Roswell
Control (2)

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Out of control

Jesse shows up, and says something stupid about lighting the barn with torches, er, not tiki torches, er, or maybe not torches at all, since maybe torch isn't the right word. Perhaps…candles (both a novel idea and a difficult word to remember, Jesse). WF mentions that old barn equals firetrap; Isabel quips that that's why there will be a pond, then introduces Jesse, adding "fiancé," since it wasn't completely obvious who he was the second he appeared. WF asks when the big day will be, Isabel says "this spring," and Eunice has a conniption about the accelerated timeframe. "Why wait?" simpers Jesse, to which Eunice responds, "This is not a race. You two just got engaged." Word to your mama. Isabel, wounded again, tells Eunice to be happy, because this is what she wants, and they're planning her wedding, which will be "fun" and "great." And neat and cool and swell, too. WF smirks about young love, and Eunice looks like she'd rather be enjoying a root canal, since her daughter is falling into the age-old conundrum: stupid women, stupid choices.

Champagne glasses clink, and we're back in La-La-Land, at a swanky party complete with sprawling mansion, expansive pool, and approximately four guests. It's Cal Langley's, of course, and the producer extraordinaire is walking and talking with some blonde hair and very fake boobs shoved into a bandage dress, and a guy wondering about Tiffany -- "did she walk?" No, says Cal (we're on a first-name basis now -- eat your hearts out, little people); he bumped up her per diem, got her a bigger trailer, and got Brian (who looks like he stepped out of a Banana Republic catalog back when they were all safari, and is wearing an ascot. An ascot) to rewrite the part. "My finest hour," quips Brian, shoving canapés into his mouth. "Now the hooker is a part-time yoga instructor." Which tells me that Tiffany is really stupid, since part-time yoga instructors don't win Oscars.

And then, it's Max, all suited up (open collar, thank you, for that certain quelle temps fait-il) with a new, short, spiky haircut. "Sorry I'm late," he says, with a canapés-devouring flourish, "I was on the phone with Variety." Sure, stick Freak-Boy in a suit and pretty him up a bit, and suddenly he's moved from auditioning for a bit part on Enterprise to gabbing about his new idea with industry rags. Cal's wearing different designer glasses, but he's still bald, and he still looks annoyed. And he thought that Max was on an "aeroplane." Nope. Discussing his new "project." Max gets all schmoozy and introduces himself -- "Max Evans. Antar Films." Safari Brian looks confused, Blonde Boobies smiles, and Cal looks like Max smells of dung.

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Roswell

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