Diane von Furstenberg’s Googly Eyes

Right: Mrs. Barry Diller

I can’t decide what’s funnier -- that Vanity Fair, of all magazines, is being sort of coyly judgmental about the fact that Cindy McCain’s outfit for the convention cost somewhere in the ballpark of one zillion dollars or that her stylist clearly hates her and put her in a mustard-fights-banana color that was all wrong. Being rich and having a tighty-face and big round fakeys doesn’t make everything you put on look suddenly amazing, even if it’s Oscar de la Renta. Don’t forget that.

I’ve never had a problem with expensive clothes. If you got it, buy it, I say. Why not? As long as you’re not a greedy asshole who doesn’t do anything but spend money on yourself, then buying a really great suit or dress or bag or whatever isn’t a hanging offense. Me, I bought a pair of $400 shoes once. Tod’s. I had a fancy event I had to go to, so I bought the shoes. Now all I have to do is wear them in 399 more posh situations in which I’m expected to look like everything I’m not and they will have paid for themselves.

By the way, I know it has nothing to do with fashion, but do the Republicans have a health care plan on this election’s platform? I mean one a little more detailed than “What? What’s the problem? Just go to a doctor.” Because I think that would be interesting to look at, what their idea of health care for all people would be. I found out my insurance doesn’t cover checkups last year. I found that out after the checkup. It cost more than those Tod’s shoes too. And it’s not like I buy shoes like that every year. I got a three-pack of black T-shirts at a 99-cent store not so long ago, if that tells you anything about how I shop. They were a little lopsided fitwise, but then so is my body.

But enough politics. I’ve had my fill of them this week. My husband/partner/whatever is on a Sarah Palin rampage and can’t stop talking about her unqualifications and love of creationism and suspect grandbaby and on and on and on. It’s a lot. Let’s talk about who sucks and who’s awesome on a reality competition show instead. And by “let’s,” I mean I’m going to tell you what I think and you don’t have any say in the matter.

I love Korto because she’s cold. I love Terri because she’s hard. I love Leanne because she’s a snoot. I love Kenley because she’s soft. And I love Stella because she’s Brendan Fraser in Airheads. The guys can all suck it. Seriously, not interested in any of them or their work. And no, ladylike behavior on their part won’t win me over. If there were a way to dump them all at once I would make that happen yesterday.

And speaking of ladylike, DANG look at Stella’s rockin’ bod. She’s shown in this week’s opening moments in a tiny little string bikini measuring caw-fee. There’s like no percent body fat on her, but not in a gross, clawlike, emaciated misery way. She just appears to be incredibly fit. Do we think she’s secretly some kind of holistic health person? Will we ever find out since this is her last week? And meanwhile over in the penis-having portion of Atlas, Suede is bemoaning the fact that he has to switch bedrooms and move in with the three remaining guys. Well, boo-hoo. You’ll have more room in there soon enough.

Off to the runway, where Heidi greets them in what I assume are the jeans she’s designed for Jordache. At least I think she designed the new Jordache jeans. I know she’s modeling them in that series of one-small-tub-containing-one-long-limbed-German-supermodel-making-splish-splash ads in all the magazines. She’s still displaying the JF hair. She makes my friend Gary, currently sprawled on my living room rug next to the couch where the husband/partner/whatever and Gary’s ex-boyfriend Xtreem Aaron are sitting, say, “OH GOD SHE’S SO FUCKING HOT!”

And I’ve been asked by a reader to describe the nature of the Heidi mania that’s gripped the gays in my small circle of watching-friends. And I’m not sure I can put it into words. I can say with certainty that it’s not just that she’s a celebrity. Because we live in the same city with, like, all of them and see them in the supermarket and we’re not excited by it anymore. They’re just in the way most of the time, if you must know. And it’s not a diva-worship thing because that’s lame. I would say it’s sexual, but that can’t really be it, since we’re fags. But there’s something else about her, something that sweeps you into her atmosphere. I wish I knew. It could be that she’s just so skyscraperly imposing that you want to obey her and make her happy, bow and scrape, whatever it takes just to get her to smile. If McCain had picked Heidi as his running mate, I’d probably vote for him, health care and all other matters of justice, peace, economy, environment, class, and civil rights be darned.

“Leanne,” says Heidi, “You were the winner of the last challenge -- ”

“So you can touch my hair,” offers Gary. “Because yours is all straight and dowdy in the manner common to Portland, Ore. Clearly you want to touch my hair. Now you may.”

And then Leanne keeps her model from last time like they always do. Everyone always keeps their models. Then Tim Gunn comes out onto the runway and takes them off on a field trip to meet their challenge, a “fashion legend.” Blayne wonders if it’s Mary-Kate Olsen, the silent guardian angel of season 5 who Elle-stares down at everyone from that month’s or last month’s or next month’s or whatever month it was and is’s issue. Did that sentence even make sense? I think it didn’t. You get me though, right? She’s here all the time except for when Jessica Alba shows up and muscles her out of the way. And Blayne is not giving up on his dream. “I want every challenge to be about Mary-Kate,” he says. “I wanna marry Mary-Kate. Who doesn’t? Besides Tim Gunn.”

Here’s what’s fascinating about that statement:

1. Blayne thinks Mary-Kate is legendary.

2. But the Beatles’ Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band album is not.

3. And he’s willing to kick that shit in the old-school way where it’s no big whoop if a homosexual marries a lady. Because if the gossip columnists are right, then that’s how it allegedly works for their challenge mistress, Diane von Furstenberg, and her husband, Barry Diller. Not that I’m saying Barry D. is a homo. I’ll leave that to the entire rest of the world to assert. Let them say it. Because they already have. Many times. Not that I believe it for one second, of course. I’m no gossipmonger. I believe he porks that satisfied lady every night with his heterosexual junk in the least gay way possible. That’s actually what I hope is really happening too.

Elyse Sewell, weekly recap consultant and America’s finest lady-posing export to the Asian nations, has her own response to The Tan One and his Olsen fixation:

"Fashion legend Mary-Kate Olsen." Oh, jeez, Blayne, what? Are you so Us Weekly-fied that the word "legend" has lost its meaning? You probably hear "fashion icon" and think Katie Holmes. You see pregnant women and shriek, "BUMPWATCH!" That makes me kind of sad, Blayne, and also afraid that at some point in your future, you will cross paths with a true fashion legend, and you won't know how to act. To prevent you from being humiliated, here's is a field guide to some of the personalities you can reasonably expect when you hear that a "fashion legend" is on the way.

Donna Karan: If you were hoping for Mary-Kate and you got Karan, I can forgive your disappointment. BO-RING!

Marc Jacobs: OK, DVF was cupping Warhol's balls at Studio 54 while Marky Mark was still in Garanimals, but the dude has an undeniable personal mythos. His Achilles ass (that's where you kiss to curry favor, Blayne) is his vanity: Always ask him if he's lost weight as you genuflect.

Valentino: Uh-oh, Blayne, be careful here. If you hear Heidi say, "Fashion legend Valentino!" don't start swiveling your head around in confusion. Calmly look down below nipple level ... vyes, there! That overtan Gollum with the slicked-back hair and leathery pelt, clinging to Karolina Kurkova's underbreast like a lamprey? That's Valentino. Quick! Tell him how much you fucking love gowns!

Lagerfeld: This man has adamantium claws and the top of his starched shirt collar is said to be sharper than a razor blade. He doesn't even need underwear: The phalanx of supermodels flanking him at all times prevent his balls from jostling. I doubt that in your lifetime you will achieve an audience with Lagerfeld, Blayne, but if you do, Godspeed. The man is as omnipotent as Wintour and twice as deadly.