As for the yearbook tandem meeting, the only act worse than Cindy's scribble skills are yearbook club adviser's teaching skills. As she recites her poem, he rolls his eyes in disgust. Look, there's no question: Cindy's ode is bad.
But what nice of master doesn't have enough discernment and professionalism to hold that to themselves? Cindy's ditty is one of those "Freaks and Geeks"-in-a-nutshell scenes that captures the aggregate the show has to order about the humor and abasement that Feig and Apatow see as say and parcel of the American high imbue with experience. The actual wording of the scene is funny: Cindy's laughable rhyme and the mocking reaction shots from the instructor and Cindy's fellow students, return Sam's exaggerated kudos when she finishes her opus. But the subtext is all darkness: even the most gay girl at McKinley feels confused and isolated. And not only is she miserable, she is totally unequipped to evince herself.
When she tries to explicate how she feels, even her teacher -- not to allusion the audience at home -- laughs in her face. That's why I suspect, Alison, that you twin this event better than go the distance week's "Carded and Discarded," which you accurately pegged as an intentionally light-hearted affair designed to bear in new viewers. "Girlfriends and Boyfriends" brings us back down to considerable school's hellish depths, where even the attractive cheerleader is a basket case. Am I right? And on the rationale of public sharing their darkest secrets: did we absolutely shortage to know Mr. Rosso had herpes? Alison: I am all about the pain! And the darkness! Raaaa! Seriously: I do on the side of this episode, principally because of the relation between Nick and Lindsay, and how uncomfortably stable it rings in its portrayal of a unbalanced youthful entanglement. Nick adores Lindsay totally.
Lindsay knows Nick is an bloody worthwhile guy, she likes him, her friends want her to liking for him, and she incontestably enjoys non-specific aspects of being part of a couple. But in the end she doesn't as if take to him, as the kids say, not romantically, and that's an insurmountable mess for a relationship. If only Mr. Rosso and the Weir parents knew that Nick is in truth their mythical spouse for Lindsay -- a boyfriend who won't even go so far as to return out with her, much less deflower her.
Moving on to Sam's compete to get closer to Cindy, what I consider captivating about the excruciating metrics recitation -- beside your good point, Matt, that it reveals that even the pretty, effervescent cheerleader feels one and dismal inside -- is that it's the first place time we see that others don't locate Cindy such a paragon of perfection. Sam's worshiped his delusion crumpet from afar for long enough that he finds it bloody-minded to grasp that others don't stroke the same way -- so he blows up at Bill for getting to squander so much time with her. (How he assumes that Cindy would be credulous to Bill's single charms is a mystery.) When Cindy's laughed at by the yearbook crew, Sam's the only one who applauds, and his bewildered looks around the allowance as he realizes that accomplishment represents his starting to have found out that she's not perched on a pedestal, she's just a colleague wanting teenager making her way through the highs and lows of pongy school. As for Mr. Rosso's herpes and Harold Weir's principal time, those moments of oversharing certainly came from a advantageous regard -- they're both instances of an full-grown maddening to talk to Lindsay identical to an equal, not a child.
Of course, Lindsay's not ripe for that at all, at least in this context. I'm not stable I am, either. While Harold's Korea gag is in point of fact fundamentally a comely sad one, Mr. Rosso's is just strange.
Who tells a cautionary falsification about vocal herpes? Is Lindsay's takeaway meant to be that she should never brush anyone again? No rarity that chap has trouble connecting as a leadership councilor.
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