If Nancy hadn't turned to drug dealing, things would have been pathetic and horrible, right? And her kids would still be total messes. And people would still be dying and her cover business would never have turned into her real business and Celia Hodes would still be a monster with syringes coming out the face and there would be no Andy and no Conrad and no Guillermo and no Esteban and no Avi. She would have had to sell the house and do Normal Things that depressing Normal People Do. You gotta turn to page 603, because she tried it their way, the Normal Newman way, and it was worse than she ever could have imagined.
They're doing poor people jobs! There was pee!
So, off to lie about having cancer to this lady who is played by the female equal of the Tim Gunn/Ivanek/Stormare Hot Old triumvirate, Caroline Lagerfelt. I have always wanted to see her gams, from Buffy to Gossip Girl. I just have this feeling she's rocking the Helen Mirren bikini bod. (Oh, and the mom from Freaks & Geeks. I don't know why, but that lady nails it every time. And that concludes this week's list of Hot Olds, for all time, because it has now been exhausted. Stay tuned for some other gross thing I had no intention of admitting to anyone, ever.) Best interchange in this interview:
Lady: Well. I must say, you look pretty good for having cancer.
Nathalie: Well, they haven't started the chemo yet, so mostly I'm just kind of... Blah...
Which just goes to prove that once you've dealt with cancer, cancer jokes have no way of becoming any less funny in accumulation, if done right. And Nathalie Newman doing her most disaffected impression of a hangover to demonstrate untreated cancer is among them. Long story short, Lagerfelt's place is just a patient network that connects you with "a caregiver -- grower -- and then you make your own arrangements for the medicine -- marijuana."
Her pert clarifications are pertly intoxicating. I wish there was a show where Caroline Lagerfelt played a wonderful wizard lady, like half Auntie Mame half Bedknobs & Broomsticks, and she would just wink inappropriately at the young men and wear outrageous outfits and throw lavish witch parties and never, ever give a damn.
Nathalie wants to network, but of course cannot produce her doctor's note -- "He's not, in the strictest sense of the word, a doctor?" -- and in the lengthy awkward silence gets up to leave, but my dear Lagerfelt is not done. "...There it is!" she points, and there they are, in Nathalie's shoes, which look like Lagerfelt's size. Even for Nathalie, whose Nancy luck never ever runs out, this is a bit ridic, but she goes with it. And flip-flopping on her way, finds herself at the door of a most impressive home.
One of those delightful actresses in the Shawnee Smith/Pamela Adlon nexus answers the door to welcome Nathalie, and who is sitting on the couch being her usual muscled eerie self but Original Sarah Connor herself, Linda Hamilton, onetime soulmate to Sewer Mutants both Real (James Cameron) and Lion-Faced Imaginary. I like that she's back. I like nothing quite so much as when they come back to us. Like who knew Margot Kidder and Anne Heche would come zooming home from Crazytown, so perfectly lovely and unscathed? And now Linda Hamilton is having her moment -- still so gorgeous and intense and never really that crazy in the first place -- and Anne Heche looks better than she's ever looked, which is just so important.
It gives me hope that one day, after becoming super famous and undergoing the massive public breakdown we all knew was coming, I too shall have another shot at the bigtime. "It was the pills that got small," I'll say, and whatever Hunter Parrish-type kid I'm paying to read aloud to me will nod, having heard it all before, and return to whatever Iron Man or Tropic Thunder sort of script my people have chosen for my return, for my debut. Perhaps I'll be a wrestler this time, Elle Fanning for my estranged daughter; or perhaps I'll co-star with Martin Lawrence in a buddy-cop piece for the ages.
"I remember when all it took in this town was a handful of bennies and Kanye West's phone number, Silas. They'd give you the fuckin' moon!" And he'll grunt Stop callin' me Silas, my name's not Silas and I'll say, "Brad Goreski dined here once, in this very house. Out by the pool. I'll point out to you the lounge chair he used. Remind me, you petulant ungrateful boy" and then probably something about how somebody touched or stole my knickknacks, and then I'll take a wee nap. And I'll dream of Linda Hamilton, back in 2010. Back on the show, things suddenly flare back up into that long-ago brilliance that used to define it. Every second is glorious after this point.
"Fiona! The seitan is burning! And save the oil! Fuels our van." (Trans. We are actual liberals, and gays, and ladies! Three things Nancy Botwin cannot handle but Nathalie Newman will try and schmooze anyway! She knows not of hubris!) Which is exactly what happens. She tries -- after a painful exchange regarding "Gaia" -- to get more than the paltry amount she's bought on consignment, offering "one sister to another" to become their biggest customer, although not strictly adhering to the "personal use" clause.
"Except you're not my sister, and we're not wholesalers," says Linda, with her crazy Holly Hunter braids, remembering how they used to do it down in the Tunnels. It was scrap and fight for everything, back in the day. No second chances, no bullshit. Just the force of your will, your lion-faced sewer mutant lover, and anything you could hold onto that they didn't just take from you. It was a hard knocks life but one she values still. That and Gaia.
Nathalie notices that the Providers don't keep the trimmings from their plants -- a couple other, less Caucasian ladies sit at a table stuffing them into garbage bags -- and gorgeous lover Fiona explains that you can't compost them because they are bad for the beetroot as well as anybody who eats the beetroot. I don't know what beetroot is but I'm sure it tastes all kinds of vegan. Their adorable five-year-old comes running through the room with golden locks flowing and Nathalie manages to call him "her" and "she" about sixty times before Linda rears up on the couch: "We need to cut his hair. You're gonna make him a fag!"
Fiona shows a bit of mommy steel, hissing, "Hey. He's good" before grabbing the boy -- "Kish" -- and needling him about how the improvised Barbie gun he's created "better be shooting peace rays!" And I mean, for a show that doesn't always do gay that well, you have nailed it. Well fucking played. For being such cartoons these are the least cartoonish gay ladies I've ever seen on TV. I mean, I looooved the makeup lady last year, but if you want a little peek at my life, check these ladies out. I live in Austin, for Christ's sake, just trust me. In fact, I seem to remember painting a perfect portrait of them at some point in the past... Yeah, here it is.
First of all, little boys do this. Everything is a gun. A bitten bite out of a slice of bread makes it into a gun made of bread. ("Any tool is a weapon if you hold it right," said Sister Ani. She was talking about IQ, but then lesbian vegetarian mommies wield that weapon better than anybody.) It's not about violence, it's about penises, which explains why even super gay little kids will still improvise guns, and why even super cool moms will never figure that one out. So the fact that he's doin