Wow, y'all are learning so much about me this week! I'll try to keep my personal comments out of this particular segment. Over at Boston Bay College Of Contrivance, Charlie waves Jen into the studio whilst he DJs. He's talking about how it's Monday morning (see! Told you so) and, to celebrate, they're playing "anything weepy, anything mopey, anything remotely a bummer." As Jen sits down and puts on headphones, Charlie announces that he's about to play "Girlfriend in a Coma," by the Smiths. "I'm sorry, we're not going to play that," Jen says into the microphone. After some hissing about how that microphone is on, and about how Jen knows that because she turned it on, Charlie introduces her as his new producer, "Jen Now Would Come The Part Where It Becomes Painfully Obvious I Don't Know Her Last Name." Jen gives him the "Lindley," and informs him that people need peppy music to cheer them up on Monday mornings. "The problem with college radio stations is too many requests for misunderstood ambisexual geniuses," she says. And they banter. It's very David and Donna. Except it's cuter, because Charlie is my new boyfriend and David Silver was a giant dork. On the other hand, if I was working at the coffee shop or the bookstore or the Add/Drop line while listening to the campus radio station, I'd be muttering about how they'd better start playing some damn music and shut the hell up before I take my coffee break and walk over there and hit the stupid play button myself, because it's Monday and I'm cranky and I don't want banter, I want the Smiths, and I want them now! But no, there's more talk about how people are crabby on Mondays because they've gone out on the weekend and done things they regret. Or, if you're normal, you're mopey because, unlike on Saturday and Sunday, on Monday you have to haul your ass out of bed and go do things you don't want to do. Like work. Anyway. Jen hypothesizes that it's possible to regret things you don't do as much as it is to regret the things you do. "Failing to get somebody's phone number the first time you meet them?" she suggests. Charlie agrees that is in fact a regrettable thing…unless the woman in question "had blown you off pretty majorly" and had a "tall, good-looking, dark-hair[ed]" boyfriend. Jen laughs. "So what you're running here is a radio program for mopey straight guys easily threatened by obviously gay men in Abercrombie sweaters?" she asks. Charlie: "Ha ha ha." The listening audience: "Dude! Music! Now!" Jen smiles wryly. "I don't see how the university can condone such blatant niche marketing. Things are going to have to change around here. And quick," she says. And this last bit is delivered in a bizarre Renee-Zellweger-as-Bridget-Jones sort of quasi-English accent. "All right," Charlie laughs. "Well, we're going to play that Smiths' classic, and then a little 'Sedated.' We'll be back." He pushes a button, and Morrissey starts to sing as Jen leans back and grins at him.
The Bay. Or river. Whatever that body of water Pacey's parked his boat on. Okay, I can see that you probably don't park a boat. Docked, right? I don't know. Let's talk Pacey. Everybody's favorite deckhand and some blonde chippy come scampering up from below deck, flirtatiously arguing about a photograph the Blonde Chippy is waving around frenetically. Pacey chases her out on deck, making noises about the brilliance of the French and their topless beaches and yada yada, kissy kissy, Chippy allows him to keep the photo "somewhere [her] uncle won't find it." More kissy kissy smoochie smoochie, Chippy instructs Pacey to meet her later for lunch at the fancy-schmancy joint she's picked out. "And wear that new shirt I bought you," she instructs him. Pacey, very briefly, makes a weary face. Get it? Chippy is bossy, and thus, undesirable in every way, topless photos be damned. He agrees, and Chippy cheerfully swings her ass off the boat and down the dock and right past Deputy Doug, who must have taken some time off from Capeside PD to get a haircut and visit his brother. Doug turns and appreciatively watches Chippy's ass swing past him.