NYC Prep Recap

NYC Prep returned this week with another exciting installment of "Rich People Suck". Sebastian continued to toy with the hearts of young, emotionally fragile girls. PC tried desperately to adhere to his straight-rich-affected-superior-youth act. Jesse gave us a glimpse into her future as an almost attractive, almost loved, almost important human being existing in Florida. And Camille was worthless and desperate as usual.

First off...

Sebastian, attractive because his hair resembles Lief Garret's and his attitude reminds us of that ex who gave us herpies when he cheated on us with that waitress with acrylic nails, can totally see himself falling for Taylor. Everytime he's with her she just gets cuter and cuter. You can tell he likes her because he goes all the way out to the Hamptons to visit Kelli. Yes, you read that right. He's still seeing both girls. At this point my English degree is begging me to compare Taylor to Marianne in Sense and Sensibility and Sebastian to that money-driven corrupter Mr. Dashwood but I don't know if the show that will later bring me the image of closeted PC humping a rainbow care bear as a pre-teen merits this kind of comparison. Anyway, it's obvious to the viewer that Sebastian wants the best of both worlds and that he's simply keeping Kelli on a leash because she makes sense as a partner for him. It's only a little heart piercing to watch as Kelli opens her heart and her home to Sebastian, afire with hope that he will love her more than the floors of marble and bathrooms with badays and little yippy dog ever could. But he doesn't. And then the poor dog dies and Kelli is left weeping in the cold wind at the dog cemetary with only the Spanish speaking help to pick up after her breaking heart. Seriously, I think the best part of the episode was when Kelli's botoxed mother, unable to emote herself, asks the maid if she wants to say something at the funeral, "Habla?!" Oh, white people. You are the stuff that starts Marxist revolutions.

After playing an awkward and unfulfilling games of pool with Kelli, Sebastian ventures back into the city to reunite with his one true love, Taylor. Taylor, who looks so 15 that it makes me feel all queasy inside just thinking about the things that she will do to Sebastian in order to feel like she's escaped her awful Upper West Side hell, is charming and witty as she regales the dashing Sebastian with tales of her exciting life and parables she's come to learn first hand. No--that doesn't happen. The interaction between the two is stilted and pithy as ever and you're left to wonder whether substanitive conversation takes place on their BBMs. And then you're left to feel ashamed that you're thinking about what a pair of terrible teenagers BBM each other. And that you're using the term BBM. Taylor asks Sebastian the mood-killer, "What are we?", and Sebastian's rusty head wheels turn as he thinks of what he can say to ensure a blowjob from both Taylor and his gaggle of girls on the side. He gives her no assurance that they are in a relationship and that's a-okay with Taylor, because she's got a hole in her heart that can only be filled with empty promises and being second-fiddle to the real wife who's actually in the will. The future does not look bright for squatty little Taylor.

So, she seeks the counsel of the wise and intuitive Camille whose advice has never steered anyone wrong. That sentence was, in fact, a complete lie. Camille, whose crazy eyes are especially ablaze tonight with the fire of vicarous romances and social deceit, suggests that Taylor, her ex, Sebastian and Kelli go on a date. She ensures that she's good at gossip and getting the deets and I'm sure that she actually believes that but having watches easily twenty minute of consecutive footage involving her, I know that that's not true. Camille's interrogation technique is more sledgehammer than chisel and the result is usually incredulity and disdain. That's the thing about Camille, though. She isn't merely playing the part of an over-acheiving Tracey Flick neurotic mess. She is actually bat-shit. Or she has Asbergers. Either way, her attempts to embody Blair Waldorff fail miserably. She's not pretty enough to be wanted by boys. She's not charming enough to be adored by girls. Her grades and test scores are hard won and the hours that she's poured into them has made her haggard and empty--too blue collar to be admired. Despite her attempts to climb and manipulate the social strata she has failed on all counts. The situation gets its best evidence when Camille cleans out her closet.

Unable to tackle the monumental task of deciding which clothes she ought to keep and which she out to "throw away" (I hope for the sake of my sanity that the clothes were not actually thrown away), mommy and daddy hire a stylist to choose for her. Well, Camille butts heads with the stylist. You see, the stylist wants to chuck stuff either because it is out of season (no socialista would be caught dead in a pattern recognizable from two seasons ago) or doesn't fit her style (which is a nice way of saying that Camille has no style, and choosing one for her so as to present some sort of cohesion in her mish-mashed teenage trend whore closet). Having none of that, Camille states that she, "doesn't care that it's from two seasons ago" and seeks to prove her point by assembling a disaster of an outfit featuring, get ready for it, animal print. The stylist goes along with it because she wants to get paid and Camille feels the same false sense of victory that she does every other day of her life. It makes me almost sad that Taylor has to be stuck in her still having food on the table tax bracket because she at least truly has the skills to excell in this Upper East Side world. Camille, poor Camille, does not.

Speaking of Taylor, she has a big important gymnastics meet. Her first in fact. She's even more nervous and awkward than usual and watching her bite her nails and hide her stomach in her leotard drudges up long repressed memories of my own. Memories of chin zits on picture day and never getting asked to dance. But I soldier on, muster enough strength to get through an exhaustible scene where her valient ex-boyfriend shows up to her meet supportive and Jewey and oblivious. He takes her to a vegan restaurant where Taylor, with the meta-cognitive skills of a grad student notes that she feels drawn to Ex because he does nice things for her like take her to a restaurant where she can actually eat the food. She makes Ex give her a laundry list of reasons why he's good for her, rejects them all and when asked the mood-killing question, "What are we?" the ever apt pupil simply ricochets the question, batting her eyelashes and ensuring a blowjob while also ensuring that she can give other blow jobs too. Well done, young grasshoppah.

The meat of the episode comes when we visit PC in Mexico. See, he's spending some quality time in Cancun visiting his old boarding school pal JP. I get the feeling that when they were twelve they bonded over having money and liking boobs and giving each other hand jobs. Except that PC never really liked boobs and he still thinks about those hand jobs and he changed his name from Peter to PC in order to keep the love in his heart alive for his one true love. PC doesn't like Cancun. It's dirty and trashy and, dare I say, middle-American. When some mexican girls attempt to get him to dance, at a dance club, he rejects their advances. When some Texan girls try to get him to dance, at a dance club, he rejects their advances. When a waiter dares commit the injustice of asking him whether he wants a jaeger bomb, he declares that only people in Jersey drink jaeger bombs. He will stick to his Heinekin Light, thank you very much. In a moment of pure television genius, the waiter simply replies, "So, you don't want any jaeger bombs?" See, PC is only happy when he's lounging on the beach next to JP. Or when he's sitting in a booth next to JP. Or when his pouting and cock-clocking finally result in a tender reach around and ear whisper from JP. And like the scarf tossing gay that he is, PC has a homely beard whose love for him can never be filfilled.

Jessie, on vacation in South Beach with a friend that can only be described as even less attractive than she is, calls and calls PC and smiles knowingly as she denies all feelings for her well-coiffed best friend. She knows in her heart of hearts that once PC stops his player ways and is looking to settle down he'll plant a giant ring on her finger and they'll walk down the aisle to her penthouse apartment and she'll supplant good sex and happiness for shopping sprees and botox party. And that nagging little feeling that reminds her that her hubby will probably be boinking the interior decorator is surpressed as she calls PC over and over and over again. Like a good beard does.