Even later that evening (so much later, in fact, that the sun is already up), Tony and Steve are eating breakfast in a local diner. You know this scene is going to be important, by the way, because there's a bridge in the background. Tony offers to get Steve hooked up with some opportunities, but Mr. Buscemi isn't interested. He explains that he became an orderly in prison, not because it would help him get connected (which is what Tony thinks) or because he has a fascination with Klinger from M*A*S*H (which is what I thought), but because he really wanted to help people. "I really got into this shit," he explains. "Rehab block, we had guys with broken limbs, muscle diseases, missing eyeballs, ass tattoos, and glass in their stomachs. Hell, we even had a dude once with a hemi-penis!" He also reveals that he's already gotten his associate's degree, and he's only six months away from getting his "massage license." An understandably confused Tony thinks Steve wants to manage a massage parlor (also good work if you can get it, by the way), but Steve clarifies that he wants to become "a licensed massage therapist." Hee! Tony is still stuck on his airbag idea, but Steve insists that he just wants a good, clean, honest job to hold him over until he gets his license. Tony finally gives in, and promises to hook him up with a local Korean dry-cleaner who needs a driver for his van. He also promises to get Steve a driver's license through his contacts at the DMV. Well, that's...sweet, I guess. Steve certainly thinks so, and they share yet another big hug in front of the looming bridge.
Das Sopranohaus. It's movie night for the girls, and Carmela opens the doors to Tony's home theater to find AJ sprawled across one of the chairs. We see a brief, half-second clip of whatever AJ is watching, and it's killing me because I'm almost positive that I've seen it before, but I can't remember where. I hate that. She boots him out, and all the wives file in. The group consists of Carmela, Rosalie Aprile, Adriana, Janice Parvati-Soprano-Baccalieri, Mrs. Little Stevie, and a mystery woman whom only the end credits can identify as Mrs. Patsy Peesy. She doesn't really seem like the sort of woman who'd be into golden showers, so I guess that just goes to show that you can't judge a toilet by its pink satin seat cover. The women have decided to watch the AFI's Top 100 list in ascending order, so tonight's film will be Citizen Kane. Rosalie doesn't like the idea of watching something in black and white, but Carmela insists that a little culture will do them some good. And then she reads aloud from Leonard Maltin's review of the movie, and if ever there were a Lladro of film criticism, it would definitely be good old Lenny. Carmela does, however, have some trouble reading the review, noting that the screenplay was written by "Orson Welles and Herman...something." That's Herman Mankiewicz, for those of you who are too lazy to type "IMDb" into your browsers. And now I'm craving some Manischevitz, but that's a different story. I should also note at this point that the women have elected to get the film on VHS rather than DVD, which I don't buy for a second. Carmela is way too snobby for VHS, and we know for a fact that she owns at least one DVD. In fact, I myself own Citizen Kane on DVD (it was a gift from Sars, no less), so I have no idea why the prop guys couldn't find it. And while we're bitching about glaring continuity errors, I'd also like to mention that we see the women using a completely different remote control than the last time we were in here. And I know that for a fact because a friend of mine recently bought a new universal remote specifically because it was the same one Tony Soprano had. And for the record, that guy's wife also collects Lladros. Anyway, Carmela pops the tape into the VCR, and Adriana hits play on the (wrong) remote. And then the standard FBI warning appears in huge letters on the big screen, and all the women (especially Adriana) squirm uncomfortably for a loooooong moment. Hee hee! That totally makes up for all the mistakes. Heh.