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Slice Up the Beefcake

Edited back inside now, Trista sits with Ryan, who hands her a sealed card unearthed from his lapel pocket and explains, "I'm not a good person with words and conversation." Oh, don't shortchange yourself, Frankie. We townspeople have all heard your well-heeled vocal abilities with words like "ungh" and "fire" when we come calling with our torches and threats. Trista reads aloud from the end of his poem: "May the night bring sweet dreams, and the morning blue sky." Oh, shut up, e.e. shortcomings. Be a poet if you want, but you should know better than to tell a girl that the only reason you have to have a spontaneous poetry slam is because you're incapable of talking to her within the confines of the language. And isn't Trista just reading the lyrics to "Sweet Dreams"? And why don't we get to hear the rest of the poem? Is it because ABC doesn't want to pay the licensing fee for the use of "I've traveled the world and the seven seas/ Everybody's looking for something" Ryan's poem seems to be heading for?

Brian K. introduces himself to Trista, and she poker-faces, "Oh, you're the breast-implant guy!" He tells her that "a little hands-on experience always helps." Helps what? What does that mean? He also says something about how she should see his "scrapbook." If I had to describe Brian as a car, it would be "an asshole car in a cheap suit." Y'know. That kind of car.

Outside, Greg T. attempts to do justice to the title of "Poor Man's Andy Garcia" (though that title is currently occupied by the actual Andy Garcia), his cavalier smooth manner and slicked-back hair very, I don't know, Dead Again? He tells Trista that he's "always loved songwriting and singing and all that." He was "in Nashville for a while," and Trista rolls her eyes back in ecstasy and moans, "I love singers!" Well, I hope she also loves "Exporters," which is what we're reminded Greg T. actually is when we cut back to him in a confessional. Greg T's mythical picket fence in Manhattan surrounds a house of lies.

But no one's lamer than Jamie ("Lamie"?), who is just such a standard "guy" that he's how I would describe a "guy" to someone who's never been to Earth. "He's a total Jamie," I would tell my interstellar friend. And my friend would know exactly what I meant. Jamie tells Trista, "I was a sales manager, moving up in an internet telecom company." Stop it. Stop it, I say! How can you continue this level of white-hot flirtation when I don't have health insurance and you're thrilling me to death? But wait! There's more! "I quit. And I went to Sweden. And I played pro basketball." Cut to a confessional, where Jamie alerts us, "We have the exact same interests." Oh, of course. Why, don't you remember Trista's mom in that opening clip package saying all of those things about Trista's childhood passions for "the corporate structure of middle management ascendancy in telecommunications and new media," and her dad going on and on about her teenage dabblings in "Scandinavian basketball leagues"? Well then, watch it again.






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