I have written a summary of the Project Runway Reunion Show twice. The first time the window crashed after about five paragraphs. It just crashed again after I had discoursed on everyone but the final three.

Fuck it. Let's make it short and sweet. Trust me when I say this was a lot funnier in long form.

Lupe was out of control on some kind of heavy drugs. I have a rule that I live by, and that is this: There are two types of drugs in the world. The first treat or cure diseases. The second are for recreational use. Never mix up the two. Lupe clearly did that and then some. Intervention required.

Zulema has an alter-ego? Puh-leeze. That's for comic books and Disassociative Personality Disorder. And frankly, Tshangi was a bitch and a ho, and in no way discernable from Zulema.

Santino is a big asshat. He's always been an overbearing, abusive, bullying asshat, and he always will be. Like most bullies, he's also a coward, refusing to own up to his behaviour. Furthermore, he is a talentless blow hard and I find it hard to believe that anyone, male or female has sex with him willingly.

Daniel Franco was either edited unfairly or Heidi needs to pull a restraining order on him ASAP. I tend to believe the former. I also believe that the weird look in his eyes (always) is due more to being extremely myopic and wearing contacts than anything more sinister.

Andrae needs his own Project Andrae. Or the montage of him and the revolving door needs to go on the Viral Video site for downloading. Also? He was robbed on the "Inspiration" challenge.

Kara Janx wuz robbed during any number of challenges, but especially on the Garden Party challenge and the makeover challenge.

Diana is cute, was cute and had on a scarf that I'm sure she knit herself, seeing as it was as much there as it wasn't and her use of negative space was her greatest strength and singular vision.

If I can remember half of what I said in either of my other entries, maybe I'll amend this one. Or not.

OK. Item the first. Many thanks to RJ for stepping in to be my emergency backup during my surgery. I was rescheduled (without my knowledge) for 3 hours earlier than I had planned, so the RLA was supposed to be in class, and couldn't get a substitute.

If you ever have to sit around and wait for surgery, RJ is your girl. We were having quite the yocks before they came in to sedate me. After? Maybe we continued to have the yocks, but you can't prove it by me.

My reaction to sedation is this: Oh! I think I feel it startizzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.

Part of the cocktail they gave me was sodium pentathol, known to all movie watchers as "truth serum". What truths did I reveal under the influence of this powerful drug? That I wanted to go out for sushi.
This actually came as quite a shock to me, because I quit eating the raw stuff after my housekeeper's son developed brain worms as a result of sushi. Now, I'd like to think, in my effete snobish way, that we eat at different sushi bars, but a brain worm is a brain worm is a brain worm (take THAT Gertrude Stein) and so I quit. Cold tuna, if you will.

Another thing that RJ and I found infinitly amusing was that in addition to drawing a big blue circle on my tushie where he thought the lump would be found, the surgeon felt it necessary to also write "YES" in big indelible letters next to said circle.

I believe that this is testament to the fineness of my white ass, but RJ says that it's just an extra precaution against cutting the wrong side. Like they all kept saying to each other "not the tatoo side" but I suppose that YES and a big blue circle help. Still, it's my fine white ass, and it's indelible ink, and so who is to debate with me about why the YES is there.

Item the second is for my readers in California. Larry Cafiero, a fellow traveler from my salad days is running for office in your state. Here is his website. Vote for him. He's really a fine fellow, loves children and cats, and has more common sense in his little finger than most politicians have in their entire bodies. This, of course, bodes badly for his career in politics.

Item the third. Are they fucking kidding me?

Item the last in this list. Tonight is the reunion show for Project Runway. Oh, the blissful bitchiness of the dishing. Can my heart take it?

I'm goofing around today, trying to find things to occupy my mind and hands before I go in for surgery tomorrow. I want to play in my sewing studio, but I'm afraid to handle needles and sharp objects like my sewing shears. I think the safest thing for me today is knitting and reading.

It is such a tourist-bureau-perfect day in Miami that I'm debating about going to see the Dale Chihuly exhibit, or make a run to an outdoor market. If the RLA drives, that should be safe, huh?

PS: I've nicknamed the offended digit "Frankenpinkie" and it must be said in the best, Gene Wilder "Young Frankenstein" accent, thusly:

FRRRAHNK-uhn-peenkie.

Things are going to hell in a handbasket around here. I took a header down the stairs leaving work yesterday and just smashed the crap out of my left knee and right shin. Finally made it home, whimpering and whining, started dinner for the RLA and promptly sliced my left pinky finger to the bone with a chef's knife that was sharpened as a birthday present. So. Five stitches and a tetanus shot later, we ate leftovers for our Valentine's day dinner. Still, the nurse said not to worry, this wouldn't prevent my having surgery on Monday to remove the lipoma from my right tushie dimple. Of course, I can't use any sort of pain killers between now and then, and my typing is compromised by the huge bundle of bandages on my pinky....

PS: just got up to make myself some tea, and slopped scalding water over my left hand... the one with the stitches. Maybe I should just go home and stay in bed until my surgery?

I bought this the other day on i-tunes.

I know that I bore you all to tears with these stories, but. I have talked about that tour for thirty years. I had always been a rocker, and I saw a lot of acts — top acts during my college years, but that September night in 1975 changed my life. It was held at the Miami Jai Alai Fronton. It was no where near sold out. They made us wait for a long time before they finally opened the gates and let the audience in.

No. Really. Not hyperbole. It. Changed. My. Life.

And this show is from that tour, just a month or so later. It's the same set list that I've remembered for the last thirty years. The opening number was "Thunder Road." There was a single blue spotlight on this skinny guy in a black touque and a denim jacket. He had his back to the audience. He started to play the harmonica and turned around. He was wearing a black wife beater under the denim jacket. He was hairy and scraggly and that harmonica cut straight into my soul.

By the third number ("Spirits in the Night") my camera was stowed under my seat, and I was standing on the arms the seat, dancing. At one point in the song (I think it was when he sang the lyrics about Crazy Davy being really hurt and crawling into the lake in just his socks and his shirt), he threw himself flat on the stage (still singing) and crawled off the edge and into the crowd. I never took a shot that night, although somewhere in my storage unit is a photo that my boyfriend took.

This CD captures all of that. I can seen the blue spot. When the first strains of the harmonica play, it still cuts straight through my soul.

This is why, people. This is why he was and is the Boss. This is why I haven't missed a tour in 31 years (except the Devils and Dust tour, and it was at the Hard Rock Cafe, and it was a solo show, and I know what those are like. He lectures the crowd and gets really, really, SERIOUS. I love you, Bruce, but not enough for that.)

Years later, I met Bruce at the wedding of The Coolest Person In The World TM, and I told him that I had moved to New York City after that show. That my boyfriend wanted me to stay in Miami and live with him, but I'd said (and I apologize to you, my readers, for this; I apologized to Bruce when I told him; but remember, I was only 20 years old when it happened) "I can't. Tramps like us, baby, we were born to run." I told Bruce that I'd never forgotten that show, and that despite the tiny venue and even tinier audience, it was as good as any sell-out show I'd seen him do at the Garden.

Bruce said that he remembered that show, too, because so few tickets were sold they almost cancelled it. They had a hard time getting Danny's piano up on the stage. He said thank you. I said, no, THANK YOU. I never would have come to New York. I never would have met The Coolest Person In The World TM.

Buy this CD, and try to remember what the world was like when Bruce first took the stage, but before he changed the world of rock and roll.

I have a few things I'd like to rant about today, if you don't mind, and I know you don't.

1. Why the FUCK is Santino-the-Spawn-of-Satan STILL on Project Runway? Is he THAT good for ratings? He can't possibly be. I loathe him. The other designers loathe him. Tim fucking Gunn loathes him (and disses the producers in his blog cast this week, saying about the Evil One that he's only there because his "angels" come in and protect him every week).
But no. His greasy, assface is still torturing my tv. He made a catsuit that made a long, lean woman look short and lumpy. The sleeve fell off on the runway, people!! OFF!!! And still he's in the top four.

The highlight of the night, for me at least, was seeing the preview of next week's show where that overly-egotistical fathead Jay tells him "I hope you're canned."

Amen and hand to sky, sister. And not soon enough. They got rid of lovey Uncle Nick, the sweetiepie. (Who, although he was auf'ed wearing pink, was not auf'ed wearing a bead-dazzled hot pink leotard, like poor Emmett.)

2. Why should I believe that the US really foiled a plot by terrorists to fly an airplane into the tallest building in LA, when that story is being told by the biggest liar ever to sit in power? Huh? And, oh yeah, that happened four years ago. Uh-huh. Yeah. Sure. Right. Whatever. Didn't think to mention it earlier, did you?

3. Scooter Libby is saying that "higher ups" in the White House told him to leak classified materials to the press. Is that why we are hearing the story about the Day the White House Saved LA? To make it above the fold, and leave poor Scooter and his dirty plea bargaining buried in the back pages?

4. Of course, there is the little matter of our poor female reporter, sending out her pitiful little pleas to be saved by those same ass-hats. But, what the fuck, huh? You takes the job, you takes your chances. Ask old Bob Woodward, right?

5. There is no excuse for this. None. If it's so cold that you need to wear socks, then wear a pair of shoes. Period. Real shoes, not flipflops. How hard is that? And, PS, a cardigan sweater is designed to button up the front, not hang open in the back, and it would keep you warmer that way, too.