Crazy mad props to the forum regulars for redefining the term "grass-roots effort."
Fade up on the unappealing, non-waterfall-facing, pick-up-trucks-in-a-near-empty-parking-lot, servants' entrance back side of the Great Northern Hotel. It's a shot I might ordinarily refer to as an "establishing shot," but seeing as this façade has never appeared on camera at any point in the first eleven episodes of the series, it doesn't go real far in "establishing" us anywhere in particular. Suffice it to say, it's not pretty. Suffice it also to say that perhaps the FBI has been alerted to the fact that their special agent has become a just little too "special" for this whole crime-solving game, what with the throwing of rocks at far-off bottles and the experiencing of delusional visions of murder-cracking sidekicks of all shapes and sizes. Perhaps they then realized that the whole "Who Killed Laura Palmer" plot arc has spun so wildly out of control that even the murderer has no idea that he (or, um, she) killed her, and transferred their lame duck agent to a less ritzy locale on the other side of the tracks, say "The Mediocre Northern" or "The It'll-Do-For-Large-Families-Traveling-On-A-Budget-Who-Need-One-Night-Out-Of-The-Winnebago Northern." "Great," indeed. If by "Great," you mean "HoJo's."
Cut to inside of Cooper's room, where a ringing alarm clock is clearly and perpetually programmed to the morning broadcast on "Radio Badalamenti," so soon after the alarm goes off do the familiar jives of Sassy Strings begin to play. A hand reaches into the frame, turns the alarm clock off, and fumbles with its trusty tape recorder. Cooper sits up in bed. To great hilarious effect, the left half of his hair is a big, cowlicky mess, and I miss the first few seconds of Cooper's morning address to Diane, drowned out as it is by the deafening and pervasive tearing sound of this show's visual style once again ripping itself off. Joined in progress, Cooper very badly wants Diane to know the following: "I dreamt I was eating a large, tasteless gumdrop. I awoke to realize I was aggressively munching on one of my air pillow silicone earplugs. Hence: the tastelessness. Perhaps I should keep a closer eye on my after-dinner coffee consumption." Heh. Welcome back, Funny Deadpan Cooper. I'm glad you seem to have put Unfunny Just-Plain-Dead Cooper to rest this week. He continues, grabbing his pillow and walking across the room: "Persistent soreness in the rib area, which I am treating each morning with fifteen extra minutes of yogic discipline. After which, thankfully, the pain retreats to a cul-de-sac in a distant suburb of my conscious mind." Realizing he has nowhere left to go with this already tenuous "brain as urban landscape" metaphor he seems so keen on cultivating ("...the pain then stops into the Dairy Queen near this suburban cul-de-sac, hassles the neighbors into lending it a cup of flour, and tells those darned varmint kids to stop playing Frisbee so near its crocus garden and get offa my lawn et cetera..."), Cooper drops the pillow near a wall by the bed and announces, "I am going to begin today with a headstand." And hence, Cooper goes all sorts of gymnastic on us (I guess "agile athleticism" was listed right before "can disappear effortlessly from cultural barometer for well over a decade until figuring out foolproof way to blackmail Darren Star" in the "special skills" section of Kyle MacLachlan's acting dossier), displaying great calisthenic prowess as he hoists himself up on his head, barely using the wall for support. "Diane. I am now upside-down." Hee hee hee. He is, you know.