The O.C.
The Distance

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Welcome Back To The O.C.

Previously on The O.C.: a national phenomenon was born. A nation changed its official flower to The Weeping Marissa and its official car to the Death Cab. Then, a national phenomenon tried to make us care over and over for a span of twenty-seven episodes. Now the national phenomenon is back. Only this time it's called Lost, and it's not getting its ass handed to it in the ratings by Survivor. Sorry, O.C. Better luck with some other nations and some other phenomenon.

In what appears to be the version of heaven according to the set designer of What Dreams May Come, we join the action in progress to find billowy white sheets reflecting some sun-dappled lightness from above. We pan down to find ourselves in the midst of some hardcore housing construction, featuring tens of shirtless men just wandering around in what now appears to be the version of heaven according to the set designer of Boat Trip. Oh. Just a note to those of you who have never read one of my recaps before: I guess it's important that I take this moment to point out that all of my pop-culture analogies are derived entirely through comparisons to the movies of Cuba Gooding Jr. Luckily, I am now out of Cuba Gooding Jr. movies that jump immediately to mind, unless you count that one where he and Skeet Ulrich are driving, like, a runaway ice cream truck wired in exploding orange fruities and zooms. Anyway, show me the money. Am I right? I mean, aren't I?

Anyway, tens of shirtless men combine for a combined sixty-six pack, by my count, carrying tools and lugging heavy equipment and forcing a call to my doctor because I have sensitive insides and I fear I might have just eclipsed the USDA maximum of beefcake allowed in my limited diet. Through this firemen's calendar walks Sandy "Don't Forget I'm From Da Bronx" Cohen, listening to a shirted man we'll call the foreman as he explains, "We had to knock down the retaining wall to allow for more flow." Sandy responds incredulously, adopting the language of his oppressors, "When do you think we will have achieved flow?" Shirty Foreman gets a bit...well, shirty, responding in his best dontchoo-try-ta- mess-wit-me- 'cause-my-dialect-coach- also-taught-me-to-be- from-Da-Bronx snarl, "When do you think we'll be done tearing your house apart?" Sandy takes this moment for melancholy self-reflection to retort, "My house is torn apart. The construction's got nothing to do with it." With which the retaining wall threatens to collapse completely, because poets and teamster contractors alike know that a house divided against its own strained metaphor cannot stand.

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