I can’t believe those jerks voted Tillman, the skateboarding bulldog, off of The Greatest American Dog. I just took that damn show out of my TiVo because of it. Seriously, what’s the point of watching all those other boring dogs now? Are they as good-looking as Tillman is? No, they are not. And what do they do besides the occasional obedience trick? Ooh, they can jump in the air or look regal or fake dog-smile for the camera. So what? DO THEY SKATEBOARD?
Congratulations, dumb show, you ditched your only true star.
OK, now let’s talk about Project Runway, even if no one this season is as awesome or magical or attractive as Tillman. Even if I have to fake enthusiasm, as I was instructed to do via e-mail from model pal Elyse (verbatim: “Fake it, Jerk!”) And, OK, yes, Heidi is as compelling as Tillman. But no designer is. I just reread one of my recaps from early last season and at that point I was already waving the flag for Christian Siriano and I already disliked Ricky. But so far this season, I have practically no feelings for anyone, save for Stella, who’s really just my favorite kook. Only Terri’s designs (she was the one who made a top out of mopheads) have sparked my interest. I’m annoyed, show. Entertain me more, starting now. Go.
Well, it’s trying. The opening shots feature the exact same cover of Elle that we were treated to last week, the one with Mary-Kate Olsen on the cover. So she’s become some kind of totem, I guess. Will that issue appear in the background of key scenes in later episodes? Will she be a guest judge like Natalie Portman? Maybe she’ll hide behind rolls of fabric at Mood and sort of leap out from behind them and shout, “I AM THE CUTE ONE!” or “BROTHER FOR SALE! FIFTY CENTS!” or “SPAGETT!” to confuse and disorient the designers. It would be kind of cool if this happened. It’d liven shit up, I know that.
Cut to Daniel the messy-haired Brooklyn boy, rolling out of bed. He’s bummed that Wesley’s gone “because I felt that we were connecting well.”
“Anally,” mumbles Xtreem Aaron from the couch.
And now it’s over to the women’s quarters of Atlas, as the ladies primp and brush and whatnot, while Stella stays put in bed. Terri does a little dance to make Stella get up. Then they’re all out the door and off to Parsons, where Heidi takes the runway in tight jeans and a white blouse, holding that model-picking bag with the red buttons inside. First they bring out the winning and the losing models from last challenge. And she says it like this: “Let’s bring out the winning -- and the LOSING -- designers’ models.” She digs it in and twists it around. No fake kindness from her. She’s down for the entertaining heartbreak of deflated hopes. And it’s yet another reason to love her. “I want to be shrunk down to the size of an infant and then I want Heidi to cart me around in one of those snuggly papoose-like front-packs that everyone has,” I say to Xtreem Aaron.
“Like a Wayans in Little Man?” he asks.
“Yes,” I say. “Just like a Wayans.” The husband/partner/whatever is off at some movie or he’d have already jumped in to piss on this Heidi lovefest. He’s indifferent, able to withstand her overwhelming Teutonic charms. His heart is three sizes too small, is why. Anyway, Heidi allows Suede, last week’s challenge winner, to stick with Tia, his model from that challenge, or to pick another model. I want him to take whichever model Jerell had just to piss him off. Also, I want Jerell and Blayne to fight to the death. Also, I want Suede to cannibalize the remains of the loser. Also, I want Suede to then fight to the death with the one who lived and wasn’t eaten by Suede. Also, I want the winner of that snuff moment to be ejected for breaking whatever the show’s no murder/no cannibalism rules happen to be. There must be some in the contract they signed. After that I’d be free of all three of them and, most importantly, free of the following sentence that comes from the mouth of… well… you’ll guess:
“Suede loves Tia. He could never change. Suede’s gonna keep Tia.”
And I will no longer be discussing this. It stands on its own two stupid feet from this point forward, requiring no commentary from me or you or anyone else. The entire planet, even populations on other planets, all know that this guy is a chump with a fake name that he’s compelled to utter at least four times in each sentence. And now he’s not going to let it go. Ever. And only three weeks in, every blog and every commenter on every blog and every single late-night talk-show host and every Best Week Ever regular and my stroke-patient mother who lives in a nursing home and doesn’t even watch this gay-ass show all know that this joke is already stale. It’s done. And worse, it’s a sad commentary on this season when it’s the wackiest thing anyone can talk about. Where are the basket hats and Jubilee Jumbles and crying while cutting and Red Lobster with Andrae and Wendy Pepper’s daughter with a mustache and shit-faced ramblings about Johnny Cash walking the line and MRSAs and smuggled design books and gay arms and motherfucking grosgrain-covered seam allowances? Where? Yeah, I’m impatient.
At least Heidi hasn’t forgotten how to make things good. “Are you ready for your next challenge?” she asks. “You know what, I think you guys worked pretty hard so far. So go back to Atlas. Tim is gonna meet you there. And he will take you out… for a night… on the town.”
Naturally, she says this like Lucy lining up the football. Inside it’s all, “HA! You think you vill rest! But no! You vill be vorking for me all night long!”
Cut to Atlas, men’s quarters. Tim Gunn rings the doorbell. “Hi, Tim-licious!” spurts Blayne (see above rant re: Suede). Cut to Atlas ladies’ quarters. Same Tim Gunn wearing the same raincoat. They’re clearly going to follow him outside somewhere. And nearly every single one of them with an opinion for the camera wants to head out to some shitty nightclub. Blayne in particular is somewhat petulant about his wish to “get all dolled up” and “go out dancing.”
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