We return from a commercial break to the now-lady-enhanced Barbie Bushwick Dreamhouse Loft for a sex romp. Just kidding! For a conversation.
Santana, always the practical sassy bitch, insists that going nude is a non-no, but Rachel insists it’s just topless, not full nudity, to which Santana retorts “topless is as nude as anyone is ever gonna wanna see you.”
Quinn, always the practical posh queen bee, breaks it down using the “2-2-2 rule,” which involves imagining your feeling about the nude scene in 2 days, two months or two years.
Quinn: “In two weeks, how are you gonna feel about the nude scene?”
Santana: “You’ll probably feel pretty great.”
The New Rachel: “Yeah.”
Santana: “You’ll get to feel a nice, cool breeze on them skeeter bites, you’ll feel refreshed, even.”
Quinn: “Then how are you gonna feel about it two months from now?”
The New Rachel: “I don’t know. Nervous. Worried it won’t even be good.”
Santana: “Rachel, it’s a student film. It’s not gonna be good.”
Quinn: “And two years from now? How are you gonna feel about it then?”
The New Rachel: “Guilty. just hoping my kids won’t ever see it online.”
Santana, who has experience with such things, insists that her kids will definitely see “My Grandmother Is Endgame And Also My Rack” on the Tube of You. Rachel isn’t sure she wants to take advice from the star of “One Night In Santana,” but Santana maintains her party line — challenging Rachel to google her for proof of what a mistake that was for Santana to make.
Santana confirms that’ll exist forever, and Rachel, still grasping for a thread of permisiveness in a situation you know she’s already barely on board with, tries “some women find it empowering to be naked on film” because hello, Romi Klinger and hellloooo Gia, and Santana points out, “Yes, but not in a student film that is probably about somebody’s grandma with Alzheimer’s.”
Exactly. As I’ve perhaps said already, possibly more than once, Rachel Berry should save her breasts for a down payment on a new waterslide or a Baby Berry’s college education, but of course nobody ever asks me what I think about these things. The “it’ll be on the internet forever” argument isn’t really that compelling, considering it’s unlikely Rachel Berry will never consent to a topless scene in the future and this isn’t really about whether or not anybody should be filmed or photographed naked, it’s about how up-and-coming actresses specifically should think about nudity. Everybody else should just take off their shirts right now though. If they’re comfortable with it, of course.
Quinn: “Rachel, We care about you.”
Santana: “And for once, Rachel, we actually have your best interests in mind.”
Quinn: “Please don’t do it.”
Back in the clothing-optional locker room of the great McKinley High School, the burly men of McKinley are posing in Walgreen’s holiday leftovers while Tina’s vagina explodes.
But during Sam’s turn, he freaks out that he’s lost his “pump” and storms offset to pump more iron. Blaine, best boyfriend ever, follows Sam into his cell of self-reproach where Sam notes that making it in this world requires specialness, but Blaine insists Sam’s specialness far exceeds his need for hot-bodiedness and then recites some crap from Glamour about eating a bag of Cheetos and skipping workouts sometimes.
I feel like when you have a crush on someone, the last thing you ever wanna do is disagree with them or challenge them on a personal issue, and so I admire Blaine’s commitment to doing the right thing anyhow. Obviously he really cares about Sam, so.
In the teacher’s lounge, Rumbledethumps snags Sue confessing to her past life as a centerfold by producing a manilla envelope he claims holds her Penthouse just like they did it in The Newsroom.
Cut to Emma’s Office Of Special Hopes and Dreams, where Blaine’s brought Sam to discuss his Future Options, such as colleges which don’t give a shit about SAT scores and scholarships available to people who can write essays.
Starsweep back to the East Coast, where Rachel’s on the set of a ridiculous student film, replete with haphazard cardboard columns and an ambitious rollocking steam machine reminiscent of the Bleacher Creatures performance at the 1988 Melody on Ice celebration in Ann Arbor. I believe I played a “bat boy.”
The New Rachel gets nervous when it’s time to drop the robe and requests the entire crew get naked and they’re all about it because men are THE BEST really THE BEST humans.
With all the men relatively undressed, shooting starts back up and Lorna launches back into Lorna Hootenanny:
Lorna: “Okay, you’re lost. Are you awake, is this a dream? Perhaps a life lived long ago, and now you see him: Titus. You’re filled with a carnal hunger. You need to be naked now. And drop the robe.”
The New Rachel, perhaps a tad chilly in this cold tomb of artistic despair, remains clothed. She can’t do it:
The New Rachel: “I think it’s okay for actresses to be naked and – and – maybe someday I’ll be ready, but… I just realized that…I’m not ready to be naked now.”
Lorna: “Well then what you can do now is get the hell of my grandmother’s lovescape.”
“Get the hell out of my grandmother’s lovescape” is pure poetry, so this’d be a good time to drop the mike but alas we plow forward unexpectedly into a big bright tomorrow featuring Santana Lopez, Quinn For Real, The New Rachel and another insufferable slice of American pop music, Sara Bareilles’ “Love Song.”
Rachel asks her girlfriends to stick around for dinner and they quickly agree to stick around, because there is no time in Glee, but more importantly:
Santana: “I’m in no rush to get back to Kentucky. I think I could get used to it here in New York. It’s more my speed.”
HELLO BEST IDEA EVER.
Back at McKinley, Blaine finds his forlorn lover alone in an empty room, full of despair, not writing his essay.
Luckily Blaine figured out how to use the new iMovie and has thrown together a video tribute to his mancrush starring everybody — Mercedes says Sam gave her the confidence to move to LA, Santana says he got her into songwriting, Rumbledethumps mentions how Sam supported his family, Artie notes a trophy-rescue I’ve long forgotten, Tina says he busted the Warblers, etc etc. And Brit-Brit, unfortunately making the case for her spot as Worst Girlfriend of the Year, thanks Sam for doing the first Sean Connery impression ever.
Blaine: “Now that’s your essay.”
Sam gives Blaine a hug but they don’t make out.
The following day in the hallowed hallways of McKinley High, Sam confronts Artie about the lack of models for two of the very best months of the year. Turns out the show just can’t go on without Artie.
Sam says he understands Artie wants to be known for his brain and not his biceps, and that’s why Sam is volunteering to also don an actual shirt in the calendar to make Artie feel less alone. I guess what happens next is they re-shoot a bunch of pictures, at which point I’m certain the cost of the photoshoot will far exceed any calendar profits but you know whatever, it’s Glee, so, NEXT!
Cut to The Glee Room, where calendars are flying off the folding tables like hot potatoes or Beanie Babies that one year when Beanie Babies were super popular. Humans are so weird.
Rumbledethumps declares they’ve sold 350 dollars of calendars, which’s abysmal. Even if they’re slinging these puppies for $10 a piece, they’ve surely sold more than 35. But you know, whatever, it’s Glee.
Then New Puck tells Marley-Kate that he loves her using a sharpie and nobody cares:
Except Marley-Kate, she cares and she loves him too.
We then transition into a performance of a song entitled “New Year” and basically it looks like a Gap ad.
The moral of today’s story is that gay people and women are the best at all the things and can fix all the problems and therefore we should be put in charge ASAP.
In any event, if this recap left you hungry for a Calendar full of ladies, the 2013 Autostraddle calendar, featuring amazing photography of half-naked hot queers, is available now for only $13 in the store, and also, if you’re not already aware of this, INTERN GRACE IS MISS FEBRUARY 2014. Regardless of those options, here’s how I would’ve done the Glee calendar had anybody asked me, which, of course, they did not. Because they never do.