There are many benefits to having a name that starts with a double A, not least of which is the guarantee that you'll always be first on the list when people go alphabetically. Perhaps that's why we've managed to produce so many great historical figures over the years. After all, Aarons have counseled Biblical figures, dueled with authors of The Federalist Papers, led the major leagues in home runs, and currently anchor a major network news show. Of course, we've also produced the occasional talentless hack, and at least one bong monkey, but I suppose that was bound to happen eventually. Note to Aaron Sorkin: Your show sucks now, and mocking the only people who are willing to tell you the truth about that only makes you look like an even bigger tool than we already knew you were. Goddamn, but that guy makes me mad! Maybe I should just go off and be alone for a while so I can calm down.
Whew. I feel better now. And hey, speaking of being alone (which we'll be doing a lot this week), our episode opens with a lonely lady returning from work to the house she lives in by herself. We see her doing laundry, checking the mail, and sitting down to a solitary dinner with nothing but a crossword puzzle and a news broadcast meta-joke about Warner Brothers' box office revenues to keep her company. And before you can even say, "I totally called this one!" she's quickly choking on a piece of chicken and frantically pounding on her chest to expel it. She struggles to her feet and staggers away to die off-screen (presumably because that's more noble), and then we fade to white. Farewell, Emily Previn. You've taught us all to chew our food more thoroughly. But then before you can say, "What, no gimmick this week?" we fade right back up on Emily's ant-infested corpse as she's discovered a week later by her neighbor. Am I the only one who's starting to think of these openings as a really twisted version of the weekly Simpsons couch gag? Yeah. That's what I thought.
Incidentally, I'll just mention here that I take it as a point of personal pride that Mike Binder is the only HBO "star" to have been conspicuously absent from every single one of these new "Always On Sunday" promos they've been running before each episode. That's not quite as good as it would be if America Undercover were to broadcast the man's gruesome state-sponsored execution live and in color, but it's definitely a start. I'm mailing Chris Albrecht a thank-you note in the morning.
The episode proper begins with Nate relaxing on Brenda's tub and breathing heavily. Ew. Not like that. In fact, instead of launching into a rousing second chorus of the Divinyls "I Touch Myself," he actually just pops a couple of his anti-seizure pills, leaving me to suddenly wonder if Seattle really did rub off, and now he's going to be having Dark Angel-style seizures every week. Somebody get this man a turkey sandwich. And also make sure he chews it properly. Anyway, Nate moves out to the kitchen, where he's shocked to discover that Brenda is considering writing a book. "So, what?" he asks. "You're just going to sit down today and start writing?" "Yeah," replies Brenda. "I think that's how it's done. Oh, except for Hemingway. He stood." Personally, I like to crouch. It's better for your glutes. Nate expresses some reservations about her ability to finish such a big project, and I kinda have to agree. Brenda should start small, and work her way up. Maybe she could try recapping first. I can only imagine her take on this show: "People die, then I get eaten out, and then we talk some more about what it all means. Marry me, Nate." Come to think of it, maybe she should just stick to shiatsu. Eventually Nate comes around to the idea, mainly because Brenda wants to write fiction, and he's always wanted to be "thinly veiled." Oy. There's a body-hair joke in there somewhere, but I just can't find it right now. Oh, well. Brenda being Brenda, she offers to include him in the story only if he "ever does anything interesting."
Aaron from TWoP: Good afternoon. I'd like to welcome you all to the eleventh annual assembly of AA(AAAA)AAAoA -- The Astonishingly Awesome (And Also Always Alliterative) All-American Association of Aarons.
Aaron Tippin: Yeah. We really need to get a better name, y'all.
Aaron The Narcoleptic Doppelganger: I know. But what are you gonna [zzzzzzzzz].
Hank Aaron: How about the "'ammerin Aarons?"
Aaron Spelling: Or maybe "Aaron's Angels"?
Aaron from TWoP: Ahem. Can we just stick to the agenda, please? Good. I'd like to begin by extending a warm Aaronic greeting to our newest members, Aarons Eckhart, Neville, Carter, Copland, and Sele.
Elvis Aron Presley: I still don't understand why we can't have that Brockovich chick with the hooters.
Aaron from The Bible: Dude, Elvis, we've been over this. That way lies madness. And also misspellings.
School. Claire and DangerSlut are in the library, and what do you know? They're discussing hairy men. "Do you think the hair on Mr. Peterson's forearms is sexy?" asks DangerSlut. "Or is it too unkempt? Sometimes it gets all tufty." Heh. Peter Krause might want to check his dressing room for peepholes. Claire, perhaps trying to block out the unbidden mental image of her shirtless brother, refuses to be goaded into a response; she's busy studying for the SATs. "I am like four hundred times smarter than you," she reminds us all. "Why aren't you panicking more about this test than I am?" DangerSlut remains nonchalant, saying that she's taken a bunch of practice tests and that her mom's "life coach" is advising her. "Your mom's 'life coach'?" inquires an incredulous Claire. "Do you have any idea what a parody of yourself you are?" Marry me, Lauren. Now. The scene continues, with DangerSlut explaining that every year she compiles a statistical rating of the "fuckability" of the school's male faculty. I actually do the same thing with the TWoP staff every now and then, and after using several spreadsheets, a few recursive algorithms, and a scientific calculator, I've been able to determine that my score is actually a negative number. No wonder I'm so alone in the world. Claire checks out Parker's chart, and immediately notices that George I'mtoosexyforthis came in way down at number twenty-two. So, of course, George chooses just this moment to stop by and say howdy. After he moves on, DangerSlut leers at his ass for a while, and then declares, "I could fuck [George], easy." "Easy" being the operative word, of course.
Das Sargzimmer. David exposits the backstory on the DGDJ to Nate, and hands over her "pre-need" form, in which she's laid out all of the specifications for her funeral service. Nate seems a bit taken aback that the woman died alone, but he's relieved to note that she had a sense of humor when he sees that she's chosen the song "And I Am Telling You I'm Not Going" to be played at the viewing. My sense of humor kicks in when David explains that the music is from Dreamgirls, and then breaks into song. Heh. Nate eyes him warily (or at least he would have if the director hadn't cut the top of his head out of the shot), especially when David gets to the line about "the best man I've ever known." At this point I was hopeful that this would be the week's only musical number, but alas, it wasn't meant to be. Nate meanwhile remains weirded out by the idea of planning his own funeral in advance. "I had fun doing mine," answers a near-giggly David. I just bet he did. David's idea of fun frightens me.
And much like Michael C. Hall's show tune renditions (thanks, harper!), the siren song of product placement remains all too alluring for AOL Time Warner to pass up. So, after the obligatory lingering shot of the Apple logo on the back of her PowerBook, we now see Brenda struggling with the demons of writer's block. The blank page and flashing cursor mock her subtly (and the viewers as well, since we're all scared that Sarah Jessica Parker is going to appear and attempt to sum up the entire episode with a pithy question and a questionable pun), and she bangs on the delete key in frustration. Suddenly, the screen is filled with a number of spooky, pointed missives, including "All you ever do is observe yourself," and "You're incapable of doing anything real." Unfortunately, while the audience is supposed to be sympathizing with Brenda and remembering her psychotic brother and the depressing voices that HE heard, I've only got one thought in my mind, and I think you all know what it is:
All work and no play makes Brenda a dull girl.
All work and no play makes Brenda a dull girl.
All work and no play makes Brenda a dull girl.
All work and no play makes Brenda a dull girl.
All work and no play makes Brenda a dull girl.
Over in George's office, Claire is running down her school schedule and complaining that the SATs are sucking up all her time. George just stares at her with a stupid grin and congratulates her for "nurturing herself." Claire rants a bit, and then describes the SATs as being like "this nasty fluorescent light. The kind that shows all your pockmarks and tiny scars you wish you could hide." Apparently it also reveals a lot of the bad dialogue you wish you could hide, but that's a different story. And besides, I rocked the SATs, so I don't really know what she's worried about. In fact, my single greatest accomplishment in life was scoring higher on the verbal than Sars did. And I will NEVER let her forget it. George thinks it's great that Claire is finally "coming into [her] own," and the director provides us with a lingering, smarmy close-up of him that's supposed to indicate sexual tension, but instead ends up making me think that this guy's eyebrows would be right at home adorning Peter Krause's chest.
The Formaldehyde Fortress. Ruth is cooking dinner and constructobabbling that David doesn't need to apologize for telling her to shut the fuck up last week. "If you live in a neighborhood for a long time," she says, "and somebody moves in and renovates the house across the street, that can just make you feel your own house is shabby." "I see," replies David. "Did you just insult me?" Heh. Also, what happens if somebody burns down the house across the street? Not that I'm suggesting someone should light Ruth on fire, of course, but it is sort of the obvious question. There's more constructobabble, and then Claire enters, which prompts David to explain that he's got a hot date that night. And is Nate's turn, as he walks in and explains that he's having problems putting together the DGDJ's funeral. Apparently, she had no friends and no close family, and the only person Nate could get in touch with has a "phobia about going to funerals." "Some people are so sick," replies David, before suggesting that Nate try calling her job. Unfortunately, he already did, and discovered that she was a temp who never worked for long in the same place. Well, at least it's good to know that she's continuing last week's theme of people who live above their means. I mean, there's no way in hell that a temp could afford that woman's house.
Anyway, Ruth is saddened to learn that the DGDJ died alone, and David continues making suggestions, this time opining that "everyone has friends from high school." "No they don't," interjects Claire. "Maybe they have people they talk to or even do things with, but they're not friends. They're just filler." Everyone stares at her. "What?" she snarks. "It's true." Actually, no it isn't. And while we do all get the irony of Claire the high school student pontificating on this subject, the reality is so far from being accurate that the entire point is undermined. Virtually all of my friends these days are high school friends. Hell, one of them even still posts in the forums. Hi, Myn! Hey, remember tenth grade, when I pushed you into that bucket? Yeah. Those were good times. Ruth walks out of the room to set up Claire's line, uh, I mean, "get a glass of wine," and Claire quickly inquires as to whether or not Nate is feeling fine. He says he is (not very believably), and his siblings sort of shrug and take him at his word. Ruth returns just in time to hear David lay out a little gem. "Maybe Emily Previn was autistic," he explains. "I read an article once about a high-functioning autistic person who didn't need people. She just had a job designing these big cattle slaughterhouses and at night, she came home and sat in this little machine that made her feel like she was being hugged. That's all the intimacy she needed." "That's really upsetting," replies Nate, which is funny in and of itself, but I actually missed it the first three times because I was busy laughing at David's hand gestures on the "hugging machine" part. Claire, however, fails to see the humor in the situation. "I don't see why this person has to be mentally ill just because she didn't have a life that conforms to some familiar image in our heads. I mean, maybe she was living the life she wanted. A life without the hassle of other people." Sing it, sister! Other people suck. Ruth does one of her patented screechy flip-outs, and the scene is over.
Cut to Hal's Bar & Grill, where David is having coffee with some nice boy he met in church. The guy is apparently a lawyer of some sort, since the scene opens with the tail-end of the punch line to a legal joke. David exposits that his date is a public defender, and then cracks a legal "joke" of his own by saying that he could only be a "some-of-the-public defender." When asked what he does for a living, David stammers for a moment before claiming that he's in "textiles." "Oh," answers the date. "Well, I like fabric." Oy. This is worse than most of my dates. I've also decided to dub this guy the Little White Sex Dork to assuage the concerns of those of you who continue to feel I'm being racist by pointing out that Keith is black. And big. And a cop. Who has sex. Anyway, the Little White Sex Dork has to leave because he has work in the morning, and David instantly assumes he's being blown off. After some awkwardness, however, it's established that the LWSD actually is interested, and only appears calm and unfeeling because he took a beta-blocker prior to their meeting. "Do you have any extra?" asks David. Heh. LWSD suggests that they go on a real date sometime, and then asks if David is coming out of a bad relationship. "No, I'm coming out of a bad celibacy," answers David, before explaining that he was in a relationship that ended a while back. "Well, whatever happened, I blame him," says the Little White Sex Dork. "Don't," says David. "He's a great guy."
And cue the Ironic Segue Fairy, who cuts us straight into a close-up of Angry Keith, yelling at Taylor to go to sleep. She snots, he snorts, and eventually he gets her into bed. Incidentally, her pink radio pillow is really, really cute. When Taylor complains that she's not tired, Keith suggests that she spend the night lying awake "for hours and hours, wondering why life is so hard. That's what the rest of us do." Except, apparently, for me. I tend to lie awake for hours and hours trying to come up with phrases that include the word "dead" that also serve as a metaphor for the current week's episode. I've really got to get out more often. As his anger dissipates, Keith comes over to sit beside her on the bed. He offers to talk to her about anything that might be on her mind, but Taylor doesn't want to. He also suggests that they go easier on each other in the future, which prompts her to complain about the quality of toothpaste at his apartment. Whatever. At least that's the last of Taylor this week. Out in the living room, Keith joins Eddie on the sofa and complains that raising a child is more difficult that he thought it would be. That's totally why I'm sticking with my well-thought-out plan to just adopt a twenty-one-year-old someday. That way, I'll have someone to take care of me in my old age, but without all the pesky whining, borrowing of the car, or college tuition payments. It's foolproof, I tell you. Incidentally, are there any takers out there? Anyway, Eddie couldn't care less about Taylor, and he tries to cheer Keith up by licking his neck for a while. "I'm not in the mood," bitches Keith, pushing him away.
Back at the Formaldehyde Fortress, Ruth is cleaning her kitchen. But then The Tinkly Piano Of Personal Growth starts playing in the background, and she finds herself wandering through a completely empty version of the Fortress. She ends up in the sun room, and sees herself sleeping on the couch there. I guess this is supposed to be a dream sequence of some sort, but since The Round Mahogany Table Of Dramatic Life Revelations is clearly missing from background of the shot, I can't take it too seriously. Eventually, Ruth wakes up, presumably to go check on her foundations or some such.
Cut to the Brotherfucking Boudoir, where Brenda is still having trouble starting her novel. Perhaps she'd be a more effective writer if she weren't constantly holding her laptop with an eye towards making the Apple logo clearly visible to the camera. I'm just saying. Finally she gives up, and places a call to the hooker/massage client we met last week. Brenda invites herself out to lunch with the girl, despite the fact that it crosses "all these client/masseuse boundaries." Hmm. I thought the only client/masseuse boundary was the edge of the towel. Except on Mind of the Married Man, of course. That show had no fucking boundaries.
Down in the Body Shop, Rico is reviewing the DGDJ. StC = 1,397 this week, which is a reasonably respectable score. What's not respectable, however, is the odor apparently coming off the body. In fact, Nate is almost knocked over by it when he comes in. In a fairly transparent attempt to make up for the fact that he had nothing at all to do last week, Rico now gets to be all excited and MacGyver-ish about the possibilities for restoration. Nate, meanwhile, can't handle the stench. "I have no idea why I came in here," he says, giving up on his search of the desk. "Maybe you have Alzheimer's," offers Rico. "Yeah, and maybe you and everyone else should stop making thinly veiled references to my brain disease!" shouts back Nate. Well, no, not really, but I'd totally understand it if he did. Rico is concerned that he might not be able to restore her enough for an open casket, especially if there's any "skin slippage." Whew. I'm sure glad Jessica was watching thatotherSunday night show. We all know how she feels about skin showers. Nate just can't let go of the fact that this woman died alone. "Maybe she was just some vicious asshole, you know? Just twisted and evil, and that's why she didn't have anyone in her life." Rico, however, just wants to psychobabble. Shut up, Rico.
Down at the school, Claire is registering for the SATs. Suddenly "Parker McKenna" (a.k.a. DangerSlut) shows up, only she's now a much thinner brunette who wears glasses. Claire is utterly shocked that DangerSlut decided to bring in a ringer, and while she's speechless, I'll just applaud the writing staff for their subtle and well-researched "extra number two pencil" reference to some of the more famous SAT cheating scandals.
Meanwhile, Brenda is at lunch with her new hooker friend, whom I've finally recognized as "Ensign Scrunchieface" from the only episode of Enterprise I've ever actually watched. ["She was also a recurring season-one baddie on C.S.I." -- Sars] There's an unconscionable amount of psychobabble in this scene (not to mention some excessive dadaism), most of it coming in the form of a monologue from Brenda about how she and Nate have drifted apart. The highlight? Brenda pointing out that "it's so sad that you can love somebody so much, and have absolutely no idea what's going on in their head." Oh, for Christ's sake! It's enough already! Yes, Nate has something in his head! We! Get! It! Is AVM caused by anvils, by any chance? Brenda and Hooker Scrunchieface bond over the fact that relationships suck, and then Brenda makes a faux pas by asking if that's why she "blows guys for money." Scrunchieface rationalizes her career choice for a bit, and then decides not to respond to a client's page because she doesn't want to deal with traffic. She also explains that most girls only want to be her friend so that they can "pump her" for all the gory details about being a hooker. Judging from the way Brenda's been fiddling with her wine glass this whole time, I'm not really sure that's the sort of "pumping" she had in mind.
Over at the Fortress, Nate is holding up various dresses so that David can help choose which one to bury the DGDJ in. When he models a particularly nasty pink number, David tells him, "That one makes you look fat." Heh. They finally settle on the blue dress, because it's falling apart and David wants to get rid of it. This doesn't sit well at all with Ruth, who was dusting the casket wall in the room. She reminds that if the DGDJ specified that she was to be buried in her own clothes (which she did), then one of the boys should go over to her house and pick something out. David remembers The Late Nate doing that sort of thing occasionally, so the Live Nate agrees to head over and get something "dressy." Ruth invites herself along as well, much to Nate's chagrin.
More hooker talk. Scrunchieface goes on at length about how she has to trust her instincts when dealing with potentially dangerous clients. She claims to be able to tell everything she needs to know about a person just from looking into their eyes. Of course, she's looking into Brenda's eyes while she says this, and she hasn't run away screaming in fear of being bored to death, so maybe that sixth sense of hers isn't working quite as well as it should. Especially when you consider that she's practically the only person on the show who DOESN'T see dead people. Brenda is ecstatic that there's "no bullshit" about Scrunchieface, but is then disappointed a bit when Scrunchie demystifies her career as a prostitute by calling it "just a way to pay the bills."
At the DGDJ's house, the landlord is apologizing for not being able to attend the funeral. Nate desperately tries to convince him to come, to no avail. Meanwhile, Ruth is already going through the poor woman's belongings. This is why I want to be cremated.
Out on the streets, Keith and his partner (his cop partner, that is) are discussing Taylor and Eddie. The "joke" here is that two manly cops are discussing child-rearing and relationship issues like they're about to sit down for a latte and a conversation about that "not so fresh" feeling. The partner relates a story that explains why keeping all your anger bottled up inside isn't a good thing: "My wife's cousin was a very angry person, but she never showed it. She just cleaned all day and then she lost both her breasts. It's weird." I'll say. At least Keith doesn't have to worry about that. For any number of reasons, in fact. This pleasant conversation is interrupted by the arrival of a pair of bickering junkies. Girl Junkie screams at Boy Junkie for being worthless, and then Boy Junkie pulls out a pistol and starts threatening her. Our hero cops spring into action at this point, drawing their own weapons and yelling for Boy Junkie to put the gun down. There's more screaming (and some spitting), but when Boy Junkie turns to face the cops, gun still in hand, Keith drops him with a single shot to the chest. Dun dun duh!
Leaving the scene of the crime for a moment, we cut over to DGDJ's house, where Ruth is having trouble picking out an outfit for her. "All of these seem so flat," she says, in her cardigan and Mary Janes. "I wish one had more oomph." Nate's cell phone rings, and it's a church somewhere calling to let him know that the priest the DGDJ requested for the service is unavailable. "Oh, great," he says. "I'm fucked." A shocked glare from Ruth prompts an immediate apology. "I'm sorry, Sister." Heh. Ruth continues looking through the deceased's personal possessions, finding both earrings and shoes that look like something she herself would wear. She also checks out the fridge (prompting Nate to ask if she's hungry), and wonders just how lonely the woman really was. If you haven't figured out this episode's Very Special Lesson about solitude by now, my explaining it any further isn't going to help, so let's just move on.
As the Dead Junkie is loaded onto an ambulance, Keith's partner tries to comfort him, pointing out that the shooting was justified. Meanwhile (or, actually, several hours later, based on the fact that it's now dark outside), David is on his date with the Little White Sex Dork. LWSD has decided to forgo wearing his glasses for the evening, because it's "all [his] glasses' fault" that he didn't look good for their date. Again, I beg to disagree. Chicks with glasses are sexy. "This is me without beta-blockers," says the LWSD, moving in for a kiss. David stops him by making the startling confession that he's actually a funeral director. "Well, I have to say I'm glad you're not in textiles," replies the Little White Sex Dork. "That sounded really boring." David explains that he didn't tell the truth earlier because he didn't want the LWSD to be "repulsed." He also mentions that most people only "wait about five seconds before bringing the conversation around to necrophilia." For the record, I want credit for not having mentioned necrophilia even once during the first season. Does this mean David and I would make a good couple? Hmm. And then this is where my long-running love affair with all things TiVo hits a slight snag, as my screen goes fuzzy and skips the few seconds. So I have no idea what happens here, and I'm a bad, bad recapper for not having also taped one of the other eight million weekly showings to find out what I missed. Sorry. ["I think they bantered some more and then made out." -- Sars] I'm also, incidentally, a bad, bad recapper for promising you a contest this week, when it looks like I won't be able to deliver. Stay tuned, however, as things may change in the near future. And that's all I have to say about that.
When my picture comes back, DangerSlut and her black leather pants are complaining to Claire about having been blown off. She also claims that hiring a test-taker was her mother's idea, and that the girl she used got "three people into Yale and five into Harvard." But not Princeton, which apparently doesn't care what you get on your SATs. Claire seems way more upset than she should be about this somewhat questionable betrayal of their friendship, and spits out that she never wants to see DangerSlut ever again. Failing to feel the love, Parker departs in a huff. She also announces her intention to fuck George, whom she describes as a "total horny little freak." Claire literally throws the book at her, and the scene is over.
Upstairs, David brushing his teeth, and fantasizing about his future with the Little White Sex Dork. "David Fisher and Benjamin Cooper invite you to a holiday open house," he voices-over. "Merry Christmas from Ben and David. Happy holidays from the Cooper-Fishers. Fish & Coop, new this fall on ABC!" Heh. I wouldn't put that one past ABC, either. After all, they are putting Ed Begley Jr. back on the air this summer. Suddenly there's a knock at David's door, and he opens it to reveal Keith, still in uniform and still in shock over the shooting. David invites him in and offers him a beer, but Keith comes right out and confesses to the shooting. David tries to be understanding, but Angry Keith resurfaces for a minute to shout, "He's dead, you fucking idiot!" David ignores the insult, and watches worriedly as Keith breaks down in tears. "I'm so fucking stupid," he sobs. "I never killed someone before. I can't live with this." "I don't know how to help you," says David. "Do you want to pray?" The look of disdain on Keith's face is definitely enough to answer that question, and even if it weren't, the fact that Keith now plants a giant kiss on David's lips should help to give away his real intentions. David looks shocked for a moment, but then decides to go with it. They kiss again, and we fade to white.
Fade back up on the Body Shop, where Rico is sad to report that he was unable to fix up the DGDJ enough for an open casket. Nate says that's fine, but Rico still has to give a long litany of woes about his home life and the skin that was "frickin' POURING off that woman's face." Say it with me now: "Shut up, Rico." Also, ew. Nate repeats the fact that he's fine with this, and Rico gets apologetic. "If it'll make you feel any better," says Nate, "I don't think there are even going to be any mourners." That does, in fact, make Rico feel better, and he walks away.
The ringing of a phone awakens David, who's confused when he discovers that Keith is no longer in his apartment. In fact, it's Keith on the phone, and he's calling to rip David's heart right out of his pristine, hairless chest. "What happened last night, that was wrong," Keith explains. "I don't know why I went to you, but obviously I wasn't thinking right." "Obviously," replies David. Keith thinks it would be better if they didn't see each other anymore, and David takes the news with just the right combination of hurt and scorn. Eddie walks in behind Keith as they finish up the conversation, and David and Keith both hang up looking sad.
At the Brotherfucking Boudoir, Brenda and Hooker Scrunchieface are finishing up a session. A massage session, you perverts. Scrunchieface gets a call from a co-worker, who's bailing out on an appointment to be her "watcher" later that afternoon. She then explains that being a watcher is the easiest hundred bucks you can make, because all you have to do is sit there and, well, watch. I wonder if Giles knows about this? Heh. For some reason, the image of Giles with a prostitute amuses me. Anyway, Brenda offers to take the job, especially after Scrunchieface places a call to a potential substitute who's too depressed to even answer the phone. Scrunchieface isn't so sure, but Brenda assures her that she's really good at watching. "In fact that's mostly all I do," she adds. "And I guess you've been in three-way situations before," says Scrunchieface. "I mean, who hasn't?" Heh. I was actually going to make that the poll question for this page, but then it occurred to me that I don't really want to know that sort of thing about most of you. I'm sure someone will enlighten us in the forums, however.
Now we get a smash cut to Claire, smashing stuff in George's office. I guess she finally decided to take him up on his offer from last week to throw things. She demolishes his mug or lamp or some other form of desktop ceramic, and then begins ranting about "some girl" who cheated on her SATs. "So you're going to use this as an excuse to bail?" he asks. "'Bail'?" screams Claire. "What is that? Some hip lingo you think the kids are saying these days? You are so fucking lame sometimes." Sing it, sister! Again! Claire continues with her venting, shouting that "you can fuck [DangerSlut] if you want to, but I would definitely wear a condom, because I'm sure that girl has a major case of hepatitis at the very least." George gets defensive, pointing out that he has lots of "conversations" with young girls, and that they "approach" him all the time. Claire rolls her eyes, and George proceeds to criticize her for "focusing on someone else's drama instead of concentrating on [herself]." Then he busts out the real reason for this little chat, which is that "now is probably as good a time as any to talk about the sexual tension" between them. As has been noted in the forums, there really hasn't been all that much sexual tension this season, so this whole thing does seem to be coming out of nowhere all of a sudden. Of course, the other potential possibility is that this is yet another subtle shout-out, what with all the references to "conversations," "focusing on someone else's drama," and, of course, the obvious element of an inappropriate lust for Lauren. I'm just saying. George explains that sexual tension and transference are a normal part of therapy, and that acting on it would be "irresponsible and destructive." Claire is totally freaked out by the whole thing, and can barely even put together a sentence as George switches back to insta-cheer mode and tries to reassemble his ceramic.
Aaron from The Bible: Dude. Enough with the supposed shout-outs. Not everything is always about you, you know.
Aaron Sorkin: Ahh, but sometimes it actually is.
Hank Aaron: Yeah, and what's up with that? Are you TRYING to piss off the media? Or were you just confused by the inexplicable blind loyalty shown to you by some of the more, uh, "ardent" posters around here.
Aaron Sorkin: Whoa! You'd best keep quiet there, buddy. You're only in this club on a last-name waiver, so I'd be careful if I were you.
Aaron from TWoP: You know, I've said it before, and I'll say it again. Shut up, Aaron.
Aaron Sorkin: Hey! You can't talk to me like that!
Elvis Aron Presley: Why? Are you going to faint again?
Aaron from TWoP: Bwa ha ha ha ha ha!!!
Hank Aaron: Heh.
Aaron Spelling: Hee hee! Wuss.
Aaron Sorkin: Yeah, well, we'll just see who's laughing when I write an entire episode about this. That'll teach you.
Aaron Burr: I've got a better idea. What do you say we step outside? Elvis, my good man, fetch me my derringer.
Still in bed, David is once again awakened by a ringing phone. This time he lets the machine get it, and just listens as the Little White Sex Dork calls to say that he had a really good time on their date, "especially the making-out part." David, who's holding a towel to his obviously aching head, collapses back onto the pillow.
Cut to Brenda, watching as Hooker Scrunchieface goes down on her client. It's just not Six Feet Under without our weekly dose of oral sex, is it? The client is fond of talking dirty, and orders our girl to make that Scrunchieface he likes so much while she works. Well, I guess that beats whistling. Brenda's face is blank as she takes in the scene. Cut to later, as she returns home and laughs nervously at what she's just done.
Over at the Fortress, the DGDJ's funeral in progress, with an organist belting out the tune she requested. Nate is the only one there, and he looks bored. So bored, in fact, that the music morphs into a hard-rock groove, and we're suddenly watching Nate's fantasy of appearing a music video, complete with lights, guitar, and screaming teenage girls. All I can say about Nate's singing is that it makes me long for the days when he would walk around silent but shirtless, regardless of whether he was "tufty" or not. He's brought back to reality by the arrival of Ruth, who's somehow managed to organize an entire service for this woman by wandering all over the house, collecting various Fishers and their employees and forcing them all to attend. As the family assembles, Claire wonders what they're all doing there. Her brothers both make a constructobabbling joke, with Nate remarking that "her roof has bad shingles" or something. "I had shingles once," says David. Heh. Rico is still pissy about not having been able to fully restore the body, but before we can explore that oh-so-exciting subplot any further, the service begins. Hey! There's Father Jack! He's back! He's also delivering a long homily that further serves to drive home our theme of the week. Then he quotes the Bible. I'll spare you the transcription.
After the service, the Fishers are gathered in the foyer. Nate is upset that he never learned anything about the DGDJ, Rico is snotty that David took the day off due to his headache, and Father Jack is inappropriately affectionate towards David. Ruth, on the other hand, has an announcement for the entire family, which basically boils down to the fact that she doesn't want to die alone like the DGDJ. Only she uses the word "renovate" about a dozen times while saying it. She's also desperate for a connection with her children, wondering, "Won't any one of you have intimacy with me?" Ew. Her weekly blurt complete, Ruth moves to go upstairs, but Nate points out that intimacy should be created organically, not by screaming about it. "Fine," answers Ruth. "Then I'll just wait for it like I have been. I just pray it happens before I end up like Emily Previn."
Cut to the Brotherfucking Boudoir, where Nate mentions that Brenda had a really weird look on her face when she was writing earlier. "It's called flow," she explains, obviously having never had the experience of trying to "flow" while constantly rewinding to transcribe what someone said. Nate asks if she thinks they have enough intimacy in their relationship, and Brenda dodges the question as usual. But then he asks why she's been acting jumpy all night, and Brenda finally comes to a decision. She grabs a little jewelry box off the top shelf, and places it gently on Nate's (thankfully covered) chest. He opens it to find a ring, and Brenda, as solemnly as she can, asks, "Nate Fisher, would you be my wife?" Nate, much like most of the audience, is flabbergasted. Unlike most of the audience, however, he also thinks it's a really good idea, even if the ring itself is really ugly. "It was my [presumably bi-legged] grandfather's," reveals Brenda. She explains that she found it while cleaning, and that's when she got the idea. Hmm. Are you sure it wasn't while reading one of the "Marry me, Lauren"-fest recaps from last season? "Why today?" wonders Nate, and Brenda thinks a bit before answering. "I just started thinking, and I didn't know what I'd do if I ever lost you." "Well, I'm not going anywhere," replies Nate. She asks him to promise, and while the director zooms in the Brain-Cam, Nate realizes that's one promise he can't make. So instead, he enthusiastically slips on the ring and agrees to get married. They laugh and hug, and the moment is so romantic that I'm almost willing to forgive the unfortunate sideburn shot that ends the scene.
And finally, back at the Fortress the morning, Ruth is brewing tea. She pours herself a cup, and then heads out to the sun room to examine some baby pictures of her children. And apparently, the prop department took to heart my criticism of the blatantly fake photo on George's desk last week, because all of these pictures are clearly of the cast members when they were kids. The one of Lauren with her eyes bugged out in the background is a keeper, and yes, Nate was even hairy as a boy. Nice bowl cut, by the way. Ruth starts sobbing uncontrollably, and the Tinkling Piano of Personal Growth plays us out as we fade to white.
Aaron from TWoP: And that concludes our business for today. Any new motions?
Aaron Brown: Yeah. How come you get to be in charge?
Aaron from TWoP: Oh, I think my qualifications would be obvious. I'm clearly about four hundred times smarter than the rest of you.
Aaron Burr: I don't know about that. Let's not forget, I once served as Vice-President to Thomas Jefferson.
Aaron from The Bible: And I helped lead your ancestors out of slavery.
Hank Aaron: I hit 714 home runs.
Aaron Spelling: I created dozens of hit shows spanning forty years of broadcast television.
Elvis Aron Presley: I had 131 gold records, scores of number-one hits, and unlike Alan Ball, I actually have had sex with Cybill Shepherd.
Aaron from TWoP: Oh. Well, if you want to look at it that way, I, um…uh…oh! I know! I once recapped theDunemini-series. People really seemed to like that one.
Aarons Everywhere: Get out. Now.