And we're live at the Hollywood Bowl, which is an outdoor theater, even though the forecast for rain couldn't be more sure of itself. There's a really troubling number of people and they're all shouting, "TRUMP! TRUMP! TRUMP!" Which would be like totally off-putting, to the point that maybe they've each been paid $50 in methadone or the cash equivalent, except for there's Sean! Sitting with Omarosa! Who's chanting! This night just got awesome. Trump and his children come out onto the stage with smoke everywhere, but I bet it's not as scary when they're so tiny and far away. Ivanka's looking totally cute, with a weird science-fiction-adjacent Alla collar, and then there are fireworks -- what's with the fireworks this year? -- and some fist pumps from the man himself. The boardroom table on the fake boardroom stage is about sixteen yards long. The cheering is unending and ridiculous; it's like late afternoon in LA while this crap is going down. I wish it were like the other seasons and there was something to be excited about. Not only was the scale of the final task completely thrown off, but also: we already know what's going on, because we've already seen the final product. It's like, there's no cliffhanger about how it's going to rain, even, because look up: it's raining. And you don't have to worry about whether or not the Z-List Joe Piscopo celebrity is going to show, because he's not, because there was no final task. And so instead, a rock concert, starring Donald Trump, with some lady out in the audience holding a sign intended to show support for Frankie Suits. I ask you.

"How great is this?" Trump states/asks, unconsciously signaling his final choice in an hour. He's talking about the Hollywood Bowl, the fireworks, horrible Sinatra sang here a million years ago, the Beatles sang here once, and now he's on this same stage. Which is all very weird, because the whole point of LA is how the past doesn't exist, so like, who cares who sang on this stage? It didn't count. This isn't the Ed Sullivan show, it's some crappy outdoor theatre, built by the corrupt, for the exhausted. It was built in 1922, for Pete's sake. George already had grandchildren in 1922. No history, no future. Since 2003 it's been a visual mashup of every style ever applied to it: Allied Architects, Frank Lloyd Wright, Frank Gehry. "I love it!" he says, and for a second it's kind of heartwarming, until you remember how last week he totally bought Rosie's bondage underwear from Exit To Eden in order to prove some kind of point, and then your heart once again goes dead. Ivanka, though, is wearing a totally gorgeous smile, and Don's dressed better than he ever has. Six months in fast-forward has been wildly kind to them both.

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