Tony and Carmela are at the barbecue they were invited to by the neighbors. It's already boys against girls. Carmela's helping set the table, and the men -- well, the men are doing that thing where they all gather around the barbecue and stare at the meat as if it holds all the answers to life's little questions. 'Cause a hot dog is a wise piece of meat. And then the sausage jokes start rolling. But they're not even good sausage jokes, they're just annoying. Here's a sample, offered, of course, by Stupid Neighbor: "Know what's better than a sausage? A pair of tits." Funny? No. Annoying? Yes. Okay, enough with the jokes. They talk stocks. Tony is all ears because of his upcoming IPO scam, but the men aren't giving him anything but the hand. Cut to Carmela, who is having much better luck with the women, who are also discussing stocks. They say it's all about American Biotics, a pharmaceutical company that has developed an almost side-effect-free impotence medicine. Carmela is excited. Not about the impotence medicine, gutter mind. About the fact that Jersey housewives play the stock market. Remember, she's been looking for a way to support herself in the manner to which she's become accustomed in case Tony ends up swimming with the fishes. Or worse, swimming in the Jersey Meadows. She gets the stock tip Tony was digging for and tucks it away for later use.
Hesh sits in his studio, which is lined with gold records, promo posters, and photos of bands, listening to Little Jimmy's song and sipping some serious Scotch. The camera is panning slowly over all the photos, so you can tell he's sentimental and pondering just what to do about his little pickle. Not that little pickle. Get your mind out of the gutter.
Defiler is really terrible. I mean it. They remind me of the musical fall-out of the Pearl Jam/Soundgarden era that plagued Seattle and Portland for years. There were so many mediocre bands pouring into the area, hoping to ride the coattails of grunge into mainstream musical stardom and six-digit record deals, and there were so many A-and-R people coming in and signing just absolute crap bands. These label people were completely encouraging the creation of shitty Green River rip-offs in the vague hope that one of the bands they signed would become the next Nirvana. Which, of course, never happened, because the bands (in general) SUCKED and played such derivative schlock that it sounded like they copied the lyrics and tune from some fill-in-the-blank grunge Mad Libs-style book. No one would buy the records, let alone pay to go see them in concert. I remember one band that actually paid people to see them play so that they would look popular for some guy from Atlantic Records who said he might be in the audience that night. Losers. Anyway. Defiler's really annoying me. And they're starting to annoy the sound engineer at the studio that Christopher has booked them in. They've done sixty-two takes over the last three days. The engineer wants to bag it and go home, but Christopher is having none of it. He whines at the engineer. He whines at Richie. He whines so much that the dog starts whining at me, and I have to put him outside to put him out of his misery. Christopher throws a bag of cocaine at Richie and tells him he'd better snort some, because he's paying three hundred dollars an hour for the studio time and they'd better finish the fucking song. Richie says that he doesn't do drugs anymore and that Kinko's gave him five days off to do the recording. Christopher flips and tells him to either go suck on another downed power line or shoot up the crank. Richie refuses and tells him that the problem was that the bass and drums were miked wrong. The engineer flips at the one and tells him the real problem was that he sucks. Or at least that his songs suck, because they have no choruses. Are you bored with this yet? Me too. I'll sum up. Guitar smashing, yelling, stomping, more yelling, Christopher storming out.