Making Love Work

Much like the Fishers Jr., vacations in the Aaron family have always been the sort of events that could easily scar an impressionable young child for life. Ma Aaron, you see, doesn't fly unless she's been so heavily medicated that we have to physically carry her through security, and dear old Dad has long been afflicted with one of those relatively common middle-aged nerd fetishes that requires him to stop and read each and every roadside historical plaque within fifty miles of either side of our route. If George Washington slept there, then you can pretty much bet that I have a picture of me punching my little sister there as well. So you can probably image what those epic, multi-day road trips from Boston to Disneyworld must have been like, what with the wood-paneled station wagon overstuffed with suitcases and the constant high-pitched squeals of everything from "I have to pee again" to "Mommy, she's on my side!" emanating from a back seat that was more heavily partitioned than most areas of the Gaza Strip. But none of those massive, Lewis & Clark-like expeditions could ever possibly compare to the only traumatic time we ever tried to go camping -- a sordid, squalid weekend which prominently featured thunderstorms, leaky tents, food poisoning, poison ivy (although, unlike the Fishers, no one felt compelled to play Poison's "Talk Dirty To Me"), and a horribly frightening late-night auditory encounter with what we thought was a giant man-eating bear but later turned out to be merely a raccoon with swollen adenoids. The Aarons learned that weekend that we are most definitely an indoor family, and have ever since worn our pasty-white skin and legendary Claritin addictions with the sort of hard-won pride that comes only to those who have been tested in a Coleman crucible and found to be severely lacking. There's a reason I don't work for Mountains Without Pity, you know.

Alan Ball: [cough] Wuss! [cough]
Aaron: Wow. You know, you should really see a doctor about that. You could have Lyme Disease.
Alan Ball: Oh, please. What's not to like? The fresh air, the clear night sky, the chance to get in touch with nature
Aaron: The snakes, the bugs, the inevitable suppurating rashes that come from getting in touch with nature
Alan Ball: So I take it this means you're not likely to go camping again?
Aaron: Does a raccoon with swollen adenoids shit in the woods?

Fade up on our new all-time unbeatable record for SttM (1), as we open with a shot of a billboard for Dr. Philer, Dave's Making Love Work TV show. We're outside the studio entrance, with the expected crowd of white-bread housewives waiting anxiously to get in to the afternoon taping. A particularly boisterous grouping of three friends giddily reads off the questions they plan to ask, which range from "How can I stop feeling so competitive with my chain-smoking bitch of a mother-in-law" to a mediation on the soul-sucking ennui of life in bourgeois suburbia. Hey, is it just me, or is that Lisa Kudrow waiting in line behind them? I mean, this episode was written by Jill Soloway, so I'm fairly certain it's not Courteney Cox, but nevertheless, the resemblance is remarkable. It's also interesting to note, by the way, that this DGDJ is not really seen again during the episode proper, but still manages to set up any number of the week's themes in her short-lived (get it?) appearance, including noses, over-idealized images of one's spouse, and of course the great tissue vs. handkerchiefs debate. It's remarkably rare to see writing that tight and that irrelevant all at the same time. Good job, Jill! Anyway, the lady with the chain-smoking mother-in-law develops a nosebleed just as the crowd is ordered to make their way inside, and within seconds the blood flow has reached near-Niagara proportions of arterial deluge. By the time the requisite bitchy stage-manager character can even realize what's going on, our intrepid, exsanguinated heroine is lying facedown on the concrete amongst a pile of bloody Kleenex. Farewell, Karen Postell Pepper. Your death might have been meaningless on the show, but the Google search I did on "Dr. Phil catchphrases" to find suitable snarking material for this paragraph did lead me straight to Shack's own website, so I guess the karma gods have smiled on you after all.

Like the Olympic output of a female East German shot-putter hopped up on Dianabol and superfluous Y chromosomes, the world records just keep on coming this week (StC = 193). You know, this really wasn't my all-time favorite episode (and without a dinner party, how could it be?), but nevertheless, I'm bowing to the existential purity of mathematics and awarding it the A+ the formulas tell me it so richly deserves. We fade back up in the Body Shoppe, where Rico is applying the restorative finishing touches to a grotesquely over-sized corpse while Nate wheels in the body of the late and largely unlamented DGDJ. There's some brief discussion of the fact that rhinoplasty can kill, which is capped off by the relatively Nate-centric observation that "we're all just walking time bombs." Thanks, Brain-Boy. Rico wonders if his XXXL casket (and side order of pot stickers) has come in from Appleby Caskets yet, and also begs Nate to stick around and help him load up Biggie Smalls when it finally does. Nate, however, has other plans, which include a camping trip with Lisa, Maya, and their new couple-friends that we met in the season opener. Nate's quiet disappointment that Lisa will be coming along on his sojourn into the woods is evident even here, so he quickly changes the subject to invite Rico to take a vacation of his own. "Yeah, well, every weekend since Vanessa's mom died," replies Rico, "we're at her house cleaning out all her stuff." Hmm. Now do you think the fact that we're learning of Mama Vanessa's demise in this excessively expository fashion is simply more fuel for the Julio death pool, or is it just an expeditious method for advancing the plot without wasting an entire episode on the likely "Shut Up, Vanessa"-inducing escapades of the distaff side of the Diaz family? I recap, you decide.

Out in Schrödinger's Flat, Lisa is packing up Maya's suitcase in anticipation of baby's first camping trip. "Should we bring your baby dead-head onesie?" she wonders, holding up a tiny little tie-dyed outfit. "Or is that too obvious?" It's only obvious if it's her baby BIG-head onesie, my friend. And you know what? I think I've finally realized what it is that freaks me out about Maya. She's just too damn quiet all the time. With the exception of the infamous Keith flushes the toilet incident, I'm not sure we've ever even seen her cry, for God's sake. Now I'll admit that what I know about normal infant behavior could probably fit on an unfertilized ovum with room for a half-dozen sperm to spare, but it kind of worries me that the kid never seems to show any emotion whatsoever. I guess she really is a Fisher after all, although you'd probably expect her to have farted a few times by now if that were truly the case. Nate comes in at this point, carrying a handful of guide books and expounding on the scenic delights which await them high atop "Suicide Rock," which got its name when "a Native American princess threw herself off the rock rather than be separated from her lover." Just for the record, I totally called what happens later with Brenda the instant he said that. As they so often do, Nate and Lisa end up bickering about minutiae, with Lisa concerned about the prospect of sleeping with a baby on the cold, hard ground, and Nate pointing out that the Native Americans were doing precisely that for centuries before the advent of such modern amenities as "Cliff Bars," "spatulas," and the "tent cabin." Frostiness ensues.

In the kitchen, meanwhile, Arthur is honking a giant wad of snot into his handkerchief. "Such a lovely custom," muses Ruth from a nearby corner, leading one to wonder how she might have responded if he were to hawk up some phlegm into one of her cloth napkins as well. Then again, she's so clearly infatuated with the boy at this point that I'm frankly surprised she didn't want to hang his nasal drippings up on the refrigerator to Claire's latest masterpiece. She's actually speaking, of course, about the custom of using handkerchiefs, and she's deeply saddened by the fact that kids today just don't seem to enjoy the prospect of wrapping dried mucus in white linen and carrying it around in their breast pockets the way folks used too. Arthur, however, is more saddened by the fact that he missed a weekend showing of Silent Running at the local art-house theater, and he then proceeds to give a run-down of the film's plot for Ruth's benefit. And actually, that was really for my benefit as well, because I often tend to get Silent Running confused with Logan's Run and Soylent Green, and for a moment there I was busy pondering the subtextual relevance of a reference to unwitting cannibals who voluntarily commit suicide at the age of thirty. Which, oddly enough, actually would be sort of relevant to the scene at hand, but that's a different story (and one that would likely involve sex and free meat), so let's not even go there, okay? Anyway, Arthur describes the film's robots Huey, Dewey, and Louie (who sort of resemble small televisions) as "quite lovable indeed," as well as "benign and obedient, much like television itself." Hee! Although if my television really were benign and obedient, it would be writing this recap for me. Excuse me for a moment while I email that suggestion to the TiVo corporation. "Perhaps that's the writer's comment about how technology can be controlled and used effectively for humankind," he adds. Remember that line when Arthur fails to make effective use of even basic third-grade technologies like simple machines later on in the episode. Ruth offers to fetch him some more coffee, but Arthur demurs, citing the fact that he just filled his cup only moments before. Awkwardness ensues.

Upstairs, Claire isiswell, she'sumOh god, I can't even say it, people. She's coloring her hair! Blue, no less! I mean, why not just spray-paint a mustache and some horns onto the Mona Lisa while you're at it? That is just so very very wrong. It's sacrilege, in fact. It's blasphemy! It'sit'swell, actually, it's turning me on a little. And yes, I know. I need help. I should also mention that it's Russell who's doing the actual work, as he paints on the dye and stifles the urge to shout with glee over the fact that he's actually getting to touch her hair. David suddenly barges in, much to Claire's dismay, and announces that the brush they're using to apply the dye is normally used on people who have already, umdied. Yeah. Sorry. His ears totally perk up, however, when Claire introduces Russell, and if I'm not mistaken, David actually flirts with the kid a little bit. Heh. Remember that one later, too. There's some discussion of whether or not Claire's hair is afraid of dead people (don't ask), and then David spots a sculpture Russell made of a guy with his head on backwards. David thinks it's terrific, but Russell loudly insists that it sucks. "First of all, you're crazy," replies Claire. "It's totally perfect. Secondly, all Olivier says all day long is 'Look at Russell's work, people. Russell's work is pulsating. It's making me hard.'" Ewwwwwww. God, what a creep. Erwait a second. I've never said that about Claire, right? At least not out loud, I hope. Once David departs with his brush in hand, Russell uses the phrase "Oh, ass," in reference to the fact that he's forgotten what time they're supposed to rinse out Claire's hair. Hmm. Put that one in your spoiler thread and smoke it, why don't you.

Over the river and through the woods to the tent cabin we go. And I'm thinking Nate and Lisa must have spent all that rent money they're saving on a new car, because they're not in the Dirty Car and I just can't believe that Lisa would ever stoop to do something as environmentally unfriendly as having a car of her own. Regardless, they lug all their various suitcases into the tent cabin (which is actually kind of nice), and Lisa immediately starts doing what she does best: worrying about where Maya is going to sleep. Nate, on the other hand, is worried about the fact that she only brought a single six-pack of beer. "Isn't that the whole point?" he asks. "To sit around the campfire and get a buzz? Didn't you tell me to bring my weed?" (POT ∞ = 1) Oy. Nate Fisher, ladies and gentlemen: Parent of the Year. "To tell you the truth," answers Lisa, "all I really care about is that you don't smoke cigarettes. I already pretend like I don't you know you smoke at home." What? Huh? Mom? How did you get on Six Feet Under? I know you didn't fly out there. This incipient argument is interrupted by the arrival of Todd, Dana, and their not-quite-as-cute-as-Taylor little girl Spencer, who cheerfully greets Nate and then never speaks again for the rest of the episode. Hugs are exchanged all around, and Todd invites Nate to help him unload the car because he brought "a ton of beer." "Yeah, absolutely," replies Nate, while fixing his wife with a knowing smile. Once separated, the two girls chat about bed selection, and the two guys discuss plans for hiking up to Suicide Rock. Todd is of the opinion that the womenfolk won't let the men go off on their own for that long, but Nate seems to think it won't be any problem. "How long have you two been married?" wonders Todd.

Back at The Fortress, Ruth knocks on Arthur's door and tells him that she rented Silent Running. Only she uses a lot more words than that, because she rambles on about some new mall she visited for about half an hour before finally getting to the point. What's up with this season's mall fetish? Arthur is delighted, of course, and they're soon settled in on the sofa munching popcorn and watching Bruce Dern teach a pair robot-shaped cardboard boxes how to plant banzai trees. To my great relief, Charlton Heston and Michael York are nowhere to be seen.

Our happy campers have settled down for the night as well, with the adults gathered around a roaring fire to discuss something called "Unitarian Universalism," which is apparently some sort of religion that doesn't actually contain any religion. "No big God things," explains Todd. "No crosses or dripping blood or shit, just people getting together." And, um, how is that any different from a TWoP-con, I wonder? Fewer banner ads, I suppose. ["And less dripping blood." -- Sars] Dana adds that Jesus is rarely mentioned at these gatherings, but whenever it does come up, "they always remind us that Jesus was black." "Right," grumps Lisa. "As opposed to the Brad Pitt Jesus America tries to sell us." What? No Jeremy Sisto joke? Come on, guys, where's your sense of meta-whimsy this week? You let Bettina direct, why not throw Billy a bone? Nate knows exactly who his own God is, however, and he quickly hops up to fetch his pot out of the tent cabin. He fires up a little one-hitter, but when he passes it along, the other three each decide not to have any. "Great," laughs Nate, as he takes another hit. "Now I'm the only one who's stoned." Oh, I'm sure Alan is right there with you, my friend.

We return to The Fortress just as the movie is ending. Joan Baez croons a subtextually relevant ballad over the closing credits, and both Arthur and Ruth sit there in silence, not wanting the moment to end. Finally, Arthur reaches out to hit "stop" on the remote control, and (hee!) a highly explicit porno flick just happens to be playing on the channel they left the TV on. There's no way I can ever do justice to their expressions here, so I'm not even going to try. Just know that it was really fucking funny. Fade to white.