Roswell
Missing

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Oh, Liz, What Were You Thinkink?

Fade in on Liz "I'm Too Sexy For This Town" Parker walking home by herself at an advanced hour of the evening. Decked out in a designer leather jacket, boot-cut jeans, and what I'm guessing are Prada shoes retailing for around $400, Liz glances suspiciously around at the dark and empty street as if to say, "If they can see me, they can dress like me. Why, oh why, must they all dress like me?" She alters her pace and thinks she hears footsteps behind her, but cleverly decides to drown them out with the defensive tactic of thinking really loudly. Apparently this endless, nebulous diatribe is yet another entry into the journal of Liz Parker. The voice-over communicates a new paranoia replacing the security she's felt in her little town that she's always taken for granted: "Maybe it's not the world that's changed. Maybe it's just you. And then, suddenly, you begin to wonder all over again." The folks over in the Roswell Writer's Break Room need to keep pace with the "one highly undramatic and easily-resolved plot development per episode" ratio they have painstakingly maintained thus far, and I'll bet it's got something to do with that journal. So Liz arrives home, safely off the mean streets, digs through a bottom drawer in her bureau teeming with unwearable scarves and accessories crumbled up in a ball because they're, like, SO Fashion Week '97. But I think there's something she's looking for in that drawer, and I think it just ain't there.

Cut to Liz showing up at Maria's door and informing her that "my journal is missing." Maria shakes her head quizzically and so do I, hoping that she will repeat the last word of her previous sentence, which she very clearly pronounces with a hard "K" sound: "missink." She tells a now-panicky Maria that she "wrote things about Max." Everything, Maria asks? Yes, Maria, everythink. Maria: "Like where he's from, what he is, I mean, what he isn't?" Liz: "I mean everythink." Is this an affectation? A speech impediment that remains latent until moments of high drama such as this? Whatever it is, she'd better consider dropping it and fast; with no journal to keep her quietly pensive, Liz is going to have quite a bit of out-loud talking to do in this episode. And if she's having some trouble gaining a grasp on the tricky "gerund" form of the English language, well, we can only imagine what other problems Liz will soon begin havink.

Fade in on Michael, sound asleep in his fake wood-paneled bedroom of The House That Drives. He awakens with a start ("I dreamt I was horribly poor! No, no, that's real. Oh.") and jumps out of bed, searching madly around. He grabs a notebook and then looks frantically around for a writing implement. He seizes upon a pencil, finding it, much like this entire sequence, to have no point. I watch transfixed as easily twenty minutes pass, Michael staring pensively at the unsharpened pencil. I know he's going to sharpen it with his hand. He knows he's going to sharpen it with his hand. Cloistered monks sequestered on snowy mountaintops for generations who still believe that our moods are determined by "bodily humors" and who are unacquainted with any advent in modern technology since the invention of, say, fire know he's going to sharpen it with his hand. So WHY do we pass an eon of time staring at Michael staring at the unsharpened pencil in his hand? Finally, Michael gives himself over to predictability and sharpens the damn pencil with his hand (that's so COOL! I didn't know he could do that) and begins sketching madly.

Cut to Michael loudly knocking on Max's window, where a soundly sleeping Max ("I had a dream that I was Dumbo and that people were STILL NOT OVER making fun of my ears. No, no, that's real, too.") rises and lets him in. Michael produces the pencil sketch of "what I saw that night in Valenti's office, when I touched the key," a drawing of a half-circle that he probably could have been confident enough to just draw in pen and not wasted the entire first half of the episode. Not that I'm complaining. Michael admits to Max that he doesn't know what the drawing means yet, and Max suggests that three in the morning might not be the time to discuss in depth his friend's new-found passion for the semicircular arts. Michael unfurls his sleeping bag and decides to spend the night, for once, in a house that doesn't come equipped with a turn signal.

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Roswell

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