This has nothing to do with the show, and as it's the last one, maybe I should do some big wrap-up, but really, c'mon. Who cares? What's more important is this: Jewel's transformation into a pseudo-dancing Aguilera ho. Now, I never had any love for Jewel, with her yodeling and her "put on my PJs and hop into bed"-style lyrics and her bizarrely self-sexualizing videos and her gigantic boobies and her sweaters. But what annoyed me most was her constant reminder that she was somehow pure because she gave up, as she said, a soul-sucking waitress job in Alaska because she needed to play her music full-time, and she sacrificed so much for her art that she chose to live in a van! She lived in a van, people! That's how much the music was part of her. Of course, she left out that part about her gramps being some Alaskan senator or something -- no, she was homeless, dammit! And when she made it, it was like some Homeless To Harvard story, but with a guitar instead of an SAT score. And when Sean Penn took advantage of her, she complained. And when people talked about her breasts, she complained. Oh, lord, how Jewel complained. And when the stories of her Helen-Hunt-sized bitch factor began emerging, she complained that she was being called that because she was a strong woman who put on her PJs and lived in a van! She lived in a van; how dare you criticize her! And when her next album didn't sell and her Ang Lee-debacle of a film flopped (Ang can never be forgiven for casting her, fantastic Juneau-trained blowjobs or not) and no one liked her CRIBS episode and no one cared that she fell off a horse and broke her arm, some little switch got flipped. She woke up one morning and turned on MTV and saw Xtina and Pink and Beyonce, and she said: "I can do that. I'm going to do that." And she stopped eating and sorta took dance lessons and starting logging phone calls to The Matrix and The Neptunes and bought some Pro Tools and figured it out. And the result? Well, I guess it's working, maybe sorta. And when you watch her being sprayed by a firehose in her wet t-shirt, her USA bra visible underneath, the look of desperation-fueled fake sexual ecstasy on her face, the water cascading off her snaggletooth in a fine, Hype Williams line, somewhere out in the frozen Alaskan tundra, in a swooping pan from a thousand miles up down to some patch of ice, the camera comes in close on a baby sea lion, white and furry, and a tiny ice cube of a teardrop falls from its big dark eye for Jewel. And then the sea lion is hacked in two by a workman wearing an orange jumpsuit that reads, "The Record Company," blood spraying everywhere, and then another workman takes a hack as well, and we pan up to see that his jumpsuit reads, "Hubris."