After the Show

Episode Report Card
Sobell: D+ | Grade It Now!
Sara Sidle is pretty too!

I'm warning you now. This episode so irked me, I did all of the following before recapping it: sanded, stained, and finished five six-foot-tall bookcases; read a book on stock charts and long-term market indicators; unpacked twenty boxes of books; stapled twelve feet of telephone cable to my apartment baseboards so my TiVo can call its little TiVo friends in the middle of the night from the one working phone jack in my apartment two rooms away; baked two apple crisps for Thanksgiving with the in-laws. Does that sound like fun to you? Well, the baking, yeah. And I do love wielding power tools. And it's nice to find Quicksilver in time for my Thanksgiving trip back to MaBell's cozy Quantico pied-a-terre. But my point is -- this episode was so personally irritating, it drove me to new heights of productive procrastination. If the powers that be keep this up, you'll be able to bounce quarters off my washboard abs by February sweeps, and I'll be writing recaps in Greek and Mandarin.

What could possibly be so irritating, you ask? Read on, MacDuff…

After an ominous shot of the Bellagio's fountains dancing in the air -- we know it's ominous because someone's broken out a boy soprano singing in portentous foreign-sounding syllables, or else we'd only think it was pretentious and silly thanks to the closed captioning's assertion that we're hearing "La, la, la, la" -- we hear a woman coyly saying, "Some girls want to be homecoming queen. Some girls want to be Miss America. I have always wanted to be a showgirl." I can't believe someone's parents nurtured that ambition. Rockette, maybe -- I have a cousin who married a Rockette, and he was king of Thanksgiving because he actually shared a house with a high-kicker we could all see on TV -- but showgirl? Who actually wants a career involving weird hours and tacky topless costumes? This woman: "I mean, I've been taking dancing lessons since I was five. I would, um, pull my leotards up on my hips and stick feathers in my hair." And ask for dresses cut down to there. At the Copa! Copacabana! The hotte-- oops. Sorry. Like you've never gotten sung along to that song in the car?

We see that the woman has been talking on what appears to be a TV broadcast, if her pixilated countenance is anything to go by. Some man reaches out and puts his hand on the screen as if to touch her. Oh, delightful. Who doesn't love a stalker story? It's not like they're predictable or anything. There's no way we'll see the stalker letting his overwhelming infatuation and possessiveness drive him to set up some impossibly baroque and fatal situation, only to be found out and judged by presumably saner people. Maybe this time, we'll see that the stalker has turned to a life of altruism and good works in an effort to score the kind of karma that lets him meet with the object of his affections in the afterlife, eschewing the stalkee on Earth lest he miss out on the celestial portion of his obsession.

Or maybe we'll see the usual stalkery garbage, where the unhinged gentlemen in question gets all weepy while an anchordroid drones on about how it's Day Six in the search for aspiring showgirl Julie Waters. Is he crying over media bias, since the disappearance of a young and comely nobody is apparently leading the news while ugly people vanish unremarked? Of course not.

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