Back in the straight-to-UPN version of How The Music Industry Isn't Run At All, Vol. 19, Tommy Not-tola applies her fiftieth layer of lip gloss and mixes up "New Yorker" with "Borscht Belt comedian" again when she so-Great-Neck-she-might-as-well-be-saying-it-in-Hebrew-ily informs Maria, "So Adam Chase is on his way. He is a legendary producer, honey, and if he likes your stuff, you can clear off a shelf and hire a maid to dust your Grammys." She notes Maria sniffing out of a vial, because this is apparently the third episode of Season One for so many reasons, and asks, "What is that?" Maria explains that it's "eucalyptus," and Tommy Not-tola tells her to put it down because, and I quote, "You smell like J. Lo." And you smell like Lou Perlman. You keep pointlessly name-dropping musicians, and I'll keep name-dropping creepy execs that your misguided power reminds me of, okay? Excellent. Through the door walks an absolute greasy mess of a human being who has never procured a Grammy for anyone. American Music Award, maybe. But I think you just get those from sending in all those UPC symbols from the Quaker Oat Squares anyway, so I'm still not impressed. He swaggers in and gives Not-tola a big hug, asking, "What's happening, baby?" She shoots back, "Clearly you, looking all hotty-totty." Hello, east coasters! Who has beamed me back to my homeland, I ask you? Because this genuine display of the NYC lexicon is exactly how people talk. And I think they might be flirting. Not-tola introduces the two, and Greasy Music Svengali notes after a "dramatic" "pause," "It's a single." Greasy Music Svengali tells Maria that he's been "messing with it," taking her over to a console and playing a remixed version which, basically, is the same song but with a bossa-nova drum beat kicking almost imperceptibly underneath it. But the vocals are still flat and colorless and lacking in vibrato. So if the basic integrity of the work is still inherent, what are we really complaining about? Not-tola tells Maria that she should think about whether this is really what she wants. Sucking in poverty, or sucking with a drumbeat.
Later. Maria shows up outside of Michael's, and he snarks at her entrance, "Lemme guess. You bumped into George Lucas at the video store and he wants you in his movie." Maria has clearly read The Glossary Of Debased Music Industry Terms, the one remaining book in Roswell Liz has not yet set on fire, and goes from A-Z with said terms, though perhaps not in order, braying, "Those label people are bogus. They want to turn me into some bubble-gum pop princess." Michael doesn't even bother feigning sympathy, keeping his hard candy coating around him and asking, "Why are you here?" She tells him that she needs someone to talk to, and Michael retorts, "Let me get this straight: you dumped me so you could go live your dream, and now you're telling me you're dropping that too?" She apologizes, telling him she just needs some advice. He reminds her, "We're not like that anymore," adding, "I could invite you inside, tell you to stay in Roswell because that's what I want, but you know what? I'm not going to be the guy you blame for ruining your life." She says that she would go talk to someone else about it, but that Liz is all "pissy and preoccupied and won't return my phone calls." Michael lashes out, "She might be dying, Maria!" Maria's eyes brighten. Maybe they don't. Maybe those are my eyes.