Six Feet Under
Here I am just about to write, "Hey, no death in the beginning!" But then Mr. Marshall pulls into Fisher & Diaz's driveway to die. Drives himself, which is no mean feat. Me, I figure I'll die in a car, too, but that has a lot more to do with the other L.A. drivers than with sound planning and good timing.
I definitely think Keith has the right idea in grabbing Celeste when she's freaking out, by the way. He just doesn't throttle long or hard enough. (Sorry, but the poor-little-rich-girl, road-is-lonely act doesn't get anywhere with me, sympathy-wise.)
Joe walks in on Brenda and Nate making out and says, "It's him. Your previous indiscretion." Well, you better hope so, pal.
As for Ruth leaving dinner burning in the oven, it could've been much worse. Last time I saw people do that on a screen, it ended up being a piece of Satan in the oven and they ended up piles of smoking ash. (Got a little far afield of tonight's TV there. Sorry.)
So it's not aliens after all it's us, from our own future, mucking around. Intriguing, no? But that's far too important. On to the trivial, which is really what you all have come to expect from me.
Sean says he and Nicky are tired of all the sneaking around. Color me crazy, but making out in the front seat of a car in broad daylight 10 yards from the little brother you're hiding from? Hardly sneaking, kids.
Keen Eddie, unable to think of anything else to do, pulls his gun and shoots Kyle in the chest not even aiming for his leg or arm or anything less vital, for crying out loud. I hope that's considered come employee-review time.
As for Jordan Collier, who I said creeped me out in my last column? I knew he was evil. Billy Campbell grew a beard, after all. On TV and in movies, that means caring dad or doctor, man undergoing a personal transformation, or pure evil. Easy call.
And those bending trees at the end. Does that mean the baby has the power to selectively soften wood? Or is he lord of the plants and thus commands their loyalty? Either way, this show's definitely turning over a new leaf as it ends its trunk-ated season.
Dead Like Me
"Always the cute joke," Dolores tells George. "That's your defense mechanism. Sarcasm. That's how you keep people at a safe distance. You do. You use humor. For others, it's aggressive body piercings and facial tattoos."
Now, some of us would use both, only I'm not always funny and even though I put in a lot of effort to think of the most intimidating and rad icon I could, the needle jockeys at the place a few blocks over won't ink the California Raisins across my forehead. I mean, they want, like, 300 bucks a raisin, and my wife refuses to spot me.
And George feels bad enough about not being a joiner to actually go on the retreat? I guess no one told her the secret is to get your name on the list so you can put it on your résumé, pay enough lip service to the group to fake it, and then never actually take part or try, like the time in high school when my buddy Mike and I showed up at an away soccer game in street clothes, snacks and radio in hand, so we could sit up in the bleachers without catching a chill in the early autumn cold and listen to the Phillies playoff game since we knew the coach was never gonna play us anyway. If you're not gonna contribute, you at least oughtta plan enough to enjoy your slacking. It's downright responsible, I say.
Am I the only one out here who roots against Vince? Who wants the Pixar squirrel to beat him? When I can bring myself to think much about him at all, that is. Not likable enough to like, not reprehensible or complex enough to grab my interest. I'm not giving up yet, but so far this is leaning more toward the Arliss end of the laugh scale than the Curb Your Enthusiasm side.
What Not to Wear
Here's a bright idea: Take a 16-year-old girl already smack in the middle of the most insecure and vulnerable period of her life and shred her look on TV in front of her classmates. Erinn, you already looked fine, hon. The mismatched socks were cute, and as soon as you hear yourself saying you want "neat and businesslike," you know they've done something terribly, horribly wrong to you.
One name I immediately crossed off the suspect list after poor employee-of-the-month Edna was done in by that forklift: my governor, Arnold Schwarzenegger. Had he been behind the wheel, he couldn't have resisted a smirking "fork you!" as he knocked all those HDTVs over on her. (And if you're gonna get killed with tech, it may as well be with bleeding-edge.)
As for the fake-girlfriend thing, I never suspected Randy's gal was real 'cause I know that game all too well. I've had my coworkers believing I'm married for years now, and the secret should be safe so long as they don't read this and you bigmouths out there stay away from the feedback form down below.