Derek calls Karen over, and momentarily hallucinates that Karen is in Marilyn drag again, and it's time to check him for a brain tumor, oh my god. She slinks onto the table and begins singing Amy Winehouse's "Our Day Will Come," because this show doesn't have enough patron drunks. The look on Derek's face throughout as she crawls into his lap and writhes around is so enthralled and whipped that it is murdering all his sexiness for me. Seriously, dude, CAT scan.
Dev is eating his lunch on a downtown bench surrounded by pigeons, and when Karen calls, he scampers off the phone like a cowardly cheating weasel. He still hasn't told her he didn't get the press secretary job, and I cannot bring myself to care if no one is going to sing about it.
Shrek has agreed to meet Julia at a restaurant. She thanks him for coming, and Shrek only asks about Dull Leo, who is flunking two classes, because that's something that can happen in, like, a week. Julia tries to keep the discussion to the kid, but Shrek is still pretty effing steamed about the whole you-slept-with-Not-Adam-Pascal thing.
At rehearsal, Karen tries to introduce herself to Rebecca, who completely ignores her. Yay! Rebecca approaches Derek with "a few thoughts." Across the room, Sam and Ivy observe their tête à tête sourly, although it does seem that Derek has taken Ivy's advice and is coddling his star like an egg. Sam opines that Rebecca won't make it to opening night. "You know who's going to end up playing Marilyn, don't you?" "Gwyneth Paltrow," Ivy suggests. Well, that would be worse. Rebecca is pushing for bringing in more of Marilyn's involvement with the Actors Studio, which makes me momentarily hope for a chorus of kicklining James Liptons. But her real goal is less singing and dancing, more talking, which is what we all want out of our Broadway musicals. She calls the song boring, which Tom overhears.
Walking west on 42nd Street, Tom is ranting to Sam about how Rebecca is a tone-deaf philistine. They decide to blow off dinner and instead go to Tom's apartment. And I continue to live in hope of interracial gay sex on a Big Three network in primetime.
At Tom's apartment, they're talking about Sondheim and having a drink and then Tom pushes Sam back on the couch and kisses him, and Sam stops him and explains that he's old-fashioned, and wants to take it a little slower. Tom asks if Sam is a Republican, and Sam replies, "The Republicans don't own God, you know that." Sam says he wants to date a little, maybe go to a Knicks game, and then bang like bunny rabbits. Sam asks how old Tom is ("Thirty-seven? Ish?") and how long his longest relationship lasted. ("Five--" "Years?" "Months.") Sam puts on his magical black man psychoanalyst hat and says that Tom likes to jump right into bed with someone and then find a reason to sabotage the relationship. He says that his way (you know, dating) is better, and then leaves. Everyone I'm watching with is psyched to see a black, gay, Christian character on TV. Maybe we should start calling him Threefer.