O-Town starts at the very beginning of its concert plan -- a number called The Showdown that Tony Harrison choreographed in the now-infamous "crew lock" style. It's really too bad they don't do six-man Ice Dancing in the Olympics, because this Showdown concert-intro would look spectacular with Scott Hamilton, skates and flowing shirts. The guys do some stomping, stepping, slapping, jerking and walking. I think I speak for us all here when I say that this crew lock, more than any of its predecessors (note to Erik: This is correct usage), truly looks like a crew that's locked. "Dan is better for this group," Jacob says. "This is gonna be the final five that lasts." Dan still feels like he's playing catch-up, struggling to digest all the new moves and squeeze in the conditioning and vocal training. "Ohhhh, that was it, that was it right there, boy!" crows Tony, who has inexplicably relocated to Orlando from Germany. "Yes yes yes." More inane movement. Trevor thinks Dan fits incredibly well -- into the band, not into his sweater-vests, obviously. We see Lou's foot tapping on the floor once, twice, thrice. The ground shakes. Somewhere off the coast of Madagascar, a small earthquake fells ten mighty trees and knocks the island square into Africa's southeastern coast. The camera pans up from Lou's foot, slowly caressing his portly form...over the knee, the dimply thigh, the navel, those D-cup breasts and of course, all six of his chins. By this point, though, the lens has cracked. Lou's body is fourteen years of bad luck, plus a good thirty hours of nausea.
Jay walks in and perches on the couch next to a pooped Erik and Jacob. "Why didn't you even take the garbage out?" Jay demands, irritated and considering as punishment crying "headache" and canceling any planned evening hanky-panky. Erik explains impatiently that they haven't been home. Judging by the messy-house visuals, they've been gone for approximately twelve years. Trevor chips in that they were supposed to have ample time for housekeeping, but didn't. Erik decides to be a complete brat. "I don't know how to attempt to go grab all the garbage," Erik says to Jay, grinning idiotically. "Do you want me to come around it? Come at it?" Here's an angle, you mutant hellcat: Let Jay strip you, slather you with glue and throw you right inside the pile. You could then walk it out to the dumpster. "I'm trying to talk to you seriously and you guys just can't do it," Jay sighs. The producers treat us to proof of the sloppy debauchery, and it's pretty disgusting. Heaps of clothing -- clean or dirty? Anyone's guess -- engulf the beds, obscuring them. Floor space is hard to find. Trash-cans teeming with waste have expelled onto the linoleum all stray food wrappers and crusty, used paper towels. These guys are fucking appalling. Of the five, the youngest -- Ashley -- is eighteen; the destroyed O-Zone lair looks like the habitat of undomesticated nine-year olds. A lemur would be cleaner. My two-month-old niece could have better success with a trash-can. "We tried to clean the house, like, twenty times," Ashley deadpans earnestly. "Do I look like I'm kidding?" Well, you've got to be. The alternative is too unsettling. Dear Mom: This is what my bedroom looks like. Just kidding! Did I scare you? Ha! Oh, hey, thanks for the iron you bought me. It makes a great bookend. Love, H.