title -- hits Michael on the arm and rouses him from his drooling, bloated slumber. Michael looks up to discover "Lenny" or "Carl" or whoever attempting to balance a pen on his chin. Michael lazily asks, "You woke me up for that?" Lenny/Carl defends himself that he "had it a second ago," and I rewind the tape just to confirm that, in fact, Lenny/Carl never had this so-called "it" at all, ever, even for a second. Michael regards Lenny/Carl and whines, "Man, I miss those other guys. These two-man shifts are boring as hell." Lenny/Carl speaks as the Greek chorus for us all, soothsaying, "Harsh economic times." So everyone else has been fired? Didn't we spend, like, a whole episode a couple of weeks back watching Michael have a "One To Grow On" moment in trying to keep one of "The Guys" employed so he could pay for that surgery little Timmy has been needing? Where did they all go? Can't we make Michael go there with them?

Blah. Michael lifts a crusty Band-Aid off the knuckle of his right hand in close-up, courtesy of Crusty Band-Aid Cam. Lenny/Carl asks the second most important question ("What happened to your hand?"), while the rest of us shriek in frustration and go for the more obvious, "Why didn't you heal the tiny boo-boo yourself and, same question, subsection B, why would you even keep Band-Aids in the house if you could heal a flesh wound or maybe have some interstellar alien brother come over and do it the fuck for you?" But that continuity-laden logic would deny us of the remainder of this scene, so Michael answers the question with a simple, "Put it through a window." And why? "Maria issues." Lenny/Carl considers this for a moment, manfully responding, "No chick is worth it." Says the pen-balancing minimum wage security guard with no chin whose girlfriend prospects include "gathering up the courage to one day buy porn." But Michael agrees, and male bonding is rampant. Lenny/Carl then pauses a moment before awkwardly transitioning, "So, do you wanna hang out this weekend?" when what he clearly means is, "Will you please go somewhere this weekend and buy me some kind of porn." Michael looks all, "No, dork. Roll that ninety-sided Dungeons & Dragons die yourself," but agrees that he wouldn't mind taking advantage of Lenny/Carl when we learn that he has acquired a video game entitled, I think, "Madden 2002." They banter about games and gaming systems I don't understand. I haven't had a home game system since "Dig Dug" on the Commodore 64. Once I dared to use the words "Crash Bandicoot" in the presence of someone I respected, and they thought I was cursing them out in Bulgarian. Sorry, Grandma. It's just a video game, I think. Anyway, they make plans for the weekend to play Commodore 64. Because "Dig Dug" rules the world. And because, well, that confounded Carmen Sandiego could be anywhere.

Time for rounds. Michael and Lenny/Carl rise and exit the office for a thorough search of Sector 7-G. The room they vacated remains empty for exactly three-fourths of one second, before two people in full-on biohazard suits with those big scary Luke-I-am-your-plot-contrivance filtration masks enter the room and turn it upside-down. They open up briefcases of equipment and put everything left in the room -- hats, chips, crusty leftover Band-Aids (ew, Michael) -- into Ziplocs and vials and things. They're so scary, like when the bad men came to take back E.T. I always hated that scene. Thank goodness this one could come along and remind me of it.

Opening credits: Shut up, bitch.

Crash Bandicoot, I don't think we're in Roswell anymore. Stock footage of The First Chartered Bus In The History Of Earth (if you look really closely at that ancient, decrepit thing, you can always make out that its intended destination is "Prussia") accompanies some long-lost voice-over narration compliments of Liz "Time To Call Your Agent(310) 273-6700" Parker. And here is what it says: "Dear Maria: Spending a week on a cramped, smelly bus was one of the most liberating experiences of my entire life. The further away I got from Roswell, the more I felt like myself again." Like Shiri Appleby? Neglected and unemployed? "Like a normal teenager." Oh. "In fact, when I finally got to the Winnaman Academy, it was likecoming home." Dear Liz's Endless Internal Monologue: Wasn't this the very same hackneyed script convention that almost got your show canned in the first damn place? I can just see the "writers" sitting around the "Writer's" Room, brainstorming for ways to reinvigorate the action, listening in rapt attention as Jason Katims stands up, indicates the glowing light bulb shimmering just above his head, and quietly but intensely intones, "I know the way to save this show! We'llwe'll make the whole thing epistolary! It's the literary wave of the future! Why, look at how many copies of Howards End have been sold!" The "writers" ponder whether there are any staff positions left open on As If as a way to stifle their otherwise incessant sobbing.

Accompanying said narration, Liz carries a suitcase made up of a poly-blend of "every gaudy couch cushion in the greater Boca Raton area" up the stairs of Chilton -- er, "The Winnaman Academy." Catholic school girls in plaid uniforms (oh, hello, absent male audiencewelcome back, temporarily) carrying textbooks entitled I Was A Teenage Gilbert Gottfried USA Up All Night Movie Clich walk past Liz. Liz walks up the stairs of the main building and places the letter she was just writing to Maria in the mailbox. Even though she's mailing a letter describing the feelings she's experiencing right now, which means she was writing the letter before she was to be experiencing those feelings for the first time. She smiles a shiny-haired smile. Awwwww.

Liz is easily able to impress people in positions of authority who sit behind desks and judge silently. Last week it was when she got herself into Harvard by being all, "Me Liz like book," and this week it's when she responds to the initially imposing "Dean Hackett's" speech about "strict rules here at Winnaman" with a deadpan, "That's exactly what I want right now." Liz walks through the hallways of Winnaman, hearing what those rules are: "Curfew is at nine, no boys allowed on campus. There will be no smoking, no drinking, and drugs will not be tolerated." There's one quick, artsy shot of floor upon floor of staircases looming above Liz's head, but the "director" quickly thinks better of it and returns to the safety of pointing one camera directly at Liz and hoping that she can somehow make it from one end of the hallway to the other without tripping or quitting or forgetting she has legs. Such a natural, this one is.

Knock knock knock. The door opens at Room 19, and Liz informs the initially-tough-but-I-think-when-we-bond-we-can-be-just-best-friends-and-I-mean-best-friends-in-the-whole-wide-world (of course, I'm just guessing, here) girl on the other side, "I think this is supposed to be my room." Blondie With Roots tiredly replies, "You think?" And so, Liz thinks. Roots knew that her single "was too good to last." Liz tries to remain upbeat, asking, "Are you Eileen Burroughs?" She tries to confirm that that is, in fact, her name, but I think you and I know for sure that her real name is Chrissy Seaver, lovable afro-ed shark jumper from the waning twelve minutes of Growing Pains. As a refresher to those of you who were born after 1980, here's the recap-within-a-recap to get us all up to speed: Growing Pains, starring Alan Thicke, was the greatest sitcom in the history of television and was in no way at all a shameless and wholesale rip-off of Family Ties. It chronicled the life and times of the Seaver family, a perfect nuclear family unit from Long Island who may have had some problems, but nothing so earth-shattering that it couldn't be nailed down with some words of encouragement from Dad in approximately twenty-three minutes' time. That is, however, until adorable tyke Jeremy Miller, who played adorable tyke Ben Seaver, went through a sudden and willful puberty -- featuring large glasses, a chronic and untamable mullet, and an endemically greasy condition that popped up pretty much anywhere that bodily grease simply wasn't expected to go -- that never quite ended. Panicked, the producers went back to their Adorable Tyke Gene-Splicing Vault and plucked from it runaway vagrant Luke (played by a young Leonardo DiCaprio) and a Ronald-McDonald-haired baby girl named Chrissy. The show got axed, Ben got greasier, Leo dated supermodels and then snack food, Alan Thicke wrote and performed the theme song to Animal Crack-Ups, and Chrissywell, here she is again. Which is perhaps part of her apprehension upon opening the door to Liz for the first time, what with her staring over Liz's shoulder and registering a look of, "Oh, my God! What the hell is THAT? Oh, wait. It's just a camera. Haven't been in front of one of those in a while."

But Chrissy remains pissy. She steps aside for Liz to enter the room and sighs deeply, "I'm the welcoming committee." Ah, come on, Chrissy. Show me that smile again. Don't waste another minute on your crying. Liz apologetically asks, "They didn't tell you I was coming?" But she drops her inflection at the end of the sentence, because she's very European, suddenly. Chrissy says "they" did not, sitting on her bed and taking out a cigarette and an ashtray because she's a bad girl, people. Not that she's not up for oh-we'll-bond-eventually-and-become-best-best-friends small talk: "So, Elizabeth. What should I call you?" Liz reaches for the power of her shiny, shiny hair to show her the way, and she comes up with the answer: "Beth. I go by Beth." Which is so weird, because when I moved across the country for a change of pace, I told everyone that I go by "Iel." And suddenly people thought I was frickin' awesome. Chrissy asks where Beth is from, and Beth responds, "California. Not too far from Disneyland." Boo, Anaheim. Booooooo. But Chrissy sincerely responds, "Lucky you." Because it totally fits her character to be wowed by cheesy theme parks, as if her parents were finally like, "We're sending you to boarding school. You smoke, you drink, you carouse with boys. You're on a Mr. Toad's Wild Ride we can't get you off of!" Or something. Asking all the right questions, Chrissy continues the inquiry with, "You leave a boyfriend back there?" No. No, she didn't. "Lesbian?" Yeah, this is pretty much exactly how people talk to each other in high school. Liz apologizes, but Chrissy is all, "No, I wasn't asking for a date. I mean, there are plenty of girls who dabble with the wholething" Hmmmm. If I promise not to register comment on one word of this pointless tangent, does it make it possible that it never really happened? There's a pause in the action (called Roswell), and Chrissy asks Beth if the smoking makes her uncomfortable. Liz says it does, which seems like the perfect cue for the dean to knock on the door and for ensuing wacky hijinks to ensue. It's exactly like that scene in Magnolia where John C. Reilly meets Melora Walters for the first time, except that in this sequence there's no Aimee Mann, drama, or viewers. Because she's not at all into the whole "dabblink" thing, Liz rips off her shirt in a frenzy and screams that she's "changing her clothes." Chrissy makes with the air freshener and Liz lights a candle, tearing open the door to find the dean asking, "Do I smell smoke?" Liz claims, "I lit a candle." Which smells as much like cigarette smoke as it does like fabric softener, not to mention the fact that candles don't quite yield the same quantities of billowy, well, smoke as smoking. And also because said dean has never seen this exact kind of ruse before in her tenure as Clichd Stern Authority Figure With The Heart Of Gold. She has forms for Liz to fill out. She leaves. The scene ends. Chrissy is late for lunch with Tracey Gold.

Michael and Lenny/Carl fight about whose hair is greasier. Or video games. I don't know. They are interrupted by a totally inoffensive beeping sound that means a "breach" in the building. On the surveillance cameras appearsnothing, I think? Michael tells Lenny/Carl to call the police while he goes and "secures the area." He walks down to an emergency exit and shines a flashlight, reporting into his Fisher-Price walkie-talkie, "This exit is secure; I don't see anyone." But there's a window broken in the door. Michael notes something on the floor and leans down to pick it up just as all the lights go out. Through his walkie-talkie, Michael hears Lenny/Carl call out, "Stop! Don't move!" And then gunshots. Michael runs back down the hallway to find Lenny/Carl lying on the floor in a pool of blood. Michael runs to comfort him as Lenny/Carl threatens to break into a rousing chorus of "A Little Fall of Rain" before Michael breaks down at Lenny/Carl's glorified demise.

And then, with no advance warning, like a bat out of southern California, Morgan Fairchild was on Roswell, the poor thing. Sitting in a conference room with two incidental heavies and Michael, Morgan wears a vintage Falcon Crest suit she spent years trying to auction on eBay and, failing to do so, had to wear during a cameo guest-starring role on Roswell, a cruel final irony. Morgan asks Michael, "Now what happened immediately after the alarm was tripped?" Michael attempts to let her know that they "found a breach," but his voice is so overcome with emotion that it becomes more detached and monotone than usual. I know. I didn't think that was possible, either. And neither did Morgan. She elicits details of the untimely demise of Lenny/Carl, even though we saw her nine seconds before it happened, so we already know she is in some way completely responsible. Morgan tells Michael that she has enough information and that he's free to go. Michael asks, "Don't the police want to talk to me?" Because if Michael's character has garnered trust in one branch of authority lo these past three years, it's law enforcement. Morgan's agent's number is (310) 273-0744. You need a pen? Yeah, sure. I'll hold.

Knock knock knock. Michael is over at The Den Of Porno, where Kyle "His Agent Will Get In Touch With Him, Thanks" Valenti opens the door and tries to express sympathies that go ignored. Short people and their unrequited kindnesses. Y'know? Michael marches over to a seated Porno and begins bellowing, "I need your advice. I'm trying to catch the guy who killed my friend." Porno was clever enough to avoid watching the last scene, regurgitating, "Aren't the police investigating?" Michael rants that "that's the problem. I'm the only eyewitness and Meta-Chem doesn't want me talking to the cops." Michael tells us for the first time that he caught a glimpse of the killer but that it was dark. Michael's only vague recollection is that the assailant was "kind of tall, I guess." Just at this moment, Kyle walks over and leans over the back of the couch, secure in the fact that this simple description at least gets him off the hook for the crime. Porno asks after video surveillance, but Michael notes that "the power went out and the cameras shut down." Because he has a season-long quota for the total amount of spoken lines he's assured of, I guess, Kyle pipes in with a surprisingly colorless, "Doesn't sound like there's a lot to go on." Porno offers to help. Everyone seems sad and concerned. But no one seems mindful of Liz's absence.