And...go! Military-themed phat beats play on in the background, and the girls cluelessly vamp out. Oh, how I wish it were slightly more humiliating. Tyra tells us that she sees "a lot of mistakes." Don't you love how everyone thinks his or her job is really hard? Tyra curls a lip. The men clap. J. tells the girls, "Personally, I think you all sucked. I just see things that need to be redone." Seriously, this is the most contrived "tough guy" act I've ever seen. You can all but hear the producers whispering, "You need to come down on them real hard, um, J. And, dude. What are you doing? Get a name, for Chrissakes."
Oooh, nice house. The PimpMobile pulls up in front of something called "The Red Tulip Building." Inside is a generally fabulous reality-television loft, where Tyra has sent the girls a note telling them that their pad (er, sorry..."crib") is a "bling bling, punk-funk, mod kind of world up in here." Jenascia's reading of those words is endearingly deadpan, I have to say. And I had a little side bet going with...well, myself, to see how many times the word "bling" was said on this show. And look at that. Already up to two.
Wow! What a punk-funk, mod kind of world it is up in here! Hardwood floors, decorative throw pillows, "punk funk" spraypainted on the walls for some reason. There's also a mod room and a bling bling room. And a runway in the middle of the place. And food. Which we'll be seeing in its exact form today, and also one episode from the end. That's right. Models-with-eating-disorders jokes. We're on the cutting edge now, people.
Sitting around the table now, the girls work out their housing plans. Someone doesn't want to sleep on a pullout bed. Next week on...The Real World: 1-800-MATTRES! Man, I hate the choosing-the-beds arc. Anna is already seen doing dishes. Because she's the mom. And moms do dishes. Got it? Fantastico. Catie tells us that she thinks it's "inspiring" that women "don't have to put their dreams on hold" just because they have a family, clearly wearing some obscuring garment over her own "Ask me about my Eisenhower-era approach to feminism" t-shirt that answers Anna's aforementioned duds. And Catie? Before you know it? Suffrage. To further this plot thread, a shot later, we find Anna on the phone with a bellowing child, and she calms him down with a "Hi, Mecarius!" "Mecarius"? Who is her son, the Greek god of absent motherhood?
Sleep comes to the Red Tulip, and the sun rises on the George Washington Bridge, a mere two hundred or so blocks from where the loft appears to be. That Manhattan! It's the longest runway I know! Aaaaaanyway, we location-scout back down to the loft, where Tyra comes in to wake the girls. She reminds the girls again that she hand-selected all of them, and I guess she's just there for a little rap session with the ladies. Anna kicks things off by asking for "words of wisdom" about the industry. I guess her standard prefix "Well, as a wife and mother..." was edited for length. Just this once. Tyra responds, "You need to live, breathe, and eat this." An audible gasp ripples through the crowd when someone says "eat," and quickly subsides for the vigorous course of nodding in agreement to anything Tyra says, even if what she says is, "Every week one of you guys is gonna go home." Oh, no! The rules! Of reality television! Someone does something challenging. Someone screws up that challenge in some way. Someone is handed something in the end, and the person who is handed nothing walks away. It's what my brother refers to as "Reality Show Mad Libs." It's what Tyra would refer to as "the rules...all up in here." Nevertheless, the girls look appropriately sad for the situation. "But I have love for every single one of you," Tyra says, and hands out necklaces that she designed herself. They're of a pattern which, at first, I thought were her initials. Which would be awesome. Not only because it would be the single most narcissistic design in the history of fashion, but also because it would mean all of the girls were walking around wearing necklaces with the name of a highly infectious disease on it. Stylin'! A revitalizing group hug, and off to dinner we go.