In the old house on Caprica, Bill jokes with Carolanne that he never seemed to intimidate her, and she nods. Pedestals. "I knew you long before you were the Admiral: back when you were just Bill, the husband who wasn't there. The father who left." She wonders aloud what a Bill Adama really is; she wonders aloud if she'll ever get an answer. She's not the one asking. She's dead.
Noel Allison -- that Pegasus pilot I always call Nacho and is apparently "Narcho," but is I'm sure just as delicious -- follows the rest of them into the briefing room, wowing about how there's been 49 days since the last Cylon sighting. I wish somebody'd mentioned somehow that he was originally on Pegasus, because what we need right now -- with New Caprica, the Circle and the Second Exodus still so close behind, with Caprica in the brig -- is to remember the Pegasus, and hope we burned off what didn't work. Starbuck jokes that his crap flying has probably put the fear of the Gods in them. Helo and Hotdog sit down, Sharon in the row behind, Hotdog making weird faces and finally just digging right the hell up in his batch, like he's not in public. "I've got the weirdest rash," he tells Helo, and Sharon grins as Helo moves one seat over, away from him: "Hope she was worth it, buddy." After the fifteen plagues this season, I'm not convinced we're done with Hotdog's crotch just yet, frankly, and clearly it's still on his mind as Apollo enters, strong and harsh. "Before we get started, I want a show of hands. How many of you boneheads know how to count?" Slowly, the hands go up; Kara raises her hand with a smug grin as Adama enters from the back. "Because I keep hearing numbers being thrown around the hangar deck. 47, and then 48. Now 49 days, since our last enemy contact. I realize that any higher math's probably beyond most of you, so I'm gonna make this real simple for you: one is the only number you need to remember. Because all it takes is one pilot to let his guard down, one ECO to miss a dradis contact, and suddenly the Cylons are on top of us. That's when people die."
"He's like both of us," Bill thinks, flashing back for a second to that house, "proud, stubborn, and angry." Back to the briefing room: "But he's coming into his own. Especially in the last few months." Carolanne gets intense: "Don't tell me, tell him!" Or, you know, better yet, show us without telling anybody at all, since this is the first we're seeing and/or hearing about it. Bill shrugs that Lee knows, and Carolanne speaks up on behalf of Rabbit Angstrom and every other man who ever needed a hug in the history of the goddamn Western literary canon: "Knows what? That the Admiral's going to give him a good performance review? Or that his father loves him?" TAKE IT OUTSIDE. FUCKING A. Why is it every time a writer on this show -- no, every male writer ever -- wants to tug your heartstrings and can't figure out how, they go straight to the Easy Rider/Iron John place? And just baldly repeat it, boilerplate? If you'd actually illustrate this stuff, that would be one thing; that's personal and real. But constantly pulling out the Your Personal Father Was Not Demonstrative With His Affection card every other second, without regard to setting it up or making it anything other than what it blatantly is, is lazy. Almost as lazy as everybody's drunk mommies hitting you with sticks all the time. I get it if this stuff applies to you personally, and you feel connected to it -- and in this case, have I got a literary canon for you! -- and I'm certainly not going into my personal shit with you about it, but there's a difference between a single reader's response and objective quality and craftsmanship of writing. "I liked it" is different from "it is well-formed." Every little kid has lost at least one pet, but I don't wanna read a hundred novels about dead pets written by five-year-olds, either. So fucking whatever: "Don't tell me the Admiral's facade extends to Lee too."