Roswell
Heat Wave

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Djb: F | Grade It Now!
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Too Hot To Handle, Too Cold To Care

On what is apparently our planet's hottest night since liquid magma solidified the ground below us to create what we now commonly refer to as "the Earth," Maria "Too Hot To Handle" DeLuca and Liz "Too Cold To Hold" Parker are cleaning the Crashdown, after hours. Well, Maria is cleaning, sweeping the floor in a flimsy tank top and the shortest shorts I've seen on any televised human being since the Nair advertising department decided to hang it up some years ago. Liz, meanwhile, is in her room scribbling madly in The Good Book, pausing only momentarily to consider a vanilla-glazed doughnut of which she, after several moments of sultry deliberation, takes a bite. And upon my first, oh, sixty or so viewings of said clip, I thought, "Jeez, Liz, it's just a doughnut." But then I remember that that bite of this doughnut represents Liz's first physical sensation of any kind that doesn't in some way involve a journal entry or a Bunsen burner. So I change my tune to, "Mmmmmm, doughnuts," and hope she really enjoys that doughnut, provided it will prevent her from speaking or, far more importantly, thinking in a speakful manner. Maria, meanwhile, looks up and stares practically at the camera in that "come hither, audience" way. A cheap porno movie is literally going to break out any second. She sweats. She stares. She sweeps. She sweeps. She sweeps. Liz, face full of vanilla-glazed pastry, prepares for her upcoming "Got Milk" ad when a visit to the fridge proves the milk bottle to be empty. Why, I have a brief moment to reflect, was that shot of Liz and the fridge necessary? The answer, I think, is so that it may serve this next segue with all due appropriateness: Maria, also on the hunt for something milky-white to swallow (WOO-HOO!!! Thank you and good night!), glances at the front door of the diner (hey, uh, I just noticed that "Crash Down" is two words, not one. Sars, would you mind reediting the first eight episodes for me? Thanks very much) to see Michael approaching. She unlocks. Michael is looking unfazed by the weather, as "sweaty" pretty much describes his natural state of being at all times. Hey, notice there hasn't been any dialogue so far in this episode? I feel a little inclined to create some imaginary dialogue of my own, especially in keeping with the cheap peep-booth nature of this sequence:

Michael: Hey.
Maria: Hey.
Michael: Hey.
Maria: I was just sweeping [bends over] the floors. They're so -- dirty!
Michael: I like it dirty. Baby.
Maria: Then I'll make it dirty. I can make it as dirty as you want. Oh! What a big -- broom!
Michael: Dust me. Baby.
[stage direction: tawdry doings]

Anyway, Nookie Fest '99 ensues. On the counter, on the tables, on the floor. It's the most grotesque moment captured on tape in the history of the moving image. And if you think that's hyperbole, you missed the episode, didn't you? Didn't you? Anyway, as I avert my eyes from this torrid display and muse on why a tourist restaurant in the middle of the desert would not be equipped with central air conditioning, another voyeur creeps down the stairs and silently catches the two in the act. Liz, hiding behind a counter, registers a horrified look of "hmmm . . . maybe I wasn't brought by the stork after all." This whole thing, like, TOTALLY reminds me of when I was sixteen. Yeah. RIGHT.

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Roswell

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