Charmed
Witches In Tights

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Demian: C- | Grade It Now!
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Witches. Tights. Whatever.

This is going to hurt.

Fade into a couple of overlapping super-speed nighttime skyline shots of San Francisco, the last of which features the camera zooming towards the TransAmerica Pyramid with the stubby Coit Tower low in the foreground. As the shot reaches the Coit, however, the camera suddenly swivels so that we stare down at the tower from directly overhead. There's an immediate cut to an overhead shot of an LP spinning on a turntable as some techno-type throbbing hits the soundtrack. Of course, this sequence would have been more effective if the positions of the Coit and the turntable post had been aligned properly and if those two elements had been of comparable apparent size on the screen, but I feel like I'm quibbling, because I've already seen the rest of this episode, and things get a hell of a lot worse. The camera pans up to reveal Evidently Famous Lesbian DJ Kimberly S, spinning her fabulous mix of mad dance trash for the riotous gaggle of go-go dancing glam dykes swarming what appears to be the P3 soundstage, after said soundstage has been hastily rehabbed into a Girl Bar version of Babylon! from Queer As Folk. After numerous shots of lesbionic jiggling, the camera finally comes to rest on our intrepid Piper, clomping her graceless way across the dance floor. She spies the Dolt, who's blissfully absorbed in his version of The Grimacing White Boy Shuffle, and yanks him from the crowd, shrieking, "What are you doing?" Making an ass of himself, Piper. And in front of all the lesbians, no less. The Dolt mumbles something complimentary about Evidently Famous Kimberly in response, leading Piper to wail, "This club has become the hottest thing in town, and I'd like to know what they're doing that I am not." What part of "riotous go-go dancing glam dykes" do you not understand? Seriously, Piper, you own a nightclub in San Francisco. A. Nightclub. In. San. Francisco. Why haven't you tapped the gay and lesbian market yet? Huh? How difficult could it be? A couple of weekend wet underwear contests hosted by The Sisters Of Perpetual Indulgence, some eight-dollar pitchers of Long Islands on Sunday afternoons, and you're set. Jeez.

Whatever. I don't care. And I care even less for the expository dialogue that follows. The Dolt natters something about the percolating infant resulting in "changed" "priorities" for the wife regarding her business interests. As in, "Sell your nightclub, woman, and get back in the kitchen where you belong." I know Aaron Spelling bankrolls this entire enterprise, but please. Would someone keep him away from the shooting scripts already? Piper speechifies about having a family as well as a career just like any other modern gal before she spots a pair of amorous heterosexuals on a sofa and snipes, "For God's sake, get a room!" The amorous heterosexuals break apart, and oops! The amorous heterosexual female is none other than Raige. Raige, busted, rises from the sofa and stammers her way through a weak explanation for her presence in a nightclub not owned by her sister. Piper, go figure, is not having it. Raige attempts to make the best of a bad situation by gamely introducing her amorous heterosexual male to Piper and the Dolt, and oh Lord. Raige's amorous heterosexual is a greasy-haired, Aussie-accented cretin named Dave who refers to the Dolt as "mate." Bad Raige! No Daves! Run away! Flee from the Dave! Raige ignores me, choosing instead to cheat to her left to allow Phoebe into the frame for the first of several continuity errors this evening. The Feebs plows onto the scene to shove a pint of beer into her alcoholic sister's hand while passing a glass of seltzer to Greasy Dave at the same time. When the camera cuts to another angle to record Phoebe's horror at being caught by Piper in a forbidden nightspot, Greasy Dave's shown holding the pint. It's easy, I realize, to pin this gaffe on Alyssa Milano. After all, we've reached the fifth season of this show and she still doesn't know how to spell her character's name, so you can imagine how difficult it must be for her to distinguish between her left and her right. However, I've chosen to blame Greasy Dave, because guys named Dave are responsible for everything that's wrong with this world. The rotten economy? The warmongering White House? Famine, disease, racism, and The Guardian on CBS? Blame it on the Daves.

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Charmed

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