Aaron gave this episode a grade of
B
87 users have given this episode an average grade of
A-
So, yeah. It seems I owe the lovely Lauren Ambrose something of an apology. Now, to be fair, she actually also owes me one as well (two, in fact), but we'll get to that later in the recap. My point here is that I myself have been the subject of several (sadly non-silken) stalkings these past few days, and I'm beginning to see what life is like on the other end of the looking glass. Forgive me, Lauren. See, I always thought people knew this whole thing was just a big joke, but judging from the email I get, there's a significant number of you out there who really think I spend my free time lurking in the bushes outside her house or something. Which is stupid, and not just because the cheapness and easily availability of that X-10 spy camera makes actual physical lurking totally pass. Anyway, this whole experience has taught me two very valuable lessons: 1) No one deserves to live in fear, and 2) Mike Binder is STILL the most obnoxious, offensive, unfunny "comedian" in all of recorded history.
Mike Binder: Hey! I've got feelings too, you know.
Alan Ball: I don't think he cares.
Aaron: He's right. I don't care.
Mike Binder: Fine, but can you at least give me a clue as to what it was I said that pissed you off so much?
Aaron: Yeah. It's EVERYTHING you said.
Alan Ball: Ew. I'd forgotten about that Three Stooges thing.
As I type these very words, the University of Pittsburgh basketball team is demolishing Central Connecticut State in the NCAA tournament. So how does Master of Temporal Continuity Alan Ball elect to open his show? At a college football practice. I guess this is what we should expect from a show that gave us Christmas in August last year, Christmas in March this year, and a three-year-old with an E-Z Bake oven. Oh, well. At least HBO gets credit for running a timely Mathew St. Patrick interview this week. Anyway, the coach makes all the players do some big running drill, and we all know what happened to Korey Stringer, right? As the boys run back and forth, Alan Ball sneaks in some quick commentary about homophobia in organized sports by having The Potentially Dead White Guy call The Potentially Dead Black Guy a "faggot." There's some more quasi-competitive banter, but as soon as the drill is complete, Potentially Dead White Guy suddenly keels over and draws the attention of the medical staff and all his teammates. Of course, since no Six Feet Under show opener can be without a clever gimmick, this week's writer Laurence Andries now offers up his own commentary about racism in organized sports as Potentially Dead Black Guy stumbles into the foreground and dies absolutely unnoticed amongst the furor over the Fighting Whitey behind him. Farewell, Joshua Peter Langmead. The Bruins could have used you.
“ Oh, for God's sake, people. I had NFL sheets when I was a kid, and the closest I ever got to playing pro ball were the term papers I used to write for Donovan McNabb when I was at Syracuse. I'm just saying. ”
Fade up at Brenda's Brotherfucking Boudoir, where a shirtless and hirsute Peter Krause has joined Brenda in the kitchen. While he pulls on a t-shirt so that I'm no longer forced to avert my eyes, she flips through a magazine and freaks out about trying to decide what to serve at a dinner party celebrating the return of her mythic ex-boyfriend Trevor. When Nate points out that serving caviar in addition to foie gras and smoked salmon might make it look like she's trying too hard to impress, Brenda fills us in on the backstory so we know why she cares. Trevor was "a big part of [her] life once," his wife has since "won a fucking National Book Award," and it was Trevor's "masterly touch that ushered [Brenda] into womanhood." She also claims to no longer be depressed, and points out gleefully that she takes Nate completely for granted. And really, don't we all? Anyway, Nate doesn't seem too concerned, although he does threaten to go "all alpha-dog" and "kick [Trevor's] ass. Fucking Trevor. Fucking Trevor." Due to limitations in recap sound technology, you'll just have to imagine Nate employing his world-renowned HAL 9000 voice on that last "Fucking Trevor" part.
Kut to Kroehner, where the Original Fighting Whitey (Matt Gilardi) is arriving for work. Last season's abrasiveGrace Under FireGirl pulls up in her sweet silver Mercedes convertible, and we're quickly reminded that she's both his boss and a bitch. She's still pissed that he hasn't snapped up Fisher & Sons, and after entreating him to "play like [he's] got a big dick," she informs him that his end-of-the-year deadline to buy out our boys has been moved up, because "Christmas came early." And then she fires his sorry albino ass. You know, I did a lot of bitching last year about how pointless the whole Gilardi storyline really was, but it's now sorta sad to see him go so suddenly. "Mitzi, please!" he begs. "I can do this." "You know, just because I fucked you, that doesn't put us on a first-name basis," she replies. Boy, I know what that's like. Sars still makes me call her "Sars," for God's sake.
At the Formaldehyde Fortress, the brothers are also starting their day. David informs Nate about the DGDJ, but then heads off for a sales meeting in Torrance, leaving the newly-licensed Nate to handle the intake. "Do me a favor," says David. "Don't even mention the word 'cremation.'" ["That's my boy." -- Lazarus] "Okay," replies Nate. "Can I mention the word 'condescending'?" Heh. Later on, at the intake, the parents of The Now Actually Dead Black Guy are reminiscing about their lost son. "He even had NFL sheets," sobs the mother, as they go on and on about how all their son ever wanted was to play pro football. Oh, for God's sake, people. I had NFL sheets when I was a kid, and the closest I ever got to playing pro ball were the term papers I used to write for Donovan McNabb when I was at Syracuse. I'm just saying. Nate looks exceedingly uncomfortable through all this, which leads me to wonder if the AVM is somehow affecting his vaunted "gift" for handling these sorts of situations. He does, however, manage to sell them a $9,200 Titan IV casket, so at least he's still a better salesman than Rico.