You know that part of Magnolia, or Jerry Maguire, or Oprah, where Tom Cruise starts singing "Save Me" or "Free Falling" or "Psycho Killer, Qu'est-Ce Que C'est?" or whatever, and you get so, so embarrassed and you have to look away? Times one hundred. For almost every second of the episode. I have hysterical blindness in my ears now. It's like the opposite of how Daredevil can hear really super-well, except the sense that's being compensated for is my sense of self.
In an incredibly awkward, over-rehearsed, silly conversation, Clay is transferred to Excel by Trump in order to even out the teams after last week's double-cobra. He loves the idea, Capital Edge loves the idea, and the two-person Excel team "loves" the idea. Rebecca manages to make it sound like they're doing something hardcore and extreme and in your face, while Randal -- who usually gets along with Clay -- is nice about it because he has class.
The task: Choose a boring musical artist, write and produce a boring song, and check in with the boring demographic of "XM Café," an XM Radio station that gives me the shivers. Here are some juicier bits from the remit: "Growing up doesn't mean growing old. But it does increase your enjoyment of more challenging rock artists⦠You won't hear wailing guitar solosâ¦but you will hear thoughtful musiciansâ¦artists like the Wallflowers." That's where I stopped reading, because the Wallflowers make me want to destroy our planet with a giant ice machine, like the Cassidines.
So both songs are super-boring, but the question becomes: are they both boring in the right way? Ultimately not. So which is more perfectly boring? Given that we spent fifteen minutes on the trade of Clay from perennial loser Cap Edge to Randal/Rebecca powerhouse Excel, I'm sure you know that answer. Felisha is the PM for Capital Edge, and is good, if low-key, and possibly remote-controlled, but boy does she understand the XM Café market.
Meanwhile, Clay takes his self-obsession to new, almost spiritual heights, pisses off everyone involved in the venture at least eleven times, then sabotages Rebecca's presentation. Except it wasn't "sabotage," just the usual Clay incompetence, and it wasn't a "presentation" so much as an awkward press release about the country of Nigeria, and they didn't lose for any of these reasons. They lost because XM Café is stupid and because Trump is stupid and because what the hell does any of this crap have to do with real estate? No, I'm seriously asking.
Alla's Sucky Reward Karma continues to bite her in the veloured ass, and Capital Edge has to fly around New York in a helicopter with Donald Trump screaming at them about how he owns all kinds of crazy screaming real estate. But have you ever written a song, Trump?
Finally, Trump puts all of Excel on blast: Rebecca for not being as intense and frightening as usual, Randal for screwing up the station number for XM Café on their promo materials, and Clay for being absolutely horrendous and alienating everybody that has to deal with him. Then he bangs on the table and fires Clay, who spends the entire taxi ride on a speech you know by heart by now: "Rebecca and Randal are great big meanies, and Alla is a big mean bitch, and now that I'm gone the sun will never shine again and not even porcupines and little forest creatures will be able to persuade it to come out, and plus if you throw me out of the suite, Adam's pretty much guaranteed to die a virgin."
Last week Trump said fillum for film and Martian for Marshawn, Clay was out of his damn mind some more, and Brian and Marshawn were fired. Nobody saw Star Wars because they've all been masterminding fake multimillionaire careers since they were little children, while Jacob went nuts about the scandalous treatment of all those old white rich men in the media. One or all of these apparently caused it to rain.
There's a "thalkboard," as Jennifer W. might say, in the suite, and it has all the PMs for all the tasks and how they're doing. While the departed team members are mostly all erased, Markus remains, with a giant line through his name (and his 1-0 PM record!). It's funny and says a lot about the prevailing suite sentiment: his spirit lives on, albeit in a Turn Of The Screw, cautionary-tale kind of way.
Capital Edge is hanging out, waiting for Excel to return -- and I say Capital Edge, but I mean Felisha, Adam, and Alla, because Clay is busy in the kitchen being a pariah and part-time housekeeper. Felisha says she'll be "really upset if Brian didn't fight" in the Boardroom. Alla and Felisha discuss how Brian's smart and savvy enough to fight for himself without getting dirty or personal, and (at least editing-wise) the implication is a view on how that's Clay's main problem, because he doesn't actually understand Personal v. Not Personal, in the world of grownups.
Clay interviews that Randal is, of course, coming back. He somewhat muddies the waters of this clear and obvious point when he says that the reason for this is that his team was "nice enough" to give Randal an exemption. I'm going to stop you right there, Clay, because it's not about being "nice" or "not nice" when it comes to performance: it's about "quality." When your team say they hate you, it's not because they want to hurt your feelings, it's because you're awful. Personal attacks are a posteriori to your bullshit. If anyone ever pulls personal shit on you out of the blue, you'll maybe get a little more clarity on the difference, but so far you've not given anyone anything to work with, because you're awful before they get the chance to be mean. It's cool of Clay to give Randal the same pass on behavior that he gives himself, though. Like, no matter what or how Randal did, any judgments on his professional value will still be relegated to the relative "niceness" of his teammates, and not his actual performance. Clay also thinks that Marshawn's in the clear, but I'm not sure which of the countless bullies in the world will be "nice" enough to let her do that.
Rebecca hops through the door and straight back into the suite for a debrief, ignoring Capital Edge altogether, because she's hardcore. Felisha welcomes them, to no avail that we see, and Clay and Alla have a neutral moment where they agree on the WTF of yet another double-cobra. It is kind of tense.
Rebecca and Randal sit down and get professional and intense with each other. Rebecca calls it a "sobering Boardroom," and Randal agrees, saying he expected Brian to leave. We don't, however, get to see Rebecca's post-Boardroom thoughts on the whole Darth Markus situation with Marshawn, which I was interested in seeing. She says that her "biggest concern" is maintaining the dynamic that all two of them "currently have." She tells Randal, and he nods knowingly, that she knows "what it was like to be on a team where the objective was to betray in order to advance, on some level or another." Yeah, so does Randal, Little Miss "networking is for the boring and the dead." But her point is valid: Alla has perfected the art of hands-free ruination, Felisha will more than likely fall down like a dead Pinocchio if more than ten yards from Alla, and nobody can even remember Adam's name. The thing is that they've both worked with the Bloven, and they're both scared of the remaining members, but Randal is the only one of the two to have worked with Clay, so he's the only one who gets to be scared of that too.
Capital Edge is debriefing as well, now that they know the score. Clay is staring petulantly up at Alla from the bed as she tries, once again, to explain the concept of "other people," "it's just business," and other things Clay is not prepared to understand. "We could be a strong team if we could get you over your personal feelings," she says, which is a bit condescending, but Clay's belief that he is six years old takes the sting out of that mighty quick: "…The personal feelings that were put on me?" Again, this is said for effect, which is irritating, but not as irritating as the content: you mean the feelings you made me feel by not fawning over my inability to work productively?
Adam ruins Alla's flow by taking issue with the wording there: "'Put on you'?" Clay hisses, "Well, you don't have to like it! I don't like the way you've worded anything you've said about me." Which things included such hate-filled diatribes as "I do not vote for exemption" and "please don't joke about my racial background." I know it's rough, dude. That Adam is a real viper. Adam looks at Felisha like, "I don't even know what to do here." Alla tries to move beyond this bump, because she was willing to agree with the bullshit "put on me" statement in order to underscore the idea of moving forward. An idea Clay will never understand. He shrugs like this all of this is completely beyond his control.
Quick Quiz: How's Your Body Language Literacy? Rank the following in order of effective physical placement:
A) Lying on the bed, whining, your head at the lowest point in the room, while you try to get everyone to agree that their constant persecution and careless ignorance of your all-important emotions should make them feel terrible about themselves.
B) Sitting on the bed, giving a feeling of informality and team togetherness, even as the de facto leader of the team attempts to address the concerns of the emotionally wounded in a way that might get him back on track.
C) Standing, to the de facto leader, in a way that makes the wounded child on the bed feel ganged-up on and justifying his feelings of being marginalized and chastened.
D) Standing, at the high point of the room, commanding attention and demanding teamwork and on-task performance regardless of past issues, willing to acknowledge and then move beyond hurt feelings for the good of the team.
Answer Key: D, B, C, A. Optimally, this conversation should have taken place at a table, round if possible, with equal placement of the four players so that Clay wouldn't feel any more imbalance in the group dynamic than he already (rightly) does -- it would have underscored Alla's point of moving beyond the Boardroom and into the task, which admittedly is a hard sell for Clay, and needs all the nonverbal backup it can get. Points to Felisha for at least attempting to balance out the standing/sitting ratio by sitting on the bed, and demerits to Adam for standing there like Alla's lieutenant.
Alla interviews, again, that Clay's negativity and inability to look at things objectively is a major issue. She refers to him as a roadblock, but I think a Detour is more appropriate, so a skinny, kind-hearted and smart dude in ill-fitting pants pops up at this point. A Detour is a choice between two tasks, each with its own pros and cons. In "Moccasins," a player must navigate his or her inability to see things through the lens of Clay's innate narcissism in order to alert him to reality. In "Machinations," the player must give the illusion of taking Clay's input at face value, while secretly correcting for his egocentric bullshit for a win. Ultimately, Alla says, "You cannot change Clay. We've tried. He's Clay and he'll stay Clay." Which is the crux of the narcissism issue: if God himself told Clay to take it down a notch, he'd still say, "That's just your opinion." There's no hitting bottom with someone like that, because there's no bottom to hit. (Show some class and don't giggle -- real professionals bunt the easy pitch.) That is to say strictly that if the entire world is the box, you can't criticize him from outside it and have it sound legit to him. (Cf. every episode of Intervention for more about this very grave issue.)
Adam, again fucking up, tries to clarify about how he can't give somebody an exemption if he thinks they did a "below-par job," and I can only imagine the Alla eye-roll at this one, because you know what's going to happen now. Talk about undermining the whole thing. I bet Alla finds Adam pretty annoying right now -- at least Felisha keeps her trap shut and lets Alla play this game. I mean, I guess Adam thinks they're having an actual conversation, but wouldn't it be smarter to let her blow some smoke and negotiate something other than an actively-hostile issue here? So Clay, inevitably, retreats to a safe, put-upon place, flounces up with his hands in the air, and jumps around like a little girl: "We are done." He bows at the waist to Alla and exits, pursued by a bear. God, he's obnoxious. Clay, it's REALLY not about what you think it's about. I'm kind of miffed myself, because I wanted to see where Alla was going with this. How do you get from "it's the Boardroom, stupid" to "task, please"? I've never seen anyone complete this pass with Clay, and I wanted to know how you would do it.
It's 6:30 the morning, and Clay -- who always looks incredibly hot in the morning -- is making a fruit salad while looking incredibly hot. The phone rings, and it's Rhona: can they get ready in two hours? Clay hops up and tells Randal they're going to Trump Modeling and Management, and they talk about how fun and exciting that idea is. And it is. Clay's so cute every morning, before he takes his sadness and persecution pills.
Trump introduces Miss Universe, who for all we know lives in his stupid office, to the Viceroys. Carolyn smiles at her like maybe she's retarded or on the verge of a seizure, and Miss Universe is wearing a necklace made of wooden beads as big as croquet balls. After being introduced, Carolyn smiles awesomely in a way which manages to say everything you're thinking, starting with: "Look out, Melania."
Trump Modeling and Management is a very lovely building, and then something really, really weird happens that I've full-on Zaprudered and still can't figure out. There's a shot of the Apprenti filing in. There's a shot of Trump, who holds out his hand like they are dogs, and he says "Wait right there, thank you." Cut back to our kids, who are lined up and waiting, and a weird saxophone line hits, like some femme fatale just entered the room to ask them for help in solving a crime. It's gone as abruptly as it came, and then we cut to Trump, Miss Jennifer, and the Viceroys, and he says, "Okay, let's go," and they all walk around the corner with normal The Apprentice music playing, and they line up opposite our kids like Red Rover. It's so weird, and so fast, but yet…so weird.
The Final Six all look really nice -- Felisha has some inscrutable big hair and lots of makeup. It's soft but intense. I don't think she looks any prettier than normal -- she's very cute, I think -- but it's different. Makes you kind of jump. Trump talks about how it's "Week Nine of your thirteen-week interview," and how George is back, and introduces them to Jennifer Hawkins, Miss Universe from the Australia part of the universe. Why is she there? We'll learn shortly, and it's dumb. Trump lets them know that there will be no more exemptions after this point, and Rebecca and Felisha's reaction shots make this seem like a big deal? But really, it's not.
Then comes the time when we even things up, and it's weird and fake and ugly. Trump asks whether Clay's happy with his team (automatic no, no matter what team you're talking about), and mentions that they didn't give him an exemption. Clay says, stiltedly, that he would "love a change today." Trump fakely clarifies that he's "freely asking for a change," and Clay fakely reiterates that he'd " love a change." Asked for opinions, Adam says that although Clay is hard to deal with, this request shows a "lack of loyalty," Randal calls Clay "one of the most creative people in the suite right now," and Rebecca (getting weird and hardcore as usual) says that Clay hails from a "victorious" team, and that they'd be "honored to have him" on their team. I cannot precisely locate my love for Rebecca, so I can't expect you to understand it: I don't know if I want to work with Rebecca, for Rebecca, or if I just want to hang out and be BFF and do secret missions with Rebecca in the dead of night. Anyway, Trump "lets" Clay make the switch, like it's this huge issue -- but somebody was going to jump, and either way Clay would be in contention, so…it's pretty much not. Randal hugs Clay, and then Clay hugs Rebecca incredibly awkwardly, without looking at her, like she's a five-year-old with a dirty face at a family reunion.
Trump explains Jennifer from Australia: the Trumpanies are "always on the search and lookout for new talent," and with Jennifer they've "found a winner." Luckily, we don't have to watch Carolyn burst into laughter, then tears, at this. Trump wants the Apprenti to develop new talent in a different but no-less-sexy in-dust-ry, the radio in-dust-ry. He explains that XM Satellite Radio has a value of $9.5B, 150 channels, and millions of subscribers. So that's this week's awkward segue: he "auditioned" Miss Universe -- which has no talent competition, even as a token nod to it being two centuries since that shit was unacceptable -- and found her to be "sexy," just like the radio in-dust-ry. God, he's creepy. They'll find an artist with the most talent, write a song and produce the track, and then the song will be played on one of XM's premiere stations, XM Café. The team whose song best fits the format wins.
Clay interviews some more shit that makes me see red: "I wanna win this task so bad, just so that Mr. Trump can say, 'Hey guys, what happened with y'all? You know, you said it was all Clay's fault…but Clay goes to the other team and they win.'" Points for the near-perfect linguistic impersonation of Trump, demerits for…missing the point of the universe and everything that matters, here or anywhere. Every section of your life. Again. "Sure will suck to be them!" he continues. No matter how many times I cobra the screen, he stays there, pissing me off. It's not about making you feel great and validating your me-v.-everybody stand, douchebag. It's about performance. This is why Alla is better than Clay, at the least: no matter what else about her, she wants to win because she wants to be the Apprentice, not because she wants to get revenge on somebody that was mean to her in high school. It would be funny if he'd said, like he did on the deep-sea-fishing reward, "…So I can finally show Josh!" But basically that's...what he's saying. Whatever part of the world is currently making him unhappy for no reason whatsoever, he'd like Daddy Trump to punish them for their meanness.
Trump's Weekly Wisdom, "Creative Balance," is not only nonsensical, but only tells us in retrospect which team will lose, and not who will be fired. He explains that only a "great" businessperson can "decide between practicality and creativity," and we get a clip of a marketing pitch where the poster shows a picture of Trump Vodka with the bottle projected up the building. "That's a very smart ad," says Trump, but what he means is, "My buildings are very tall and erect and yooge and girthy and powerful, and will fuck you into submission. My vodka should be no less virile, and I thank you for demonstrating that, even though Absolut has done this same campaign eleven times, starting ten years ago, and even has done holiday variations on the theme. Good work." He explains that you "have to be able to strike a balance -- if you don't strike a balance it's not going to work." See, it's practical because it shows the bottle, and because boys think liquor = sex, but it's creative because Trump is fucking gross, and that's the balance. He thanks them again for their presentation, and then they leave so Miss Universe can tie him up and make him vacuum his office naked.
Excel spends fifteen minutes with the first artists, and Rebecca tells us she wanted to be Project Manager because it seemed fun -- she has a passion for music, and anyone would agree that producing music is fun. Boring group number one is boring guitar and a boring but lovely vocalist. Randal tells us that the task is about finding a "fit" between the artist, the song, and the XM Café genre. Dude, every time I type the word "genre" now I type it "gendre," thanks to one Mr. Bo Bice. The genre itself, according to Randal, is "rock," but "a combination of different sounds," but has a "focus on lyrics," but is "easy listening." Except for the "easy listening" part, I think you can sum it up as: "Wallflowers meets a less complex Dave Matthews Band, with the lyrical feeling of Maroon 5's singles but without the animus, a little Hootie without the nonexistent ethnicity, five subway stops down from actual Peter Mulvey-folk, take a left at matchbox 20, and lose the drums that make music interesting, because that leads to dancing, which leads to fun and spilled Cosmos." Past-life Janeane Garofalo could probably do a better job of this than I, but she went all Lying Liars a while back, so...you're stuck with me.
Boring artist number two is Jidé, a fresh-faced and enthusiastic up-and-coming vocalist, who has a good voice but it's just so -- this is a personal call and you should make up your mind, because he's a likeable guy -- boring. The guitarist is cute, if a tad Bensonhurst in the hair area, and Jidé's influences include Babyface and Stevie Wonder, although he'd like to play the fusion/World Beat angle because he's originally from Nigeria. Which he left when he was three, and not a whit of which do I hear in the music we get in the music we get to hear, but that's all I'm saying about that. He's allowed to play an angle, if he wants to be successful and differentiate himself, and I respect that. Rebecca says that she picked him because he's versatile, has "flavor" in his voice (specifically the flavor you taste after a kiss from a rose), and wants to include these Nigerian influences in his music. She talks about XM Café's sophisticated, intellectual listeners -- I'm invoking "Drinking Game" status on this phrase right now, for those of you playing at home or at the office -- and thinks she's got a hit. This is where she lost the task and I'll tell you why:
What The Execs Said: XM Radio's XM Café.
What Rebecca Heard: National Public Radio's World Café.
Now, undoubtedly the XM folks originally went with the "café" precisely because they want NPR listeners to check it out: they want the self-styled "sophisticated and intellectual" listeners that compose NPR's entire audience. But they don't follow the format at all. XM and all satellite radio is you putting it on a station and leaving it there, luxuriating in the fact that the playlist is tailored to your sensibilities. It's about being indulged. On the completely opposite side, NPR is about sternly forcing yourself to listen to shit you hate in order to feel hip and intellectual at the least, and on the admittedly not-so-rare occasion, discovering something obscure or forthcoming that you really, truly love. And this is not a slam on NPR or its contingents, of which I am one, just a comparison of the marketing here: one is a choice you've already made ferreting further into your mind, and the other is front-loading options that you may or may not like, but hoping you'll leave it on the same station no matter what.
Capital Edge's first audition is a boring but very good whiskey-voiced woman in a business suit more professional than any of our guys, singing all boring and emotionally. Felisha interviews that she wanted to PM again to show her team that she can be in control, even though the team itself, Adam and Alla, already know the correct answer to that question, and even though all three of them are fine with that answer. Which is "Alla." Second artist is a boring old Jack Johnson/Bob Schneider (Holla!) type feeling his feelings on the piano and singing about The Life Of The Musician. Felisha tells us it was "love at first sight," because the artist, Levi Kreiss, "loves what he's doing," as one can hear in his music, feel in the room, and see "on him." Felisha knows he's the right choice because he's "not a one-hit wonder" and all they have to do is "just get up and sell him."
Randal suggests "It's My Time" instead, and Rebecca likes it, but Clay basically proves her above point despite himself, calling it "bragging," and basically meaning it's too rough and forward. Rebecca is too pushy with the whole thing, all, "Here's the thing, though: he's a guy. Toughness and attitude are okay." It's not so much Clay's gender v. Rebecca's gender, because this conversation makes these attributes non-gendered, and they're on opposite sides any way you look at it, but the gendered language they're using puts her in an untouchable place, and him in an awful place, and neither of them seem able to get above that to talk about the qualities themselves. Somehow -- without my help -- they move an inch forward, and Clay says something about how he's writing part of the song to be more about "in the end, it's all about me." Which gets the big pink gender roles elephant out of the room, but reroutes us to a concept even closer to Clay's heart and further from the group's concept.
Rebecca interviews that she and Randal "wanted" Clay because he's a creative thinker, which is true, even if he uses his power for evil, but is concerned that "over and over again" it's more about Clay saying, "No, this is wrong; no, this is wrong," and getting "so intent on his 'What About Me' idea" that he "can't play devil's advocate to it." True in more ways than you're saying, babe. She feels that he needs to be "more flexible in a team setting," because "when he's stubborn, he brings the rest of the team to a stalemate." And not to toot Rebecca's horn, but I'd like to point out that we haven't seen any of her kindergarten bossing from the first task when she was PM, and whether or not it's true, I'd like to think she learned a bit from that task, given that she's a lot less barky and ROTC in the footage we're seeing tonight. Clay pissily informs Rebecca that changing the song to "it's my time," it basically "screws everything" that he's been writing for the last forty minutes. Who knows if that's a legit concern, because I can see him being so hyper-focused on this concept, which is after all his theme song for life, that he'd nod and say "okay" and keep writing for forty minutes before noticing they'd changed the rules. ["Boo hoo, he was writing for forty whole minutes. Fuck off." -- Sars] Rebecca just stares at him beautifully like she might kill him.
Over at Excel, Levi Kreiss and Adam stare at each other and fall deeply in love. I've never seen the like. Levi tells them about the life of a musician, how sleeping on other musicians' couches and being no-account means living hard and building yourself as an artist. Adam heaves breathlessly and adorably, and cannot deal with any of this. The repressed part of his brain that screams constantly for sex points out that Levi is right now on a couch, but he cannot hear it. Felisha brainstorms that she wants the story of the song to be "about how you have nothing, and yet still that can be everything." Felisha remembers fondly how once Chico's didn't have the cowl-necked three-quarter-sleeve in mint, only charcoal grey, and how it totally taught her much wisdom about life. Then Dar Williams's entire back catalog comes in and shakes her like a Polaroid picture, and Laura Love's jailbird cats mount the attack, and even fuckin' Jewel is like, "Forty-five minutes of van life might help, lady."
Adam sums up, spurred to heights of artistic creativity due to the explosion of love in his life and wanting to be good enough, that he's saying that "Nothing can be everything." Felisha and Alla and everybody love it, even though that means less than nothing. Which I guess means "a bit more than everything." Felisha sings "nothing can be everything...from the outside lookin' in…" and remembers how everybody was enjoying their Starbucks that rainy day the ATM was out and she didn't have the cash for a Gingerbread Macchiato, and it's not really really cringy, because it's Felisha and she's so cute, just singing and bopping along. I already miss her adorable, doomed ass. Adam loves it. They are all so fun together, it's like they're friends and work well together and respect each others' ideas. But this is The Apprentice! I'm sure week Alla will be mixing Felisha's Proactive with Body Shop Peppermint Foot Crème and Adam will expose that all of Alla's routines were stolen from the Clovers.
Felisha tells Grandpa George they're doing "pop rock" and he tells them a story about how he was in radio, and ran one of the first "hard rock" stations ever. He interviews the cutest old dude story ever, and it's all about the delivery: "First time we played hard rock, my partner asked me, 'What do you think of the music?' I said, 'I think it's terrible!' He says, 'But we're selling a lot of commercials!' I said, 'I love the music!'" He laughs adorably and I wish he was my grandpa and I want to give him a gigantic hug for being cuter than any old dude ever. "The key to radio," he explains, "is creating a format the audience likes, so you're catering to a particular listener." If only he were talking to Rebecca.
Levi, his guitarist, and Capital Edge get their boring groove on, and it's so fucking cute and so, so awful to watch. They're eating pizza and they're all nodding their heads like white people and singing along, and Adam doesn't know the words but he sings anyway, and they keep looking at each other while grooving, and smiling at each other like...I don't even know. It's my number one most hated thing. I can't stand it. I wish I could! They are being so cute, but first comes the rage and then I can't see the cuteness. They laugh and high-five and giggle. Or as my friend Anne said, "Who knew all Adam wanted was to be part of the Bloven?" I didn't know what she meant until I saw the actual episode, because at first I was confused, like, Um, EVERYBODY? But I knew that wasn't what she meant, and now I get that what she meant was this: Adam wants life itself to be a slumber party with blonde ladies, where they read poems and drink, like, Schnapps and paint their toenails. And Crumb's there with Portnoy, and they all get piggyback rides from women with no heads and giant asses and powerful legs and amazing chests, and then maybe some black bodybuilders show up dressed up like cops in the mood for spanking. And I wish him this, and so much more.
Excel has laid down the track, and purely from my own musical viewpoint, what they've come up with is…not bad. Sassy beats and a somewhat conventional structure that allows for some doo-doo-doo and some yeah yeah -- nothing particularly trailblazing, and generally kind of building on the first Seal album, especially with the vocals being what they are, but nice enough, and at least it doesn't smell like pot and Austin and Harry Connick's hair. There's a band called Res that you hear in IKEA and Pottery Barn and like that, and I like them enough to have bought the album. Not identifying with the XM Café demographic is kind of my life's goal, though, so what do I know?
Rebecca interviews, somewhat hilariously, that they've gone from "the whole 'What About Me' chick lyric" to "Nigerian Seal meets Lenny Kravitz," which concept about makes me want to drop a Nexium or a Valium right there, and explains that the whole concept of the song is that Jidé's "going back to his Nigerian heritage" and "remembering to be true to himself." Which, three years old, but roots are very important, so again I will say nothing.
Of Note:
Capital Edge:
Felisha, 29: Jo Dee Messina, pop.
Alla, 31: No heavy metal, rap or country; anything as long as I can dance to it.
Adam, 13: Frank Sinatra, Green Day, Bon Jovi.
Excel:
Rebecca, 23: Hip hop, rap, rock.
Randal, 34: R&B, soul, hip-hop, and reggae. But, above all, I love slow jams!
Clay, 28: Michael Bublé, Norah Jones, Mariah Carey, Rob Thomas, Moby, and Gretchen Wilson.
And if you don't get why that shit's funny, I don't know what to tell you. Anyway, there's then a moment where Clay puts Jidé on shout for fucking up a line, and there's intense and utterly Laguna Beach-fake edit of them looking at each other like they might fight. Clay interviews that Jidé could "fit into a lot of different genres" because he's "got a lot of soul to his sound," and then says something that genuinely confounds me, that Jidé could "almost fit into classical if he wanted to." Is that like a Bublé kind of classical? Like a "You Raised Me Up" kind of thing? Because if not, I'm lost, and either way you're wrong. Then he goes all Professor 'Iggins on your ass: "I'm gonna push this guy to his limits and make him into a mega-superstar." Oh, dear. Neely O'Hara! Neely O'Hara!
Jidé and Clay work something out about how he needs to sing with more power, but again Clay T-bones me with his word choice: "If you were singing it in Nigeria…" I assume we don't get to hear the part of this frankenquote where it makes sense or is less vaguely offensive. I kind of like this song. Rebecca does too. And Clay happy, for once.
Capital Edge is coming to you live with some edgy, jazzy music and smackin' your ass with some sweet saxophone. Felisha looks unhappy because she can't "hear this on XM Café," and she wants to win, so what's she going to do? She interviews that they seemed to be heading off into a non-XM Café place, down a jazz road. I thought getting jazzed was a good thing, though? There's some suspense about how she's going to PM this, because we've seen her be passive so many times, but I think she'll surprise us. And she does: she walks in there and explains that she's "a little concerned" that they are collectively "sounding really jazzy," that they're supposed to be more like a "pop rock" song, and asks them to "tone [the jazz] down" and "up the pop rock sound just a little bit," because basically she needs to "make sure that it fits the radio station," which is "like sophisticated music," and she doesn't want the execs to go, "This doesn't fit into what we're trying to fit into," because "we could lose the task." What's cool is the communication here, given that she's been a rat in a cage with these other people for weeks and you tend to lose your ability to make sense after awhile, but mostly because the guy's trying to interrupt and agree, but she gets the whole idea out at once, so it's not like they're talking over each other. The proof of success in a verbal exchange is the outcome, which is: "I'm sensitive to that." The score here tries to be somewhat suspenseful, but she obviously wins. She's being friendly, and understanding about their artistic process without -- and this is the point here -- coming off as falsely apologetic or begging, like, "Guys, I'm really sorry but…" It's strictly, "Here's what I want, here's what we need to do, and here's why it's important to me." Smoother than Rebecca, more forceful and less oblique than Randal. A+, Felisha.
Alla interviews her approval: Felisha not only identified a pretty nebulous issue, but won the artists and producers over. Alla also makes the point that it was the "acoustical sound" that needed the tweak, and not the song or musicianship itself, which is actually I think what made it a non-issue: Not "you're playing it all wrong" but "there's a low-impact way to change the delivery without affecting the song," and making it less of an art thing and more of a production thing. Which is an impressive call, and I'm proud of them. Felisha continues to give them dorky, adorable production notes on the drums (which is important, since it's the beat that throws the people off about Jidé later), and more dorky head-bopping accompanies the band's now-complete transformation into Maroon 5.
There's some quick NYC porn -- sixty pairs of shoes thrown over an electrical wire, some pigeons, a homeless man eating Ritz crackers -- and we see Excel brainstorming their presentation. Rebecca and Randal want to have Jidé enter the room grandly, being "presented" to the executives as this fusion of World Beat character and plucky artisanship. He's wearing an awesome white suit jacket with flowery appliqués. Clay also agrees with this idea, mentioning the drama of having him out in the hall. It's a three-way agreement on keeping him out in the hallway until a point in the speech where they've built up the story itself, and then presenting him as living proof that leaving Nigeria at three years of age does not mean you're not without hardcore talent. Will this positively affect the execs' take on the song that follows? Absolutely, which is what pitches are about.
Rebecca practices the pitch itself, all about how they were instantly attracted to Jidé because he lit up the room with his smile (true) and because he originally presented a well-wrought R&B song but was open to exploring his Nigerian heritage (debatable), and then focuses on the point of the song, that spent his life shunning that background and only now wants to embrace it, personally and musically. Clay, at this point -- which is the actual fucking point of the speech -- starts playing a giant imaginary violin. Now Rebecca, you know, she doesn't like to be interrupted, especially for little-kid nonsense like this, and gives him a truly intense face.
"Okay, don't tell me that: tell me an idea, Clay." Because he has none, and can only say NO right now, just like another sabre-wielding sommelier we once knew, he immediately starts backtracking like he wasn't just giving her shit an eight-year-old would find lacked subtlety: "I'm not trying to…" Rebecca is pretty awesome: "No, I don't care: tell me an idea." Again he cannot: "You're telling too much of a story. That really doesn't go into the roots behind the song, it's not exciting." Thrice she denies this bullshit: "Okay. Tell me ideas." Nothing.
What about, like, if the song were about him bitching about how everybody's mean to him all the time and won't grant him an unearned exemption, and they get mad when he looks at asses, and think he's anti-Semitic, and like, he really wanted to be Alla's hall monitor, but she kept making him do stuff, and then they threw him off the team, even though he bitchily wanted off the team, and then he won and the other team killed themselves screaming, "We're sorry, we're sorry, you're the King of the World," but he didn't care, he just laughed at them, because they were on fire, and he watched them burning and screaming and he just laughed because they totally deserved it, because he was the only one in the Special People Club and they were totally jealous and mean to him, and Olivia Newton-John was his only friend? And then he got cute? And then he finally got to make out with Warren and they were in love and had magic powers?
Rebecca interviews succinctly that Clay "can't work with people," that he "couldn't work with Capital Edge," and now "can't work with us," that he's been "consistently disturbing to project managers and his teammates, on all tasks," and is in general "detrimental to a team," and wraps up with the fact that really, she can't "work successfully with Clay ever again." Well spit, girlfriend.
There's really cool interstitial shots of NYC for once, artfully angled and kind of inspiring, and then Capital Edge introduces Levi to the execs. They include the dude we already saw, the Executive VP for XM, and the Program Director. Felisha is very good in the presentation, handing them a CD and talking about how much they love the dude and the organic roots of him and the feeling and his soul and his life and Passion Of The Kreiss-cakes. Adam chimes in perfectly about how Levi has this interesting story, and Levi backs him up about how Cap Edge "went to such an effort to understand what defines him," how he was "completely comfortable just letting go," and how he thinks they "nailed it." And to his credit, he does not once mention that he and Adam are in love with each other, a forever kind of love that will stand the test of time and adversity and inspire the homespun musicians, burgeoning politicians, and childlike accountants of the future to proudly declare the strength of their love against all enemies and haters.
Trump is mind-blowingly famous, and people take pictures of him leaving Trump Tower, and Whoopi screams about "oh my God, that's Donald Trump," and then XM plays Levi Kreisss as Trump listens inscrutably on his portable XM Radio product. Capital Edge dorks out in the studio in a way that makes me want to hug them until they are slack and lifeless. Carolyn and George sit in the studio looking patrician and impassive even with giant headphones on, and they do not dork out. They wouldn't know how; we thrash that out of our boys at Eton.
The Executive VP whispers to the Program Director that he can understand the words and that it tells a story, and she nods. Professionals evaluating creative efforts is a really thrilling thing to see, if you trust the professionals in question. Sales Meets Art doesn't have to be a bloodbath if everybody cares about the thing. Levi rocks out to his own song, always awkward, and everybody else rocks out, also awkward, and Adam acts gawky and weird because he's calculating royalties on this and simultaneously trying to remember the community property laws for New York state before the prenup. The first caller really likes the song, and wants it on XM Café rotation; the second caller thinks it's "awesome" and thinks Levi has "a ton of talent." Caller Jody is in Atlanta rush hour and this puts a smile on his or her face. Also Adam's, hugely, but nobody remembers that he's a nice Jewish boy from Atlanta, because that's such a painful memory for everyone. A caller asks for a copy of the CD, which is awesome. Felisha is still grooving, so pleased by the response it looks like she might cry. Aww, I love you for no reason! She interviews that this was her task: "I laid it all on the line...I knew the audience would love this song" because she liked it, and if anyone lives and breathes and eats focaccia and goat cheese at the XM Café, it's Felisha, for Pete's sake. Just when I think I couldn't be more pleased with her, the team bursts into applause and Felisha shouts, "It's all you, Levi! It's all you!" and Alla high-fives him.
Meanwhile: Excel. Rebecca begins to intensely introduce Jidé, all trademark karate chop and blazing eyes, and for the first time I wonder how much more violent she'd get without the ankle issue. Clay opens the door before the end of her second or third sentence, and I can't tell if he's smirking as he does it, or if it's just legitimately Clay fucking up and being unable to take the temperature of the room once again. The benefit of the doubt still goes to Rebecca, because even in just the footage we saw, this moment was a huge deal. She smiles like WTF? and her mouth hangs open as she's forced to trail off while Jidé shakes all the executive hands. It's a whole lot like Adam's nervous laugh face from the "Sex At Work" task. There's an edit of Clay smirking horribly at her as she gapes and clenches, but it looks pretty fake.
Rebecca interviews cutely how "Clay freaking opens the door while I'm talking," invalidating the grand entrance which I maintain could've helped them immensely, and then again complains: "Working with Clay has been my Achilles heel, because he consistently takes the group completely off course." Rebecca's Achilles ankle then pouts.
After the ruckus, Rebecca starts again, about how Jidé left Nigeria when he was three, and how his "adventurous music will bring new life to XM Café," and Programming already looks bored, so Randal calls their attention to the poster he made, talking about how it tells you the artist, the station, and gives you a reason why Jidé would work on XM Café. As he's pointing out the pretty salient marketing point that they've chosen to include an XM catchphrase with "New Stars To The Power Of X," Exec VP is whispering that the channel number is wrong. It's actually an uncensored station whose website features Snoop and whose remit goes as follows: Hip Hop from Day One: "The Rhyme" features the grandmasters of rap and the music they invented, more vibrant than ever as it grows with the times...Run DMC, NWA, Ice Cube, Notorious BIG, Tupac...and we never edit the music. You get everything full strength, just like the artists intended it. May include frequent use of explicit language." So that's why that's funny, because if Jidé were in the same room with those guys, he'd end up knitting them a sweater. The execs agree it's a "small detail," which is important for post-Boardroom recriminations.
Opinions expressed in this paragraph are solely those of the recapper and do not reflect anything but, because the whole big thing two weeks ago freaked the recapper right out. Do not cap the recapper, do not email the recapper, do not taunt the recapper. Now, Trump loves conspicuous wealth, yes, and the denigration of women. Ludicrous toupee and incipient racism aside, I think it's actually his lack of any discernable rhythm or mack that keeps him from being a true Uptown O.G. Exhibit A for this assertion: the painful sight of watching him nod his head toolishly to Jidé's song from his limo, where he's still apparently famous and still apparently on his way to XM. To be fair, the Jidé song is, again, better produced, more fun, and a better song (if not for XM Café itself), so maybe that's why he bestirs himself for this hideous head-bopping "dance," but I'm going to make the call that this display is due more to some unthinking white guy thing -- a response to the voice he's hearing, and the beat of the song -- than strictly what you call "music appreciation."
Team Excel bops around, but not as horrifically as Capit-- oh, spoke too soon. They are actually more embarrassing than Adam. There's this "beat beat beat" thing leading up to the chorus, which is like the hook of the song, and they all dork out massively. It's their baby, I get it, but man. Exec VP guy leans over again: "Seriously, can you hear this on XM Café?" They agree it's not "a perfect match," but Excel begins to...sing along. Lord. I want you to know that I actually felt each and every one of your psychic hugs the second this shit started, and it was more comforting than I can say. Thanks for that. You are awesome.
A caller thinks it "sounded pretty good," but God forbid it "pick up the beat there" a little bit. Exec VP gets excited: "That's my point! The beat is not what Café is!" This is like Pootie Tang or Jem or Footloose where The Man hates all music that is good. Caller two calls it "formulaic" and "typical pop," which leaves Rebecca nonplussed. Third caller thinks it's "okay," but didn't "hear many lyrics," or anything else "besides a really weak riff." Rebecca interviews how she thought such a "sophisticated, intellectual audience" (DRINK!) would maybe buy into the whole fake Nigerian background thing, but was "kind of surprised" to find that that there was no "real huge enthusiasm." Her face remains intensely surprised at this even in the post-task interview. The last caller finds it interesting, but ultimately wants "more vocals." Cut to Rebecca hating everyone in the world while she processes this clear failure.
The execs talk about how they liked both songs, but obviously one is not right for the XM Café. Trump comes in, hair looking absolutely ridiculous. It's apparently becoming kind of a sho-lo in the back, like a DA with an attitude problem. He starts grilling the execs about the songs before he even walks all the way in, and they reiterate that both teams did well and created good tracks, but that there's a clear winner. Trump's excited by both clauses of this, and summons the Apprenti. So there are the Final Six, right, and the three execs, and Trump, all staring at each other, and I can't remember the last time this season the judging part was held in those specifically stressful circumstances.
Capital Edge, they felt, really listened to the record -- "I knew who Levi was," they say, and it really fits Café well. Excel had a good story to tell, but it didn't come across in the song. More importantly, the callers didn't understand why the song was on XM Café at all. They further note that this was Excel's big risk, being inconsistent with the format, and that printing the wrong channel number on the poster in front of the entire exec team was the cherry on top of a crappy sundae indeed. Capital Edge made a "better fit," and they win. They all grin hugely, and Clay's face goes wonky as his plans for vindication go down in flames. The really gorgeous part of it is that Capital Edge could not give precisely one tenth of a fuck about Clay at this point, having won, and that's the thing that is killing him. Trump congratulates Felisha, and notes again that there's no exemption, but she couldn't care less, because she's tickled as hell.
The reward is that they're all going for a ride in the Trumpcopter (Randal is sad) to look at all the Trump-owned or -associated buildings in New York, and he's going to scream at them about them. Alla and Felisha clearly find this awesome, and we can infer that Adam is going to sob with joy as usual. Trump reminds them that the eventual winner will be influencing the New York skyline for real, and Rebecca intensely smiles and is distraught.
Cut right to the helicopter, Adam so jazzed it's ridiculous, and they all giggle cutely as Trump tells the pilot which buildings to circle. Trump looks like my dad for a second, so I love him. For a second. "In a car," he philosophizes, "it would take all day! This will take 20 minutes." That's like 19 minutes too much for me, but they seem happy enough. Felisha Agrestics that while a helicopter is fun, a helicopter with Donald Trump is awesome, and then does a very funny non-impression of Trump: "Yeah, see that building? I own that one, I own that one, I own that one… That was amazing." Trump describes how some condo "used to be the tallest building on the East Side," but now he's done it once better. Alla interviews the very incredibly awesome "Trump, to me, is power." She continues: "He is the king of New York -- it shows in every word, and every gesture, everything...he lives for this city." I am not writing copy for Trump Omnimedia Unlimited, so if you want a guided tour of the buildings and Trumpanies, I suggest you write the best boring song ever for XM Satellite radio, and hope he picks you up in his helicopter.
He tells them he recently sold the land under the Empire State Building, and majestic music plays as Trump informs them that they're looking at the Statue of Liberty, and how amazing it is. The sun is beautiful, the Statue of Liberty is beautiful and what it stands for is beautiful, but I'm choking on a combination plate of stars and the stripes, because this is like the fifth fakely patriotic editing moment we've had to deal with, starting at the first episode with that weird flag pan, which was before we even met these bitches.
However -- once it's over, which takes forever to the point where the score has to snort two more full rails of overexcitement just to get there -- there's now Adam's pretty awesome story about how flying over the Statue of Liberty with a Prince of Industry made him feel a connection to his father, who came to the U.S. with nothing in his pocket: this is not just living a dream for himself, but for and with his father and mother. He describes it as "a few seconds of pure bliss." What am I, going to snark on that shit? It's awesome. I love you, Adam. Me and the Statue of Liberty want to kiss you on the forehead at the very least. Then Trump, of course, jumps right up in there with the whole uncle thing: "Make a lot of money, this is the way you're going to live, Adam." Helicopters and pussy, Adam. Helicopters and pussy. Which almost ruins it, but not really.
Night falls on Trump Tower, where Randal is reeling, telling his only other damned teammate, Rebecca, that this is "the toughest loss since [he's] been here." I would think it would be tougher if you didn't know, chapter and verse, graph and pie chart and point-by-point, how you fucked up, but yeah. That might be worse, actually. He calls it a "subjective task" and says they were told they did a good job -- that the "finer points" made for the loss. This isn't true. If I ask you for a cherry pie and you make the best apple pie in the world, it's Rebecca's fault if I hate it. I mean, I love Rebecca, but she was the one that was all "sophisticated, intellectual audience" and wouldn't let it go, even though the pie they should have been cooking was closer to "bloodless, rhythmless devotees of Dan Brown and Robert Waller." Not that anybody fought her on that basic point, but still. It wasn't the subjective portion of the task that they lost -- they won, in my opinion -- but the basic ABC of the task. Which is basically, when you get down to the aerated soil of it, was their problem on Star Wars too, frankly. Too much Lamborghini excitement, not enough Dairy Queen detail.
Of course Randal immediately starts in with the hair shirt and the flagellating and the "I deserve to die" about the poster he screwed up, and he's so wrong I make that sad frown you make when you can't do anything for them. He says it's a "Boardroom issue," though, and I think he's right about that. Really, spinning Clay's useless ass out of there comes down solidly on Rebecca's shoulders, and it's my hope that her fuckup here was so complicated and multivalent that Trump will just jump right over it like he usually does, giving her the opportunity to save Randal. Which -- somewhat contrary to what we see her do -- is, I think her plan. She knows how far she can criticize Randal without resulting in a firing, I think. But God forbid I not give her some kind of bonus for being my favorite. Rebecca and Randal mourn because it was such a good song, and it had "edge" and "vibe." Embarrassment at hearing them say these things does not distract from the sting that essentially they're right: comparatively, it was a kick-ass song, and I wouldn't kick it off my podcast if it showed up. Rebecca interviews that if they'd worked alone, just Rebecca and Randal, they "probably would've produced a better outcome," and I honestly can't say. She's right that Clay was nothing but "a distraction," but I don't know if even Randal really agrees that Clay's the actual reason. Hell, I don't know if Rebecca honestly believes that: she immediately thereafter scratches a stress rash, without breaking step once. Damn, it's hard to be Rebecca. Welcome to the Suck, darling.
Rebecca hops into the Boardroom, and you've gotta wonder if she does this on purpose every week: hops in there all unescorted and wounded, still fighting, still strong, and I hope to God she is, because that's what I expect of her. She even fucking holds the door open for Clay. That's my girl. They all sit down, and the intensity starts shooting all over the place from the team and from the Viceroys, and Randal looks scared to death. Trump comes in, no shirker of intensity, and we get down to the shortest, in some ways most interesting, and definitely one of the most effing satisfying Boardrooms of the season.
"So, you lost." Dribbling strong, Clay immediately returns, "Hard loss." Trump asks who was responsible for the actual songwriting, and Rebecca flints, "We together as a team wrote the song, Mr. Trump." He's not buying it, and normally he'd be right, but A) they actually did all fight for the song, and B) he's clearly gunning for "creative" Clay, and it bugs him that she doesn't serve him up immediately. Randal clarifies that it's true, "it was a group process" and each of them had input. Not to be thrown off the scent of ill-mannered, tacky blood in the water, Trump tries again: "Clay, weren't you the creative member of the team?" Clay agrees, but since we never saw that, it comes across like when I started at my first job and was immediately assigned the window and in-store displays. I keep my cooking, decorating, and event planning/design skills fucking close to the vest, and concentrate solely on publicizing my ability to rebuild a carb engine or AK-47 blindfolded precisely because of this shit. Kissin' dudes doesn't mean I'm responsible for your fucking artistic notions.
Clay is, I will say right now, very good in this Boardroom. Not by the low bar he sets, but period. He doesn't do that whiny, bitchy What About Me stuff too much, keeps his mouth shut when he should, and answers questions with nary a whit of overt blame-shifting or emotional appeals. This is one of his best performances, this Boardroom, and he deserves respect for valiantly and eloquently protecting his ass. Especially considering the three people on the carpet are the entire team, and he's actually fighting for himself hardcore. Good work, Clay. In response to the "creative" issue, he simply asserts, and this is subtle except for the beginning, that "Rebecca was the PM, and I started off with a different concept. I was interviewing the guy to see...what his music style was, and things like that." So far, so good, and truthful to boot. "I found out he was a middle child, always asking himself, 'What About Me'? I wanted to go in that direction -- when I brought that up Rebecca told me that wasn't the direction she wanted to go in." Rebecca nods like, That's right I did, bitch. I like both of them right now.
Rebecca tries to explain her objection, and does scant better, and certainly not in a way Clay would have understood: "I couldn't envision a 24-year-old male from Nigeria singing 'What About Me'? It seemed a little bit whiny" -- Clay's shocked to hear her say that. For the fifteenth time -- "and a little bit weak." And you only have to meet her, or see her face as she says this, to understand what a gross insult that whole concept is to her. Like, in terms of constitution. And that's why I love her.
Trump's still stuck on the whole "Creative Clay" concept, and asks the somewhat valid but entirely unrelated "Do you think he's more talented than you? Maybe I should just fire you right now." Because they made him the "creative" person...except she didn't, she Alla'd his ass right out of American airspace the second he stopped cooperating, so when did this actually happen, exactly? Given that she's answering a question that has no place in this conversation, Rebecca gives a good, Rebecca-flavored answer: "In this task I thought less of Clay's creativity than previously." Do you think he's more creative than Randal? Ouch. Randal has been shown time and again to be great at everything but that. He's an engineer and five-time doctorate, for Björk's sake. That's not his strength. Rebecca knows better than to equivocate, or just doesn't know how to, so she responds affirmatively, Mr. Trump. Randal's a little surprised, even though I'd guess he'd usually agree.
Trump, having received an answer as useless as his question, continues down a different road. "When Clay was with other teams, he didn't seem to get along with them very well. Do you think Clay brought the team down?" When did he not? Even at Dick's, he had one good, backbone idea (for which he deserves credit), then bitched and moaned the rest of the day. Rebecca outshines even my expectations of her doublespeak power: "Working with Clay, we did butt heads -- and I'm not sure if that is what some of the other team leaders have felt was an issue with Clay." God, I love this girl. I wish I could diagram that sentence for you to show how awesome she is. "Yes, there were difficulties, and yes, he did fuck us over, but gosh, Mr. Trump, I wouldn't say it's historical. All I know is that it's me, and Randal, and we both rule, and yet here we are before you. I'd hesitate to draw that line for you." Trump nods, satisfied once again with Rebecca's powers of saying five times as much as she's saying. "One thing about Rebecca, she's honest. If nothing else, she's honest." Clay, to underscore how he's actually understood about five percent of what the adults have been talking about, jumps in there with a "And I hope you've learned that about me as well!" Sigh. Kristi, shut your gorgeous mouth, I say again.
Trump: "Well...I've learned you're difficult." Clay fucking giggles like Trump's Hattie McDaniel chiding him about going after Ashley Wilkes when he should know better. "On so many teams you haven't gotten along, and you've taken these two people who have been stars, and all of a sudden they're, like, reduced to nothing." Clay sad.
Carolyn asks, "How long did you take to actually come up with your presentation?" and Randal smiles ruefully. Rebecca says she pitched framing the presentation as a story, and that Clay said they didn't want to hear a story, and played a fake violin, and said it was a sob story. Clay says the bio was important, but didn't overshadow other stuff, a snap which Carolyn catches beautifully: "So why didn't Jidé speak?" Rebecca's on that like a balalaika on the Putumayo Hour, all, "I wanted him to speak, Clay didn't want him to!" Trump upfronts whether that wasn't "a little stupid," and Clay says he wanted Jidé's voice to "come out of the music," and Carolyn nails him: "That's not the presentation! Who better to talk about the man's story than the man himself?" Having dug himself a little hole, Clay bravely, if lamely, defends it: "If that was a mistake on my part, I think it was one of very few small mistakes…" which, for future reference, works better when your team numbers more than three.
Carolyn brings up the poster, and Randal (Mark my words: what makes you rule is always what makes you suck!) immediately takes full and aggressive responsibility for that one. Trump asks whether that is not, in fact, a "firing-type mistake," and Randal has a full-on myocardial infarction, from which he quickly recovers: "It's not small, Mr. Trump." There is no pleading in his eyes, just acknowledgement and hope. Rebecca kind of ickily chimes in, "From my perspective, it 's a huge mistake. I have always considered Randal a star…" Which is, if you're reading the situation, not necessary. Trump's like, "Have you lost respect for The Randal?" and instead of equivocating, she gets all Rebecca: "On this task, I think Randal started to miss some of the main points." I'm not 100% about this task, although he did miss a biggie, but I think it's something that should have been said on the Star Wars task for sure. Randal makes a well-earned ouch face, and tells Trump he finds that "ridiculous."
Carolyn wonders exactly what Randal did on this task, correctly speaking, and he gives the lame-duck, too-late answer that it was his idea to have any kind of promotional materials at all. He and Trump agree that this hardly matters now, since they were pretty largely bad, but George reminds everyone that none of this is actually why Excel lost: "You didn't listen to the customer, didn't present what XM Café sells to the people. The audience didn't know what they were listening to." Randal again duffs it by offering that they "took a risk by challenging that sound," which makes him sound responsible for a decision that we've seen as being mostly Rebecca's fault. George: "You didn't take a risk, you committed suicide. Once you decide to change the format, you lose the audience." True, but only partially Randal's fault, if at all.
Trump's bored: "You all three made mistakes." He goes down the line: "Clay, you're very, very hard to work with, and I wonder if you affected these two negatively." "Rebecca, you've been outstanding but this time, you sucked. Your presentation wasn't good, and your performance and leadership were sucky this time." It's the leadership part that's scary. "Randal," he says, "I'm probably most disappointed with you." Trump cites Randal's Rhodes Scholar status and brilliance, and asks for his agreement that this performance was not worthy of him. "I don't think any of you should be proud this week, but in life you have to look at past events, and that's called history."
Yeah, he actually says that. He defines the word "history" for you. As "past events."
Then Trump adds a history -- and by that I mean, "past events" -- lesson for you as well: "Too many countries, too many businesses, have been destroyed by not studying history." Put that in your ignorant pipe, and smoke it 'til you feel the dead weight of a thousand irrelevancies weighing you down. And then succeed anyway. "Clay, Rebecca told me she couldn't work with you again. Other teammates have told me they couldn't work with you again: Alla said it, Adam said it. They were so happy when you left that team." Ouch. That's some ugly shit he just said right there.
"You're supposed to be creative," and again I have no idea where this sudden, weird emphasis is coming from, "but no matter which team you're on, all you do is create problems." Nice wordplay, Trump. Tell me again how you had the biggest building on the East Side until you bested even that building? "Clay?" BANG with the fist on the desk. It's like the Drunken Monkey Fist Cobra. "You're fired."
Clay sad. Randal pensive. Rebecca coming down from a wittle adrenaline from being so scary-wary all the time. Trump self-satisfied. Carolyn crush. George old. Boardroom over.
Randal helps Rebecca with her crutches, obviously, and Carolyn bites her lip, but I think she's down for this one, if reluctantly. Outside, Rebecca attempts to apologize, and Clay hisses through his fake smile, "No, you changed. I mean, that's okay." Because he had her identified as "nice," and then she -- gasp -- turned on him once he fucked with her beyond her ability to take it in stride. He hugs Randal, who tells him he "did a good job, man," but he ignores this, concentrating on how Rebecca "said some things [she] didn't have to say," and it's all very No, really, I don't mind, no problem, you just wounded me more than I can properly explain and I really hope you can live with yourself after what you've done tonight, with your speaking of the truth and being on-task and speaking honestly about what went on. I JUST HOPE YOU CAN LIVE WITH YOURSELF while Randal, who's the one of the three of them that honestly cares whether Clay is ever happy or successful, rates below even casual notice. Just go get a fucking Livejournal, Clay. God.
Robin says goodbye to Clay, and he easy-breezily says, "Bye, have fun!" in this we're both totally above this, aren't we, so there's no shame here, and I'll see you at the salon way...to which she's vastly and adorably immune. "…You, too!" Back inside, Carolyn breathes, "This was a tough Boardroom." George is pensive and very fucking indulgent as Trump intones, "Not an easy one, but you have to rely on the past." By which -- I don't know if you know this -- he means "history." Rebecca goes hopping ahead of Randal into the suite, where I'm guessing it's champagne and impromptu dances and songs all around.
Crazy Taxi, verbatim: "Rebecca and Randal don't have any creative bones in their body, and they don't have a chance at all as a team. They are going to lose the task horribly, especially with Rebecca with her broken ankle. [WHAT? Is the task a cross-country race?] I feel sorry for the three people on Capital Edge that are left, especially for Adam and Felisha, because they're going to see a different side of life, because now that I'm gone, Alla doesn't have anybody to pick on -- and they're ."
(Thanks to MartyBru01 for the thalkboard, to Muwarr90 for the Roadblock, to Listen Lady for the karate chop, to Newmy for the XM channel 45 info, gastrolyor for Welcome to the Suck, the too-clever-by-'alf Jeebus Shuttlesworth for the M.I.A. comparison, and to sofa addicted for the Machiavellian Rebecca Hopping Concept.)
week's two back-to-back hours -- fucking give thanks, Jacob -- in which at some point one team totally sabotages the other (and it's Excel! Rock on!) and there's some fucking Shania Twain. Because if there's one thing that will make me long for the days of Adam's fucking Ambiguously Gay Cirque De Roadshow, it's goddamn Shania Twain. And then, after two whole stupid hours, there will be a Final Four. Which is kind of exciting, but I should mention to Everybody Who Doesn't Have TiVo: NBC wanted me to tell you to fuck right off. Don't shoot the messenger!
But let's talk about what we've learned. While Trump would have you believe that the point is a "Creative Balance," I think it's more along the lines of five simple words: You're. Not. Fucking. Angela. Chase. Nobody's listening to your imaginary voice-over, nobody has a magic mirror that can see your entire life and history and soul and judge accordingly, nobody cares where your parents are from, nobody cares about any of your bullshit. As Buffy said, courtesy Jane Espenson, in the controversial episode "Earshot" -- stay with me, if you will, because it's good stuff, I know I'm an irritating Of course, Buffy! person but that doesn't mean I can't lay some fucking wisdom on you now and then -- "My life happens to -- on occasion -- suck beyond the telling of it. Sometimes more than I can handle. And it's not just mine: Every single person down there is ignoring your pain because they're too busy with their own. The beautiful ones, the popular ones, the guys that pick on you, everyone. If you could hear what they were feeling: the loneliness, the confusion. It looks quiet [out] there: It's not. It's deafening."
If I got that wrong here or there, it's only because I'm reciting it from memory, because it's pretty much what I've been trying to say all along. You, me, best-selling novelist guy over there, lonely photographer lady, God grant we could all hear those words once a day: We're not actors in your passion play, we're not assigned to bring you heartache, we're not actively taking part in the drama of what it's like to be you. We're dealing with our own self-obsessed bullshit, and to be honest, we want to like you, but we probably only notice you when you fuck with us. So stop fucking with us and weed your own garden first, please -- it's why we don't like you. Yet.