Bex Simon, the art buyer, shows back up to buy the painting, and tries to bone Rufus, who is still looking stupid hot, and it takes forever and ever and ever, and yes, the artist is the ex-wife, which means that Bex's client is obviously Lily, and who knows what else happens, they rebuild Machu Picchu and clean up post-Katrina, they do some more shitty "art," I don't know, I was asleep. Wake me when one of two things happens: Lily arrives in this C-story plot, or Rufus loses his shirt. Or even just the leather choker.
Time for Phase Three of the Lost Weekend: a pub crawl through the boroughs. At apparently only the tackiest Irish-themed bars the city has to offer. Chuck, sweetie, you're really not pulling your bon vivant/rapist weight this week. Irish pubs where the prostitutes are wearing shamrocks and shit is, like, my great-grandfather's idea of cutting loose. And you know you need to dance, bitch. "Remember, don't dip your shillelagh in the wrong pot of gold," he brogues, which is so lame in so many ways that it somehow went all the way back around to awesome. He tries to get Nate into the bar, showing the bitchy heart on his bespoke sleeve one more time: "You can think about your boyfriend inside." Nate makes a stand and says he's leaving, and Chuck repeats for at least the sixteenth time that the Hobbit is not on the up-and-up. "I don't know what spell he's put you under, but he's not your friend. He can't be trusted." This is five inches from turning into the ending of Prick Up Your Ears, his eyebrows suggest.
Nate whines and bitches and trust-fundies about how the money, drugs, and privileges are "keeping us numb so we don't know it's better out there in the real world," and Chuck rightly asks him to fucking define the "real world" anyway. Nate has no answer. Chuck says that the mad scramble of life in the real world is to become them, so why go all the way around past lame when they're already there? Nate whines some more about how he is essentially unknowable and has the soul of an artist or whatever, and Chuck's like, "I hear you talk about how you don't want to go to Dartmouth, and how you don't want to follow in your father's footsteps, but what exactly do you want?" Nate's already lost, because he is totally vague about how amazing. "You better discover what it is before you throw everything away trying to find it." Nate huffs off and gets the address for the stupid Shire poker game.
Rufus sits Chez Humphrey, playing the guitar and continuing to look fine, when his son comes home crying again. Before he can even ask Dan what Nate did to him this week, he busts into a long and not-untrue speech about the evils of Blair Waldorf, whom he calls "basically everything" he hates about the UES, "distilled into one 95-pound, doe-eyed, bon mot-tossing, label-whoring package of girlie evil." Not bad, Dan. He then ruins it with some Dan-talk: "I would barely be exaggerating if I told you Medusa wants her withering glare back." Don't start that Edith Hamilton bollocks with me, you annoying high school junior. Rufus explains this show, The O.C., and every other show where people do awesome, awful things: "Usually there's something beneath the surface with people like that, to make them act the way they do." Is there something beneath the surface of Rufus to make him explain basic shit to the audience? In fact, can we say with certainty that there's anything beneath the surface of Rufus at all? No? Take off your pants, Rufus!