Previously on The Bachelorette: We knew who won. Tonight's episode is sponsored in part by the pink-slipped staff of The ABC Secret-Keeping Department, makers and worldwide distributors of cosmic inevitability. Oh, and by the number "four." Which is the total number of viewers who haven't switched permanently over to American Idol. Sigh. Shut up, The Bachelorette. Long time ago since you was fab.
The obligatory opening Sunset Strip Stock Footage Film Festival is accompanied by that weirdly generic guitar music they use at the beginning of every episode, The Bachelorette Mash (it was a reality-television-graveyard smash!) pulsing inoffensively and juuuuuust drowning out the voices in my head repeatedly asking why yet another super-sized episode of this show should litter the television airwaves for as many minutes a week as it took Michael Curtiz to tell the entire story of Casablanca. But first...we montage! Sunset Boulevard street sign! Walk of Fame! Palm trees and blue skies and me not wearing a coat between the months of October and May and also during all of the other months as well! Oh, wait. Except that I don't live there anymore. The helicopter dispatched to capture these aerial views stops briefly at a heliport in Reseda for refueling and maintenance, then continues its journey several more miles northward to its final destination of "Guys' House." Ah, Guys' House. Where the Drakkar is always noir, the hair gel flows like wine, and the correct usage of possessive apostrophes is optional.
As three of the remaining bachelors sit to each other on a couch in the living room, Charlie sits nearby in a matching loveseat because the self-evident passionate adoration Charlie feels for himself has become so organic and sustaining that it has begun manifesting itself even in furniture jargon. From the front of the room, Chris "If Trista's Love Were The Beatles Then He'd Just Be George" Harrison addresses the four remaining -- and I mean this in literally every sense of the word available except for the one involving sports -- players: "Morning, fellas." "Fellas"? What is this, some Gold Rush Theme Day at Guys' House they forget to tell everyone else about? Suddenly cognizant that there is no set of swinging saloon doors to saunter through, Chris removes his thumbs from his belt loopholes, returns his Pony Express Covered Wagon Operator clichés to his musket holster, and finally gets on with the sales pitch: "This week, you guys have a great opportunity." My heart says "dog racing" but my gut is crying "pyramid scheme." And if there's anything this show has taught us, it's that we have to go with our gut. "You get to take Trista back to your hometowns." Oh. "So, from now on you're not going to talk to each other." Well, there goes the resolution to that knotty "Manifestations of Aestheticism and the Subversive Dissolution of Normative Gender Mores" discussion that had Charlie and Russ up until all hours last night in the Guys' House Reading Library. "You won't even see each other until the [sure to be the most dramatic yet] Rose Ceremony." Anyway...no, wait, he's still talking. Usually he's been summarily removed from the set by now and vacuum-frozen until it's time for the Rose Ceremony. But tonight he vamps and vamps like he just won the lifetime-achievement award for reality show hosting or something. Shut up, On-My-Last-Nerving J. Thalberg.
No, shut up. "Speaking of that Rose Ceremony" (we weren't and only you were and shut up shut up shut UP), "it's also Trista's birthday." Except that he pronounces it "birt-tay" and sounds like every meathead I went to high school with who thought that consonant blends were for sissies and that the "g" of "Long Island" should be sounded with as much emphasis as the glottis would allow. He advises them, "Don't be stupid. Show up with something." Rhymin', Gnarly, Greg Gambino, and Satan all share an awkward laugh at Chris's "chiding" "humor," Greg Gambino secretly thinking, "It's pronounced 'some-ting,' you moron." Chris (natch) continues, "You guys get your stuff, your cars are waiting, I'll meet you out front." We'll see him again soon, then? Oh, thank goodness. The separation anxiety was threatening to make me crippled by a feeling of -- what's that one word again? Ah, yes -- "glee to be rid of you."
Gnarly, clad in a pink button-down and wearing his orange knapsack over one shoulder, is one junior high school hallway from getting his ass kicked as he comments in an interview, "I think bringing Trista home will just kind of solidify some of the thoughts she already has about me. I think, if anything, I'm more excited at this stage because bringing a girl such as Trista back to your family is an important step in any relationship." Guh? Syntax police, arrest that man! I'm not even going parse that sentence (which appears to mean, "In any relationship, anywhere, ever, when you're at the point of bringing a prospective mate home to meet your family, instead bring a girl with blonde hair who used to be a Miami Hear dancer"), and I will instead note that there's nothing more romantic when bringing home the girl of your dreams than the words "contractually obligated by Entertainment in conjunction with Telepictures Productions." Fit that on one of those Necco Valentine hearts, why don't you?
Dude, why does the subtitle for Greg Gambino still have the "T" on his last name? He's the only Greg there is. Maybe it stands for "teamster." Over in Greg's room, he crams some random sundries in a suitcase, and out rolls...a football? Maybe it's the only vessel in which he can conceal the severed head of Jimmy Hoffa. In the absence of any real personality traits, I had to suddenly make Greg a total mob boss just because he's an "Importer" of some vaguely olive-skinned ethnicity. He tells the camera, "When I woke up this morning and I realized I was still here, I was definitely excited, y'know?" Oh, totally. Since you asked.
Packing montage. Hope you like the sound of zippers. I feel like I'm caught in some hellish "Banned Paula Zahn Promos of 2002" loop, but that's just me. Satan securely zips up his suitcase, sealing inside the plague of slaughtered cattle he got Trista as a sign of his earthly devotion for her as a gift for her birt-tay. He tells us without a whiff of humanity behind those vacant eyes, "If I didn't expect to be in the final four originally when I signed up for this, I probably wouldn't have came [sic] here." Sigh. Anyone else think the word "writer" should have really sarcastic quotes around it? Until he gets himself a really good "editor," I mean.
Rhymin' knows big words! "My whole mindset has changed now. I'm trying to get, actually, to number one." Pipe down, you Machiavellian manipulator, you! Do you want them all to hear your strategy?
Outside the house, "Let Me Go On Like A" Trista "In The" Rehn tells us, "I really didn't think that you could be in love with more than one person at the same time. But I'm thinking that feeling may be changing in me." Man. The distance between "hopeless romantic" and "whore" is a place that you could walk across with five steps down. Good thing Colorado is so close to Utah. Where the polygamy lives.
A private plane that we're supposed to believe is heading to Vail takes off into the blue California sky. Brrrrr. Goodbye forever, warm weather. We cut to a rustic-looking wooden sign reading "Vail," below which is written some Vail distinction beginning "Home of the 1999..." Home of the 1999 what, for crying out loud? Home of the 1999 Snow Place Like Home Shoveling Competition? Home of the 1999 Puffy Coats For Kids Gore-Tex Drive? Home of the 1999 rich brats in my high school who went skiing all the way across the country every Christmas break because their parents forgot there was this one state kind of nearby called "Vermont"? Perhaps we'll never know.
Stock footage shots ripped from the Twin Peaks opening credits make me long for cherry pie and erudite television in equal measure, as Rhymin' looks right at home standing on a mountaintop explaining, "The mountains are a big part of me and a big part of who I am." Out on Main Street (I'm so sure that's what it's called), a coat-clad Trista tries not to burst into miserable, where-ARE-we tears when Rhymin' walks up and gives her a big hug. Now, I've never been to Vail. But I've been to Boulder, Lake Placid, Burlington, and Big Bear, and I can tell you this: they're all exactly the same. Adorable little picturesque towns with one long street of clapboard houses and unironic General Stores, where you walk around for an hour and marvel, "God, it must be so peaceful to live here" and then you walk around for another hour and marvel, "God, my boredom is so palpable it's actually acquired its own scent. By the way, is anyone else cold?" But Trista is game for now, because the less she talks the more quick-cut editing there is and the sooner she can get out of there. We learn, "We walked over to the fire station. And everyone was standing outside waiting for us." And sure enough, in front of a giant red fire truck, several uniformed men stand around, seemingly without a care. Shouldn't someone go back inside, just in case...? Oh, you say the snow mostly just puts all the fires out for you? Oh, very well, then. The men introduce themselves to Trista, and a quick aside with two of the firemen -- Mike and Jake -- yields the Statler-and-Waldorf-esque pearl, "She's a hottie. Way out of my league." And yet, nary a pun about having to turn the hose on her on account of her being so "smokin'." Anyway. "And probably Mike's league, too." Oh, that Mike. Will he never win? Fire pole hijinks ensue.
While waiting for the hole in the ozone layer to one day thaw stranded cats off high tree branches so that the VFD can all go back to work getting them down, Rhymin' and the guys set about making dinner at the fire station. One of the guys asks Trista what attracted her to Rhymin', and she grates cheese and nerves simultaneously, explaining that it's because he "wasn't too pushy." Dude, Russ can't hear you from there. Now that is passive-aggressive. A kindly old Wilford Brimley-esque fireman steps forward to speak for them all, noting, "I'm not so sure I like this. There's a part of me that's really excited for him and I really enjoy this, but there's a part of me that hopes things get back to normal for him, or that we can bring you here to enjoy Vail a little more." Trista laughs nervously and puts her hand on Rymin's without looking at him, communicating through a complex series of hand gestures and other body language cues, "Dear, I'd sooner set myself on fire."
Yelling over an idling fire truck while Trista stands just off-camera trying to jimmy a fork into a space heater, Captain Brimley takes it down a notch with the serious question, "What do you think she wants, Ryan?" And then, with I'm-kind-of- auditioning-for-my- own-reality-show- because-firemen-are- very-um- hot-these-days gravitas, he repeats verbatim, "What do you think she wants?" Rhymin's got the answer at the ready: "I think she truly wants to fall in love." Captain Brimley nods gravely, his slightly sardonically cocked eyebrow obscured behind those sunglasses that get darker when you're in a bright place (though to see their true power in action, Captain Brimley would have to travel several thousand miles to that one really sunny place called "Summer"), as Jake or Mike promises, "Whatever happens, you've still got us." Awwww! Just then, Trista returns and steals Rhymin' away. Secretly, they kind of hate her.
Man, I hope those production vans have four-wheel drive. We're following Rhymin's SUV up a forty-five-degree angle to a place he tells us is called "the wedding deck." Cut to them sitting on a blanket and sipping champagne, Trista cranking her vocal speed to 78 RPM and baby-talking, "To a beautiful sunset with a beautiful man." Okay, by the way? If you're talking in that voice and you're not any of the following: (1) asking Santa Baby to hurry down the chimney tonight; (2) telling Simon and Theodore you just want a hula hoop; or (3) actually between two and four years old -- then stop doing it. You have the power. Rhymin' volleys back in a closed-captioning-come-quickly whisper: "To only living once and taking chances." He then tells her that he made his toast because he wants to kiss her, and that if he doesn't, "Not only is everyone going to shoot me, but I might shoot myself." Good god. What a frontiers-like sentiment, this Love in the Time of the Second Amendment proclamation of your deranged passion. And so he does (kiss, that is. Not shoot), and Trista chimes in, "Being on that mountain. And sharing our first passionate kiss. Was perfect." The sun sets and the lovers will never be blue, except in their lips and lower extremities. Go inside! I'm cold just looking at you!
Trista's mood has gone not nearly as south as the California city she's pissed off she's not in right now, but she's still kind of pissy in the back of the car when she tells Rhymin' later that evening, "I had a little clothing worries." She had a little clothing worries? Whatever. Never mind. "What I had packed for tonight wasn't really appropriate," she explains. What's going on? What does that mean? Say what you will about her, Trista seems to know how to coordinate her clothes pretty well, so I can't imagine she could have gone too far afield, short of opening her suitcase to find the only outfit she brought with her came with pompoms and legwarmers and had the words "Property of the Miami Heat" sewn along the inseam. Rhymin' tells her not to worry, letting her know, "This is kind of the way that my mom likes to dress, so you kind of did well. I wouldn't be surprised if she were dressed exactly like this." And, sure enough, we walk up the stairs of Rhymin' apartment to discover his mother and Trista are wearing exactly the same outfit. Trista celebrates in an interview that she and Rhymin's mother share "some style," except for the fact that this ensemble is some third-string outfit Trista got out of a vending machine at the Vail Wal-Mart upon figuring out it doesn't make logistical sense to go outside without an asbestos-lined coat and a liberal dousing of Glacier-Be-Gone skin care cream. Oh, I know it's not really that cold. Everyone just calm down.
Rhymin's Dad tells us at dinner that his one-word definition of Rhymin' is "shy." RhyMom worried that his reticence to be the center of attention would have been hardest when competing against twenty-four other guys on the first night, and Rhymin' tells them, "I think the poem is what pulled me through." RhyMom and RhyDad give a quizzical "A poem?" I know it, RhyMom. We can't believe it either. RhyMom asks Trista if that's what really set him apart from the rest, and Trista assures her that that's not the case, instead indicating Rhymin's physical beauty with a wave of the hand as if she just happily discovered him behind Curtain #3.
At dinner in Rhymin's nondescript apartment now, the four of them sit around the table, RhyDad toasting, "To Ryan and Trista." RhyMom cuts to the first in a series of potentially incendiary "You think there's about to be some serious drama here, and you think wrong" moments, asking Trista, "Why did you get involved, first of all, in The Bachelor?" Trista rationalizes her decision thusly: "Well, you only live once." RhyDad, apparently understudying for the role of "God," knows with certainty, "That's true." Because you keep thinking the parents are going to be all judge-y, but they can't disagree too strongly with her behavior when it's nothing that their own children haven't done. And to find fault in that? Well, what kind of parents would that make them? Rhymin' chimes in: "I certainly didn't anticipate developing any feelings. But the more time I got to spend, the more time I had a connection and I felt something developing." In a quick interview set in front of a roaring fire, RhyMom tells us, "Ryan really seems to have fallen for Trista." Whereas Trista cuts her food non-committally and doesn't sit too close, wishing she were in front of the roaring fire called "sunshine," scraping the Robert Frost off her SUV's windshield and wishing she could end this night and tell the winter where it could stick its corncob pipe.
Or, not. Back at the table, RhyMom asks Trista, "Do you ski?" Yes, she does, but in a lying way: "I haven't been skiing in a while." More: "I'm more of a warm weather person." Back in an interview, RhyMom admits, "I think it would be more difficult for Ryan to move to Los Angeles or a large city than perhaps Trista living in Vail." Back at the table, a one-word fight has broken out that finds Trista defending herself, "I don't hate it. I just like the warm weather better." And back in interview, Rhymin' tells us that they both have to be willing to compromise or "it's not going to work." Rhymin' has a heart-to-heart with his camera-shy father that makes absolutely no sense at all. I am bored to the point of crying tiny, frozen tears.
At the end of the night, Rhymin' and Trista bid his parents goodbye and retire back inside to not leave recapping to the hired professionals: "That is so funny that we were dressed the same." Wow. That is so the only thing that happened it's not even funny. Seriously, if I spent an entire date talking about the weather and the questionable state of my mother's wardrobe choices, chances are the night would end with me dropping my grandmother off at 6:15 because she wanted to make it to the Ponderosa in time for the early-bird special. But the cameras won't shift their gaze, so Trista keeps her head in the game, laughing again at the hilarious, Filene's Basement's Basement product-placed hilarity of it all. Back in his mountain duet, Rhymin' admits in interview, "Whenever she leaves, she's going to do this with another guy and another guy and another guy. And that's a hard thing to deal with." Back in Rhymin's apartment, Trista finally takes the initiative to end Rhymin's further vamping regarding his mother's retail habits by leaning in for the post-dinner kiss. Yup. Y'all raise your hands if you've done that to a guy just to shut him the hell up already. Wow. It sure is hard to type using just my left hand.
Woohoo! New York City! Where the streets are paved with gold! Following the obligatory shots of Manhattan's finer skyscrapers, Squares of Time, and liberty-indicating giant stone statues, we land in what I'll call for the sake of y'all proving me wrong, the East 50s somewhere? Trista stands on a street corner as a voice-over tells us, "Because Greg and I haven't had an alone date so far, we kind of have to do some catching up." So what better way to do that than by speeding to your destination on a motorcycle! Oh, lord. Better work to keep those Bad Idea Jeans of yours from getting caught in that hog's gears, Greg, because this scenario is as lame as that bike is rented. He pulls up and steps off the bike, his helmet making me want to simultaneously congratulate him for his attention to safety while operating such a vehicle and hail the Kaiser for his bravery in battle. Greg hands Trista a rose, and she returns his romantic gesture with a kiss on the cheek as passionate as the one I gave my date at the end of our aforementioned Ponderosa visit ("Thanks for treating me to the extra Diet Coke, Gramma Mimi"). In the most cobbled-together interview in the history of reality television, Trista voices over from so many different speeches that if they'd actually dared to show her lips moving it would have looked like Saddam Hussein being interviewed by Conan: "When Greg pulled up on his motorcycle, I...was really excited...it was...total surprise...I was...definitely thinking...that...he...looked...pretty hot." Seriously, the clock in my office just changed six times as I was typing that sentence, so removed from the physical laws of the time-space continuum as it was. ["And then Greg chimed in with a comment about her 'sweet...can.'" -- Wing Chun]
The hog takes a spin through Central Park, Greg commenting, "At one point I looked back in the rearview mirror and I saw her back there and I thought, 'It doesn't get much better than this.'" This Love in the Time of Coors Lite sentiment segues them right into Central Park, where we discover Greg setting up a picnic on an eerily empty lawn while Greg tells her, "This is pretty much my favorite place in all of New York." See now, no. My favorite place in all of New York is a shitty Mexican restaurant in Brooklyn called "The Santa Fe Grill," because they have the cheapest chimichangas in Park Slope and they serve their frozen margaritas with tiny plastic animals in them. The only people in New York whose favorite place is Central Park are the people who have visited New York once or the people who literally call the park home. I'm pissed at Greg. I'm pissed that my spell-check doesn't know how to spell my favorite Mexican restaurant menu item. I'm pissed at everything. Shut up, The Bachelorette.
Greg and Trista are pretty damned far from the lake and the reservoir, so it's almost understandable that Trista has to wallow so shamelessly in the shallow end when she admits, "Because of his eyes and because of his looks, I would like to get on a more intimate level with him." Greg spreads the blanket and pours, much to Trista's amusement, hot chocolate into wineglasses. They toast to the day, which Greg calls "a perfect day in New York." I mutter a tiny prayer of thanks to Greg's motorcycle (which is parked where, exactly?) as I suddenly realize that its mere existence removes the possibility of any of the words "hansom," "carriage," or "ride" from this already Ephron-directed cliché "dream" date. But alas, it gets worse. Greg: "I saw the most amazing engagement I ever saw or heard of. I was in Rockefeller Center..." Dude, are you sure you live in New York? "It was Christmastime. Everyone's there. Hundreds and thousands of people." I'm pretty sure I wasn't there. But I'd sure love to meet the rosy-cheeked, Capra-esque extra hired to play me. I mean, I adore New York, but you can't sugarcoat it and expect the façade to hold up for a minute. It's no wonder she hated your apartment, think as she did that you lived in a twee hut at the toe of Lady Liberty under a thatch of yum-yum trees. But anyway: "All of the sudden [sic], this guy pulls the girl to the center [of WHAT?], and something flashed on the board [MEH?], and he gets down on his knee and pulls out a ring right there, and she hugs him and cries." And? AND? "And everyone was clapping." If this story doesn't end, "And that was the time that I had the dream when I was seven that God had been replaced and the universe would now be run by the librettist of On the Town," I'm gonna have a problem. Because seriously, that never happened. And even if it did, what was he doing there? He finishes the tale by tying it thematically to the experience they are now sharing: "Even if she said no, he'd have twenty-five girls waiting for him when he got off the rink." Awww. Sorry it didn't work out with that girl, Greg.
Greg and Trista's limo pulls up in front of Il Cortile (125 Mulberry Street). Oh, la la, it's "Little Italy's finest restaurant," according to...the Il Cortile website. ["I can't wait for Greg to tell us how each of the Five Points is a finger, and what happens when he closes his hand, and how he's going to paint Paradise Square with Trista's blood. That's all going to happen, right?" -- Wing Chun] And lucky for us, they take Discover. At the restaurant, we meet Greg's mom, her boyfriend, and his sister. I'm enormously amused by Greg's sister, who obviously lives in New York and should come to Brooklyn and be my friend instantly despite my need to continually link her defenseless brother to the seedy underworld of organized crime. Luckily, my case for our love is bolstered when Trista asks how they got along growing up, and Sis (for that is her only name) responds, "We hated each other." Marry me, Sis, and become Sis Blau. Greg's mom pulls out a collection of awesomely cheesy pictures that should be littering the internet right now in that niche genre of sites that includes, like, "Is My Prom Cheesy Or Not?" and "Look at My Totally Gay Rock Band that I Thought Was Cooler Than Information Society" and "Ferrets in Drag, For Some Reason" that make up the titles of Mike Fleiss's ten reality shows.
What's that...odd...tugging...sensation? It must be my heartstrings! We come across a photograph of Greg's father, who, we learn, passed away "about ten years ago." This turns the topic to Trista's own relationship with her parents, and Mrs. Djb asks Trista if she's close with her own parents. We hear, "My mom especially, because..." before Trista remembers, "I don't really have parents! I was engineered in a lab! Abort! Abort!" and changes the subject back to the photographs of tiny, tiny Greg. She cracks up at one in particular, in which he appears the typical dorky eighth-grader. But he's wearing a Michigan t-shirt and a St. Louis Cardinals hat, an outfit that if worn in the five boroughs could get your ass kicked from here to the Meadowlands. Which, Greg, is right near Central Park and Rockefeller Center, in a little neighboring town called "New Jersey." The lovely and sparking Mrs. Djb asks Trista what made Greg stand out to her, and Trista hems and stutters, clearly lacking access to either the word "padding" or "default" when they're suddenly required of her. Trista does, however, go for the old standby of "connection," saying that she wants to be with her "best friend." Mom's boyfriend agrees, referencing Greg's mom and noting, "She's my best friend. And I enjoy being with her. It definitely is important." Oh, I like him too! I'm so glad they live in New York. I hope we can all go out to Il Cortile! I really hope they pay! Trista and Greg, meanwhile, show their ever-burgeoning passion by...high-fiving. Sexy as a sports team, those two. Bob, identified as "Greg's Mother's Boyfriend" (oy. I guess someone put in a call to the producers to make sure they wouldn't be using "stepfather," eh?), takes an interview moment to reiterate, "He cares for her. I could see that he really does. Just like I care for my sweetheart, his mom." Awwww! He reminds me a little of my own stepfather (oh, sorry..."mother's husband"), and I therefore like him tremendously. Mrs. Djb employs a weensy bit of faulty logic, piling on, "I'm happy that it's at this point that Greg could bring somebody to us," because she knows that he wouldn't just do that and blah blah blah contractual obligationscakes bleh. But in her own interview, Emily (who? Oh, yeah) shows us her good side (whatever...her good side is "by my side") when she tells us, "Do I think after today that I could see them walking down the aisle? No." Greg notes that Trista totally "fit in" with his family. Another totally fine date. No drama at all. No tense moments. No awkward pauses during which to heed the Il Cortile website's directive to "ask about our beautiful private party rooms." Sigh. That sucks. I'll bet they were really, really beautiful. Bye forever, Greg's family! Call me!
Greg and Trista must have smuggled a bag of flour out of the Il Cortile kitchen, because at this late hour, the plot finally begins to thicken. In the limo, Trista asks Greg (because, indeed, this is the first time they have ever been alone, ever) if he lives by himself. He responds that he does, finishing that declarative statement with a far more shady "Well..." Just you and the roaches, then, oh ye proprietor of Joe's Apartment? It's fine. I know a lot of people in Alphabet City. I would just never live there myself. And neither, clearly, would the lady beside you. Greg explains quickly that he let someone who wasn't him stay at his apartment in his absence, and that the guy "was born in a pile of filth." Oh, no. The cab pulls up in front of Greg's place at 20 Avenue A (now you can go lurk in the hedges and stare into those gorgeous eyes yourselves, ladies), and we enter to find a pretty typical East Village studio apartment with white walls and parquet floors. The couch buts into the adjacent bed and faces a television and stereo on top of what may or may not be the bureau. Trista looks just horrified, but the person I really feel bad for is the poor slob who lives in the apartment across the hall, which is where the camera crew must be set up to capture this 9X14 box from literally any angle. But again, typical. One of my best friends lived in a place almost identical to that one about thirty blocks north (in what some hipsters like Greg would argue is even less of a desirable location) and paid $1,675 for it. A month, people. Trista asks Greg is this is "considered a studio," slowly pronouncing the last word like it's in some dead strain of Urdu that requires clicks and rolls and chanting in quarter tones to get it right. She looks around like she's seen this in a Time-Life Book Of Fantastical Things or heard of its legend in a scaaaary ghost story told to her by a camp counselor holding an "I [heart] New York" flashlight under his chin and telling the horrific tale of "the man who lived in but one room who had no love in his life nor rose on his lapel." She looks around and down toward the kitchen nook, asking hopefully, "Is there a bedroom in there?" Well, actually, if there were a separate bedroom, it wouldn't be called a "studio" at all, and Greg's bed probably wouldn't be out in the middle of the living room, would it? Poor Trista doesn't go with the most sympathetic appeal with the interview clause, "I honestly try not to be superficial..." Heh. "I can't judge Greg without knowing why he lives where he lives, but it's not someplace I see myself being." Whereas the entire eastern third of the viewing demographic is like, "How'd he afford that place?" Fine. Fine. I'll give it up. But I'll bet that place and Ryan's apartment cost exactly the same amount.
And, fine, it's not the most romantic vibe in there, so it doesn't go over well when Greg asks Trista if she wants "a glass of wine, maybe." She sits on the couch holding a pillow that she's sure must be decorated entirely in festively-colored roach eggs (and, okay, she might not be wrong there), wondering if the "maybe" involves the possibility of another beverage choice involving an IV needle attached to a pole she can push onto the street herself, filled with something residing in the "pentathol" family. In one fell swoop, she then accuses him of having mice (which sounds as if it genuinely hurts his feelings), asks why he has eggs crates on his door (sound cushioning for when he plays his guitar), and refers to his place in an interview as a "bad apartment." Well, not really. In fact, she rationalizes her response to his place, promising, "I've dated guys with bad apartments before." While she was working off community service hours for some unknown crime, I gather. All while he shakes his head in reverence for her and tells her repeatedly what a great day he's had. And then finally plays the song he wrote her, and my sympathies fly right back to Trista's side of things. I'm not against her completely, but hands off the New York City real estate market you clearly cannot understand. Anyway:
Well I didn't know I'd ever find a girl
Who smiles as sweet as you
I didn't know I'd ever meet a girl with eyes
So warm and true
Whatever. He's not Dylan, but at least he took the song-writing course where they teach you on the cardinal rule of poetic construction: "nothing rhymes with plethora." ["Although I would argue that he wrote that song about another girl, because Trista's eyes are hard and dead. I'm just saying." -- Wing Chun]
Let history show that Trista's the one who instigated the kiss.
. Trista tells us that she's starting to feel "travel exhaustion," which always happens to me when I'm flying to four different cities on my private jet as well. Russ steps out of a limo to meet Trista, and the car travels at a forty-five degree angle (for this is the isosceles triangle on which some foolhardy prospector decided to build a city on a fault line) down a hill as Russ tells Trista how much he loves Marin. And Marin is nice, but it's very upper-middle and very yuppie and kind of not really at all San Francisco. Not that there's any love lost between me and San Fran anyway. I mean, it's nice and all, but I can't entirely quell the feeling that there are only seven people living there and that they all have vaguely the same job ("Freelancer." "Yes, but what service do you provide on a freelance basis?" "Oh, you never mind that now." "Well, okay."). It's also always almost sunny, like it's really cloudy all the time but you can see how it might be sunny if that cloud would move just a leeeeeetle to the left. Whereas in New York, the bleakness its denizens experience makes us feel like the sun has actually exploded and disappeared from the earth's view forever. Oh, fuck. I'm a George Carlin routine in Woody Allen's clothing. You know what else is really different about baseball and football? Shut up, me.
In the limo, Trista tells us that she's "not feeling the same chemistry" that she was with Russ as on that first night in Vegas. Different chemistry? Maybe that's because her chemistry in Vegas was comprised of Captain Morgan's and Russ's stomach acid she was tonguing down. Regardless, she feigns enthusiasm. Russ tells us that this date is important because he's excited to share his family with her and BLAH already. We would then be treated to a San Francisco montage, but The Golden Gate Bridge is the only thing in San Francisco. So right there. There it is.
On the Marin side now, Russ blathers on at a lookout point, telling her that he's going to his house with Trista, which I strongly suspect is a fact she already knew. In an interview, he also admits, "She knew me as being some Silicon Valley executive, but the fact is I took the last year off and wrote a book." An "executive"? No, she most certainly did not think that. Shut up, Russ. You're the reason that city can't get a million people to live there.
Trista wonders -- "digs," if you will -- as to how Russ is supporting himself. Since it's in an interview, she doesn't come away with any answers.
Darkness falls across the land, and we cut to Russ's apartment. Okay, fine, it's kind of nice. Big, and not terribly appointed. In other words, "borrowed." He shows her a photograph of himself on the refrigerator with a bride, and he tells Trista, "That's my wife." Not bad, but it's so smooth you can tell he keeps that picture there just so he can use that line every time he has a girl there. They sit on the couch and drink some wine, Russ telling her that this is a trying time for him because of how abnormal this set-up is. And while I agree with the sentiment Trista expresses, it again sounds editing together with gum and a glue stick: "One thing that I noticed about Russ tonight is that he seemed very anxious, and I was kind of like, you know, 'just relax and let it happen.'" And I'm pretty sure that at least the words "I was kind of like, you know, just relax" were spoken by Trista while she was in a room with the New York City skyline in the background. She adds on that his nervousness makes her "want to pull away." To the past. From where that sentiment is delivered. Yesterday. In the city of New York.
Good LORD, are there a lot of people at this house! Mom, Dad, grandma, sister, her husband, and his nieces. One of the nieces gives Trista payola -- er, I mean, "gift" -- in the form of a bracelet that read "Punka and Trista." Apparently, "Punka" is their nickname for Russ. At dinner, Russ's sister Judy taboos and says, "I feel kind of rushed, because I feel like this is the only chance I'll have to meet you." Well, someone's been reading the spoilers. I'm kidding. I'M KIDDING! Whatever. Everyone knows who wins. Meanwhile, Russ's brother-in-law employs a segue I think will finally lead to some drama, prefacing, "Let me ask you this one question." Hmmm...do you thirst for attention no matter how misbegotten that attention is? Is this a play for love or a ploy for fame? If we submerge you in water, will you float? And if we light a match to you will you burn?
"If you won the lottery tomorrow, what would you do?"
Fuck, no! I'm looking for compelling television for the first time this hour (and a half), and we get the Gus Van Sant shot-by-shot remake of the first fifteen minutes of Heathers? Save me. Russ, on the spot, goes for the answer, "I've won the lottery with a family like you," which is kind of awesome. They drink to the sham of Trista's non-love for Russ, and Russ's Dylan-Baker-esque father hugs her for an exceedingly long time. Trista tells us in an interview that she does have feelings for Russ, and that she is just trying to be "in the moment right now." Russ might think he's more in the lead than he really is.
Back in The Middle Of Nowhere, we find Trista waiting for Charlie in what looks like the snow. They reunite with a hug, and Charlie tells us that he was "nervous" and "giddy" because he hadn't seen her in seven days. The limo pulls through the woods, and we repeat the meet-and-greet. Some of these family members may be starting to repeat themselves. Did anyone else notice Charlie's sister-in-law lingering around Russ's house nibbling on a chicken bone? Charlie's mom third-degrees Trista, and we learn that Trista moved to L.A. in May, which was "five months ago." Since Charlie's mother is also a lapsed physical therapist, Charlie guesses Trista and his mom will have a lot to talk about. Charlie's mother asks Trista if she'll go back to work when she's finished up with "these programs," and Trista notes, "No one can take my Masters away." You just watch the shamed University of Miami try it, dollface. She also notes that she misses "working with kids," adding her "love for babies" as the small child in the house wails every time s/he even looks in Trista's direction. Charlie's mother is finally the only one to half-snipe, "It's such a different field practicing therapy than when you're running around, having a good time." But she says it all with a smile, because WASPs don't need to yell to sting. She adds in interview that she'll support Charlie in his pursuing of Trista, "for Charlie if for nothing else." Help.
Charlie's siblings look just hatefully mad as Trista and Charlie recount their glitzy date in L.A. "She's obviously a very accomplished woman," Susan (Charlie's L.A.-hating sister) notes, "But it's easy to get caught up, I think, in the whole L.A. Hollywood scene." At dinner, Charlie's brother (I don't think he gets a name because I don't think he gets an interview because I strongly suspect his entire existence is lived inside of an invisible interview booth he pushes around with him wherever he goes) goes off on love: "It has nothing to do with logic, reason, rational thought, reality. It has to do with emotions. And emotions convolute things." Charlie's mother dares interrupt to ask something about predestination, but Charlie's brother can read the magnetic poetry on the walls when he bowls her over, "Love is much like, for me, the analogy of a rose. You gotta nurture it, you gotta let it grow. The second you try to behold it. The second you try to embody it. You cut it, you take yours, you kill it. You cut the rose, it dies." I don't think he thinks at least two of those words mean what he thinks they mean. And thanks for defining the concept of "love" across all barriers in all of its confounding totality, Charlie's brother. For me, love dies as soon as it starts thinning on top. So feh on you, baldy.
Trista "really enjoyed" Charlie's family because of how "intellectually stimulating" they were. Charlie's mother Susan (wait...Charlie's sister and Charlie's mother are both named "Susan"?) maintains some skepticism in an interview: "It's hard for me to imagine that, in two week's time, marvelous as Charlie is, that Trista would say to him, 'I wish to spend the rest of my life with you. Would you like to spend the rest of your life with me?' and that Charlie would say to her, 'Yes, I would.'" Hee. She just put on a little play. Memo to the production staff of The Bachelorette: sock puppets are nothing to be afraid of. Out in the limo (in an interview session used numerous times last week), Trista says she feels she "passed the hometown test with flying colors. But I've been known to think incorrectly about those things." Oh. Charlie's brother is named "Francis." He thinks, "You're talking high-maintenance, and I'm thinking the spotlight, okay? There's a clear pattern of glitz, glamour, attention, focus, focal point, type-A, if you will." He vamps and vamps, Charlie's father filling in over at an interview, "Some people are just more needy than others." Heh. Charlie's mother notes that the fact that Trista was a "career person" makes her worth pursuing, and Francis adds that he's going to take it to "a creepy level," saying, "She kind of parallels Mom a little." Charlie's mother deadpans the best line this episode has to offer: "I hate to break this to you, but I was not a Miami Heat dancer." They hate Trista. Trista wears her Smart Glasses on the flight back to L.A., writing in her journal and voicing over that the vibes she'd been having were "right on."
Safely ensconced in The Room of Reckoning, Trista tells Chris that her decision is going to be extremely hard. He asks what she's learned about the guys, and she notes that each of them has "a strong value for their family. And that is the most important thing to me." Chris continues that the families are now involved in this process, and Trista agrees that "it's really difficult for me to think about saying goodbye to three of the guys, let alone three families." Chris asks rather pointlessly, then, if she sees it being a problem tonight, and her voice actually quavers that she thinks every Rose Ceremony is "difficult." Chris asks if she thinks one of the men downstairs could become her husband, and she responds, "There's actually more than one." We don't get to see Chris's kind-of-horrified expression.
Chris adds on that tonight is a special night because it is Trista's thirtieth birthday. ["I would say it's probably Trista's second thirtieth birthday, then; she's thirty-six if she's a day." -- Wing Chun] Chris takes this opportunity to "be the first" to wish her a happy birt-tay, leaning in awkwardly and shaking her hand like the birthday she's celebrating is her thirteenth, and that he's the rabbi conferring the Bat Mitzvah girl with God's blessing. This is why it couldn't work out between them. Because he's not a rabbi. Anyway, he continues on that each of the guys will be coming up, one by one, to wish her a happy birthday.
Downstairs, Chris sends Rhymin' up first, who voices over up the stairs that he wants to be with Trista "forever." In The Room Of Reckoning, he hands Trista a bouquet of flowers and wishes her a happy birthday. She asks how things have been for him since last they've seen each other, and he offers a vaguely sincere "Miserable." I love that he then tries to move into chatty mode with the totally inexplicable "How's the new coat working out?" which she barrels over in being all FOR ME? when she sees that he's brought her a present. He got her a card, which he'll open for her, thanks. There's yet another poem inside, which sounds quite a bit like the other ones, but he ends his tiding with the P.S., "You still don't look a day over twenty-four." Hey, Sparky's showing a little bit of humor! Maybe it could work out after all. Although, fourteen stanzas to one joke isn't the ratio I require at all. She cracks open his present, which is...wait, is that a pencil sketch of a tiger? Oh, my god. It totally, totally is. Trista tells us, "I was very surprised that Ryan remembered that the white tiger was my favorite animal." Well, at least the cover artist of Love in the Time of Sigfried and Roy can take the weekend off.
Greg is , and there's nothing to talk about. And so, we rap! He's really written her a rap song. And he calls it a "Birthday Rap-Sody." Get it? GET IT? Damn, he's clever. I'm not telling you the words. Oh, fine:
It started thirty years ago today
When baby Trista came into the world to stay
Oh, no. "Baby Trista" was all I needed to hear. She claps uproariously, in a very "now where the fuck is my gift gift" kind of way, and she cracks open a package with the four songs he had written for her, printed on plain white paper, tied together with a red ribbon. No, she thinks. Where's the actual gift gift?
Russ. It's a photo of a sunset he took on a mountain. Is there a more cliché photographic image than sunset on a mountain to communicate your love? And if they're together year? Babies in tires! Babies in flowerpots! A cat that thinks we should all "hang in there!"
Charlie. It's a card. Meh. At least maybe a check will fall out? She opens a small gift wrapped in tissue paper to find a small silver frog with a gold crown. Absolutely no reason why.
Trista voices over that she was "completely surprised" by the guys' gifts, and calls all of them "great." In the video messages, Rhymin' thanks Trista for coming to Colorado, Greg tells her he had the best time in New York "yesterday," so I'm guessing his date was last in reality? Russ is this victor of this week's "and he looks like Blossom!" bucket hat competition, standing in that park where Mike Myers suggested that we "dance like children of the night" in So I Married an Axe Murderer. Charlie calls her "adorable" and lies that his family really liked her. Yeah. I totally roll my eyes at people I really like and respect also. All the time. Actually, come to think of it, I totally, totally do.
Chris calls the guys "fellas" again when he places the roses on the table, and explains again that one of the guys will not be receiving a rose. He then tells us, "I'll go get Trista," but with the amount of talking they've let him do this week and the obvious physical strain of trying in vain to correctly pronounce "birthday," what comes out of his mouth sounds an awful lot like, "Have a good Trista." Well, you too, buddy.
Chris accompanies her back down, and Trista gives her usual speech about "creativity and thoughtfulness," but most of all, "I want to thank all of you for introducing me to your families." Okay! We know! We've seen it! We even know how it ends! Hurry up!
Ryan, will you accept this rose? Yes. Because the fire is raging! The one in his heart. The only fire Vail has, in truth, ever seen.
Charlie, will you accept this rose? Spoiler! Oh, wait. He hasn't won the whole thing. Yet.
Russ, will you accept this rose? Russ just kicked a New York apartment's ass for the final rose. Why? Because he's infested with less vermin? Well, in Trista's mind, anyway.
In the limo out of Dullsville, a not-weepy-enough Greg tells us, "If I'm not the guy, then I'm not the guy. That's it. The fact that I'm not the guy hurts in that I guess I'll never get the chance to show Trista who I can be. Who I truly am." Back inside, the three remaining men toast Trista, Rhymin' cleverly remembering to add on one more "happy birthday." See you week, y'all. Have a good Trista, everyone.