Six Feet Under
Falling Into Place

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The Drowned World Tour

Brenda dozes on her couch because when you're secretly Australian you are always, always jetlagged. She is awoken by the sound of Justin Theroux, and I mean, worse things have happened. Also? Better things have happened. ["Have they? To her, I mean?" -- Wing Chun] And while I'm totally down with the oft-floated theory that, as a tangential, safety-representing, rebound-y love interest, Justin Theroux is totally the opposite interior angle to Ron Livingston's role as Totally That Guy But On Sex and the City, I am feel compelled to point out that, in fact, Justin Theroux has also appeared on Sex and the City. Twice. Playing a different character each time he was on, even though the two appearances took place one mere season apart. Which, in a cycle-completing irony, is what's made him just weird enough to appear on Six Feet Under in the first place, I think. And also? When I take one look at him, I have that unbelievably cool "I've Told Every Little Star" song from Mulholland Drive stuck in my head for days. And the only drawback? Is that when I look at him now, I hear that song orchestrated entirely on the French horn.

Joe-stin Theroux reminds us that he's "the guy you didn't go on a date with last night," and he's endearing because he kind of stutters it and that got Hugh Grant a billion dollars and a BJ on the news, so why wouldn't it work for everyone? He's carrying a bag that Brenda inquires as to the contents of, but he's more interested in exploring what she's carrying, right on down to the toiletries case of Brenda Chenowith's vast personal baggage. Don't do it, junior. There's a bomb in there and it's waiting to go off. Trust us. Don't extend it any kindness. Don't offer to play it "I've Told Every Little Star" on the French horn. Don't feed it after midnight. And, for the love of all things rebound-y, don't do anything silly like share your Chinese food with it. It's bigger than you. It's bigger than us all. And it fucking hates the Kung Pow chicken.

Joe asks what's wrong, and Brenda tells him that she's sort of out of it because her friend died. Brenda? Why must you turn your seedy apartment complex into a tenement of lies? I mean yes, someone is dead. But someone is always dead, and I didn't see a ton of evidence that when the cameras were focused elsewhere, Brenda and Lisa were doing each other's hair, talking about boys, and writing nasty things about Kathy Bates and her big ass in their slam books. It was like this time I was totally out of Diet Coke, and when someone asked me why I was crying, I said it was because my friend died. See, Brenda, how there are different gradients of truth, and the gradient under which you are misrepresenting yourself to your nice new friend falls under the classification of "not true at all"? But Joe doesn't care, as he settles into a chair and offers her some "salt and pepper shrimp." Y'all, pop into my place all you want, but don't be assuming you can pick one thing at random from that Deuteronomy-length menu and be all, "This thing spelled with an arrow, a dragon, and a picture of the Great Wall ought to satisfy this man's hunger." You'll be wrong. But maybe I'm just being a tad oversensitive on account of the fact that there is a "Hot Dog Combination Plate" on the menu at my local Chinese takeout place. Served with a side of pork fried rice. Or kraut. But seriously? Visit any time.

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Six Feet Under

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