First things first. I think I accidently stole an expression from the GoFugYourself ladies without knowing it. I wrote last week that Leanne’s dress resembled a HEPA filter. Then I was informed that that was something the brilliantly funny GFY women say all the time. I must have absorbed it into my brain without realizing I was plagiarizing. Sorry GFYers. My mistake. You win at inventing clothing descriptions. I’m not fit to carry your Goyard bags.
In my dreams there’s an opening bit like there was in seasons past, where the designers prance around and say silly things about their potential to take it to the most fashiony limit, yelling “I’m gonna fuck his corpse!” and other charmy little pronouncements about how full of win they are. But I’ve resigned myself to the fact that we’re just not going to get that this year. No Chris March squealing, “Let’s go!” or Nick saying, “Heck, yeah, I’m gonna win this!” No Malan murmuring, “I’m better than they are.” Just Heidi. And normally that would be plenty, given my weird love for her. But it’s not. It feels deflated. It’s like someone opening the door to a party they’re hosting and muttering a glum “Oh, all right, come on in.”
Look, there’s Mary-Kate again on this week’s Elle product placement. Did you hear that she wants immunity from prosecution before she’ll cooperate in the Heath Ledger investigation? I read that on the super-reliable Internet today. If you hadn’t heard about it, then you must be reading some other, less entertaining news source that’s all about how the president is a war criminal and how this whole offshore drilling ping-pong match between McCain and Obama is just about an oil industry land grab and nothing more. I’m firmly fixed on the real news myself, like whatever tabloid it was this week with a picture of Tom and Katie on the cover with the screaming headline “GET OUT OF MY HOUSE!” I saw that one at the grocery store and tried to read it in line, but the damn checker was being too speedy with the people ahead of me. I almost bought it but then realized that that’s just what they want me to do. Anyway, so yeah, Mary-Kate wants immunity. Is that a standard legal operating procedure or is it only about when you have something to hide? I need to call my lawyer friend Dennis.
[Break in the recapping to call a real live lawyer]
OK, he says that it’s pretty much what you’d do if there were even a millimeter of a chance that someone could say, “Oh, that bottle of your pills was in his luxuriously appointed apartment? Time for you to go off to the big house. The big full house. In a New York Minute. So sure, give her immunity. And take notes on what she wears to the questioning sessions. She’s on the cover of Elle, you know. She won’t just show up to the precinct in something unchic. But yeah, it’s a good move for her to demand immunity. All those celebrities have tons of free drugs coming out of their asses. No reason why she shouldn’t too.
Now, on to the show. They’re all waking up. Keith is hunched over the sink, shirtless, giving us more tattoo presentation. There’s a big giant one on the side of his torso that’s been hidden by clothes until now. And to the guy who wrote me last week complaining that I was being too hard on his favorite Utahnian, I have the following response: OK, OK, KEITH’S HOT! YOU WIN! DANG!
And I will concede that, generally speaking, more tattoos tend to make me happier than fewer tattoos. Unless they’re awful. And Keith’s look OK from a distance, even if I can’t identify what they are. Just don’t let it be said that I piss all over what the gays are into these days unless it’s something truly awful like biceps implants or those T-shirts with the word ACRIMONY on top of a skull on top of a flaming bush erupting with thorny roses and cobras. Keith’s none of those awful things. He’s just a guy -- a really quiet, unsmiling, seemingly crushingly dull guy -- trying to fashion-design his way out of Salt Lake City. Brilliant designer Jared Gold sees fit to stay in that Mormon-thick, landlocked hometown, but if you want to scram, then more power to you. I can get with that. I just can’t get with that rat tail. Seriously, fuck that thing. Keep the bandannas. Wrap whatever you want around your head. Just get rid of that fuckin’ parsley sprig of a ponytail.
Tonight, once again, my husband/partner/whatever is shirking his watching responsibilities and is instead out working because he has to review the new Woody Allen movie about Penélope Cruz making out with Scarlett Johansson. Fat lot of help he is. But I still have Xtreem Aaron on the couch nearby and he’s already making an out-loud list of what he thinks the tattoo could be:
1. Spawn
2. Zorak
3. Angelica Huston in Captain
Eo
Oh, wait. Now Keith is wearing a T-shirt with a big giant skull on it. Shit! Stop making it easy, man!
They get to the runway and Heidi greets them in a see-through ruffled gray top and some skintight pants that look like she was dipped into a vat of molten black tar and her unusually chilly body temperature simply willed the liquid into becoming clothing with no harm to her. “You know her hands are cool to the touch,” offers Xtreem Aaron as I pause the TiVo. “Like a really nice marble countertop. Do you think she knows she’s dressed like the ending of Grease? And do you think her next sentence to the designers is ‘Have you guys seen the part when they are driving the car AND IT BEGINS TO FLY? IT IS AMAZING! TODAY I WEAR THAT MOVIE ON MY ASS!’
“I believe she might say that, yes,” I respond.
“And do you think she ever cries?” asks Xtreem Aaron.
“No, I don’t,” I say. “I thinks she only knows victory piled on top of victory and her tear ducts have simply evolutionarily inverted and become vestigial from a lack of functional necessity.”
Heidi dispenses with last week’s losing model and tells the designers to get up and go meet Tim Gunn. He’s going to take them to meet their challenge. Everyone gets in a van and speculates for the camera. “We’re going to the Boogie Down Bronx,” says Korto. “This is a hip-hop challenge.”
“That would be awesome,” ways the unimonikered guy with the blue fauxhawk, “Suede loves that.” This makes me wonder just what kind of hip-hop Suede likes and what would happen if Suede met an actual rapper face-to-face. Like how would that go down? Xtreem Aaron says, “I can see Jay-Z taking a meeting with Suede if he somehow won this whole thing and became a big deal. Like Jay-Z would want to know what the next shit would be and he’d be OK with Suede. And then after Suede left the room, Jay-Z would turn to B-Day and say, “What was up with that faggot?”
In the van Tim Gunn engages Blayne in a discussion about tanning, during which we learn that Blayne enjoys tanning every other day. Tim Gunn expresses concern about the amount of time that must take. Blayne says, “Other people, like, go to the gym. I go tanning.”
I can sort of understand that. Not the tanning part. That makes less than zero sense to me. But I know I spend at least as much time tracking down vintage Japanese monster toys on eBay and trying to find the perfect flavor of loose-leaf green tea and wondering about where my next piece of cake is coming from. Also furniture. I think about furniture a lot. Like I need a new desk. The old one’s a big piece of particleboard on some dumb boxes. But I need a grown-up desk. I can waste hours looking at furniture websites figuring out which desk is going to keep me until I’m 95 years old. And then I look up and it’s time for lunch and I’ve accomplished no work. So if Blayne wants to spend his time getting his skin dyed the color of a yam’s innards -- or worse, baking himself like a yam -- then that’s his choice. It’s a shit-for-brains choice, but still. He lives in the freedom-loving USA. We all do. My Megalon is your Mystic Tan.
Jerrell leans toward the weird.
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