The Amazing Race S06E13

One

According to tradition, odd-numbered TARcons are for dressing up, and even-numbered ones are for dressing down. I have no idea why this is, but I no longer fight it, because it has worked for me so far, and in this case, it meant I did not have to wear heels. And not wearing heels means I don't step on anyone's feet, embarrass myself by walking around barefoot, catch any foot diseases from the sticky floor, or complain bitterly on my way out of the party about how it feels like my toes are falling off. All in all, a successful trip out in my comfortable boots. What, you thought the recap wasn't going to start with what shoes I had on?

Two

I boo when Freddy and Kendra win. And when Aaron proposes. And when the train comes. And when Kendra blows kisses. It is a high-in-booing sort of finale.

Three

Aaron is tall and pretty, and his hair is longer than on TV. Like most guys I meet at these things, he isn't really fully done justice by television. When I see him, Hayden isn't with him, and I don't even realize that she's around somewhere. Might be just as well. Either I tell him who I am or somebody else does, and he looks over with a little chin-jut, not exactly friendly and not exactly unfriendly, and he says, "Oh, I know who you are. I saw your picture at Chip and Kim's site." While someone takes our picture, I cleverly inform him that he is tall, which is this year's "I carried a watermelon." Thank you, ladies and gentlemen!

Four

Before the show starts, I get on the phone with Samantha, who is fourteen (I think), and a fan of the show and the recaps. I explain to her who I am and where I am, and she literally screams. One like that can make up for a lot of snitty emails, people, I will tell you that.

Five

I share my table with Zron and JudyZ, the pseudostudents (everybody wants to see the ring, show me the ring, I want to see the ring, can I see the ring?), M. Darcy, and, of course, the Couch Baron. It occurs to me that I have known some of these people for nearly three years. For a total of, you know, ten hours or whatever. These parties are not quite the unending blasts of insanity for me that they used to be. I'm settled into it now, and I generally track down the people I most want to see, try to remember a few interesting things people say to me, and meet a couple of new people each time. I still get that "I want to go stand against a wall and have no one talk to me" feeling off and on, but at least I don't feel completely ill-equipped to deal with the situation. And I always love the part where I take everything out of the goody bag. I'm the same way on Christmas with my stocking.

Six

Someone takes Adam and Rebecca's picture while they're standing right in front of me, and whoever is taking the picture chooses to call out, "El Hornio!" Which makes Adam smile and say "El Hornio" back, in recognition, and...well, that would appear to be my cue. So I step over, hold up my nametag, and there's this..."Ohhhh." Again, neither friendly nor unfriendly, which I think is approximately what I deserve. Rebecca tells me that it was fun reading "both the good and the not-so-good." Probably more gracious than I could have mustered. I notice that Adam is wearing an ass-kickingly goofy plaid jacket, on which I pay him a compliment, I believe, before telling them they raced really well. I also tell Rebecca that I keep hearing nice things about her, which is true, and she seems glad to hear that. Adam has his horns slicked up all pointy -- are they braided, I wonder -- for what will turn out to be their last night alive before they are clipped off during The Early Show.

Seven

Dratty comes up to talk to me about the reading that Sars and the Couch Baron and I are scheduled to do at KGB Bar on March 17th. (Be there or be square.) He points out, quite correctly, that only a fool would intentionally be in Manhattan on St. Patrick's Day, and I tell him that I am often foolish where travel is concerned. By way of explanation, I tell him my awesome story of flying to Vegas last summer for the S6 premiere party, leaving the party 45 minutes later than I was supposed to, making it to the redeye despite being late AND drunk, flying back to Minnesota, going home, showering, changing, and appearing in court at 10:00 in the morning. And winning, incidentally. He advises me about New York real estate in case I ever decide to move. It is the kind of conversation for which I attend these things.

Eight

I still hear about the "stealing" of the beer. Still. STILL.

Nine

To be perfectly honest with you, I don't really remember how my meeting with Jonathan started. It's not really because of the Coronas; it's because it was very surreal, and I was kind of not looking forward to it, because I didn't want to be shitty to him and cause a scene, but I wasn't really willing to be nice to him, either, so I had sort of hoped we wouldn't meet, but that was clearly not going to happen. What follows is the "to the best of my recollection" version of events.

I think he opens with some line about how he really respects me, and he respects the work I do, and the site, and I think he mentions the email that he wrote me when the season was starting, asking me not to believe everything I saw on TV and complaining (predictably) about how it wasn't all his fault and offering (surprisingly) to tell me whatever I wanted to know about things that weren't shown. Which struck me as a little loose-lipped for a guy working under a confidentiality agreement, but which at least convinced me he probably didn't win.

Anyway, he gets to the end of some part of this, and he's all telling me about the respect he has for my work, and he says something about how unhappy he was with what he saw on the show. "Because," he says, "I'm as big a fan as you are."

And I say, "I don't believe you." Because I don't. Because it's not true. But this sort of stops him cold. I shrug. He stares at me, clearly believing that I'm going to burst out into giggles or something, because I don't really mean it. But the thing is that I do mean it. I tell him that if he has something else to say, he should say it, because I'm listening. And he stares at me. And eventually, he declares himself speechless in a way he thinks is charming.

He begins to go into some kind of extended dance mix of "not all my fault," as he is wont to do, and I ask him about shoving, and I ask him whether he understands that shoving is qualitatively different from anything that's ever been on the show before. "Yes, but."

"Yes, but."

"Of course, but."

"I do take responsibility for it, but."

"Sure it is, but."

I eventually tell him that this is the problem -- that nobody is going to believe him until he says that he shouldn't have shoved her, and then he stops talking. Because all the equivocating makes it sound like he thinks it's okay. "In the context of what was shown, it was --"

This is the end of the conversation, because I can't take it, and it sort of degenerates from this point, and he winds up saying, "I can't believe this, I can't believe this," in his wounded, angry way. Victoria comes up and makes like she doesn't know who I am, saying, "Wait, what, is she the one who posted all that bad stuff?" And he gives some kind of explanation to her of who I am -- "Television Without Pity," he says, "the web site, she's --" And then he turns back to me. "She doesn't read it, she doesn't know." And he sort of pulls her away with him and they walk off, as he loudly says, "I tried, I tried. I tried."

Which made it extra-interesting when Poptart told me that when Victoria walked into the check-in, she was already asking for me by name.

Ten

Hera and I actually meet during my conversation with Jonathan when she walks up and manages, without a hint of allegiance in either direction, to just say, "So how's it going?" Just, you know, diffusing the situation in case it suddenly decides to escalate. She's stunning in person, even more than on TV, and she's also ridiculously nice. And her approach to the specific situation is exactly what was needed. Because I didn't feel like she was intervening on anyone's behalf; she was just sort of walking up. She and I talked again later in the evening, when I met her mom and her sister, and it wasn't surprising to note that they were all very nice, very friendly, and very appreciative of the party. Thumbs-up on the Hera.

Eleven

I'm going to tell you right now that a TARcon without Brennan and Kevin is about fifty different kinds of wrong. There's no fighting, there are no exhausted remembrances of things past, there's no formulaic bickering...it's definitely wrong. Wrong! Boo.

Twelve

Kris and Jon are right behind Jonathan, which is like cleansing your palate with champagne after you chew on a Milk-Bone for about ten minutes. They are...twinkly, for lack of a better phrase. For one thing, he has been completely hiding his light under a visor-shaped bushel, because he is just about the best-looking thing I have ever met at one of these events. It's not that I didn't know they were pretty, but I didn't know they were so pretty. And he evidently knows the site, and immediately thanks me for being a fan of theirs.

And in I Carried A Watermelon II: I Carried Two Watermelons, I say this -- I swear to God, I say this to the guy: "You are so pretty!" Hee. And he thanks me. And then I turn to her, and I say..."He is so pretty!" Which in a way is even funnier, but of course, she laughs, and she says, "I know!", like, "How hot is my boyfriend?", which is completely appropriate to the situation. I even pat his prickly, product-y hair. I also tell them that they saved my whole season, because I thought the whole thing was kind of a drag. They look a little bummed by this, and I say, "Too many assholes." And there is a little pause, and then Kris chirps, "No comment!" Which amuses me far more than it should.

Thirteen

So there's this other thing that happens that's kind of strange and freaky, which is that there turns out to be a guy at this party who's been writing me fan mail since -- I kid you not -- like, 1997 or something. And yes, that predates my tenure at TWoP by about four years. Because prior to TWoP, I had a very teeny online writing career which about fifteen people were aware of outside of my family and friends. This all got put together only after I was on MSNBC last year yapping about fall television, and they used my real name, which he recognized from the old site (which was movie reviews -- ask me about the Reverse Gender-Age Equivalent, Catherine Zeta-Jones, Sean Connery, Jason Priestley, and Frances Sternhagen). So it just goes to show you, uh...something. Maybe that "you never know."

Of course, it's practically impossible to be appropriately grateful for support quite that longstanding, although anyone in attendance will tell you that I really, really, really, really try.

Fourteen

Lena and Kristy are really, really tall. And if you get Kristy, especially, going on the hay bales, she can still tell you how bad that sucked, and she wasn't even the one who had to do it. I'm very bummed out that these particular hyper-super-competitive chicks got dinked by such crap luck, because I certainly wouldn't size them up as incapable of competing with, like, Freddy and Kendra. Bleh.

Fifteen

Someone comes up and tells me at some point that Meredith and Maria are kicking around, and that they're looking for me. I slip out of the crowd and head back into the bar, and there they are. They look smashing, and Meredith is wearing her hair straight, which is very flattering. We chat a little about stick shift and...a few other things involving boat-rowing and bad days and whatnot...and it occurs to me that it wasn't just too many assholes. It was the merciless efficiency with which the nice people were eliminated. If you had had those girls around longer, they, too, would have put a significantly brighter spin on the late episodes.

Sixteen

Oswald's nametag says "I'm Hung." His hair is short again. It really doesn't matter. He's always the best-looking guy in the room, always.

Seventeen

I miss a bunch of racers again this year. They're zigging when I'm zagging, they're over here when I'm over there, they're having lovely conversations when I'm facing off with Jonathan. I miss Avi and Joe, about whom I hear nothing but lovely things. I miss Gus, which is doubly sad because Hera was so nice. Most tragically, I miss Don and MJ, which disappoints my friends when I get home. But again, all reports are entirely positive. I have to start spending less time at these things asking the Couch Baron to save my socially inept ass and more time mingling.

Eighteen

Jonathan comes up again, right when he and Victoria are leaving. This is when I get my hand kissed. And when he talks about how nice it would be if we could trade the occasional email. And I realize that he really does think it's all joking, and that at some point, my faade will break, and it will be revealed that secretly, I know that it's all editing, and just as the Guidos eventually turned out to be okay guys, he will turn out to be okay, too. And that is really, really not in the cards, as I have tried to explain. And honestly, I'm not crazy about being grabbed and handled by someone I dislike. This is also where Hera and I talk a little more. It's all very interesting, and kind of depressing.

Nineteen

At something like three in the morning, I follow a bunch of people from Madison Square Garden to somewhere that turns out to have a cover charge, and then in turn to a diner that doesn't. I drink a mocha, and then it's five, and then it's time to go home, because I'm really tired. In the morning, I make it to Sephora long enough to spend a little money, and then I bag on dim sum because I'm so tired that it's all I can do to get to Couch Baron's apartment and fall onto the...well, couch, where I complain nonstop from then until my taxi comes about being in that horrible half-asleep state where I have to keep bolting caffeine long enough to get my flight later that day, but all I really want to do is fall asleep for about a week. See, TARcon was on a Tuesday night. On Sunday, I had road-tripped to Madison for a Super Bowl party (I KNOW), stayed up until 2:00, slept until 6:00, driven back to Minnesota, and worked for the rest of that day until about 7:00 at night. At which point I went home, packed, went to bed, and got up at 4:30 AM to catch my flight to New York. By Wednesday, waiting for the flight home, I was in some sort of travel-induced fugue state. I like to think any weird behavior on my part at any time during that entire period was attributable to sheer exhaustion.

Anyway, later, I learn that at the lunch I skipped, there was drumming. At that point, I become overwhelmingly grateful that I did not attempt to go, because my head could not have taken any drumming. My head could barely take the girly environs of Sephora.

Twenty

As always, I thank you. To missdona and Poptart, our ferociously devoted organizers: You continue to be bombs and a half, and we are insanely lucky to have you. To Play By Play: Thanks for the Coronas. To all the Racers: Thank you for your graciousness and friendliness. We always love to have you. And to everyone else: I have such a cool job. Thanks for the part you play in that.