This morning, campaign workers were handing out post cards, advertising for a candidate for Circuit Court Judge. I have documented time and time again on this site that the average commuter in Miami is a pig. This morning we had a large-scale example of the lack of civility in Miami. Pretty damn near everyone took one of the cards. Yours truly merely smiled and said no thank you. So why do I have one of these cards sitting on my desk? Because of this:

and this: Note the cards piling up on the leading edge of the escalator:

and finally, this:

Here’s the e-mail I sent to the candidate:

Thanks a lot. You made an impact today. I, for one, will not vote for a candidate who approves this sort of waste and creates the kind of mess I saw at Dadeland South. At every stop between there and Government Center, I saw piles of litter caused by your workers and the general ill-manners of the train-riding populace. People dropped those slick little postcards right on the escalator, potentially creating hazards for those following behind and possibly damaging the machinery, thereby causing additional waste in the form of repairs to county equipment. Furthermore, I will be blogging this, complete with the photos I’ve attached.

What a waste. What a mess.

And here’s his response:

Thank you for making me aware of this situation.



Publicity in judicial campaigns is very circumscribed by legal strictures. My campaign workers had the best intentions to hand out campaign palm cards to familiarize potential voters and did not anticipate the mess this would create. I regret the inconvenience this caused you and other members of the public and will instruct my campaign to refrain handing out cards at the rail stations. I have also asked them to go back and pick up this stuff as best they can, although they were not the people who did this.



While palm cards are a traditional method of campaigning, you are very correct in your anger about the waste and litter in this situation. The only other thing I ask you beside accepting my apology, is not to come to a conclusion about whom I am based on one unfortunate instance, about which I had no prior knowledge. I have whole lifetime of service to this community and your conclusion as to whom I am should not be based on one incident.



Thank you again for taking the time to contact me.

Uh, maybe. But A) he isn’t familiar with what his campaign is doing in his name B) he tells me he has a lifetime of service, but doesn’t list a single example of which he is proud C) He had to stick that caveat about his people will try to clean up, but they were not responsible ... well, indirectly they were, since they were the source of the litter to begin with. D) On the other hand, he’s a public corruption prosecutor, which sort of warms the cockles of my hard little heart.

In other transportation news, the SmartCar has arrived and I plan on picking it up on Saturday. And last night, I saw this in the Publix parking lot. The owner was a sour old thing, and didn’t even smile at me when I told him he had a sweet, sweet ride. Dude, seriously, if you are going to drive around in this thing, you better get used to the gear heads drooling and making nice at you.

Bollywood then, and Bollywood now. With the King of Bollywood, and my other celebrity crush, Shah Rukh Kahn. Rawr.

We open with Suede, opining about the parting of Jerry: “Any decision that isn’t Suede going home is the right decision.” Or not, if Suede doesn’t start using the first person singular in the next hour.

Stella, over in the girl’s suite, monotones about some wheat grass shake that one of the triplets is making up for her: “I’m not a cow (that’s what SHE says).  I don’t like grass.” And Miz Shoes cocks one eyebrow, and thinks, hmmmm, what? Is crystal meth more her cocktail of choice?

IN THE MOOD

Or, conversely, back to Parsons’ runway for model selection. It goes by very fast, and since there are still more designers than Miz Shoes has attention span, some names may be omitted for

lack of concentration. Miz Shoes also has no doubt that many of these names are incorrect or merely misspelled or misheard. Miz Shoes does not know how long she can keep writing about herself in the third person without having to slap herself. About now, she thinks.

Kelli keeps Germaine; Joe takes Carpacio; Blayne & Erlina; Emily/Leslie; Keith/Runa; Jennifer/Alex; Wes?; Suede/Tia; Jerell (who is bemoaning the loss of his original model) opts for Nicole; Kenley/Shannon; ?/Kendall; ?/Katarina; Terri/Xavier; DanielV2.0/Bulimia and finally Leanne picks Karalyn.

The challenge for the week is to create a cocktail dress for their model, who is also the client.  The theme is young, glamorous woman. The first twist is that the designers will be working with green, environmentally sound textiles.

Once in the workroom, Tim drops this little bomb: The models will go to Mood and shop for their own materials.  Quiz: who had this to say about that:

“Oh, great. Someone who doesn’t know anything about fabric will be buying fabric for me.” Was it Jerell? Was it Stella? Was it Suede? Really, because I wrote that in my notes, but not who said it. I suspect Stella, because I can hear her whiny monotone saying that. Or Jerell, because he’s got the catty bitch role nailed this season. The models get $75 and the designers get ten hours. The models roll out of the workroom with one of the girl clones yelling “Don’t forget closures! Zippers! Buttons!” at their retreating backs.

Keith’s model, Roona, immediately grabs peacock tail feathers, and then tries to find fabric to match. This does not bode well. Jerell interviews that he’s expecting remnants and tatters. He should.

BACK IN THE SADDLE

Or, alternately, back in the Parsons’ workroom, where the models come back and dump their fibery treasures on the cutting tables, and prove that models have no clue about fashion, or at least how much fabric goes into a dress. Not a one of them has purchased enough yardage to cover their size zero asses, as we will shortly see. Not to foreshadow, or anything. Also, they travel in flocks, and bought in flocks, so there are several designers working with the same hideous brown satins and ivory hemp/silk combos.

Kenley is handed jersey, which she thinks is so not cocktail dress. Keith has those peacock feathers, and some champagne and peach fabric. Wesley gets the brown satin and something he calls a disgusting green that doesn’t go with it. I would call it more an un-lovely, washed out pistachio than disgusting green. But that’s just me.  Suede’s model brings the silk/hemp and some scarlet jersey. Suede says that Suede listened to what his model wanted. Suede says that Suede loves bias strips. Miz Shoes says, Oh, rilly? Then would Suede please come to Miz Shoes studio and make bias binding for all of her quilts, because Miz Shoes hates the bias strip.

Kendall is earthy and organic and wants something beachy and flowy, and has brought sea-colored jersey to her designer. Unfortunately, her designer is Stella. Stella is so not about the beach (unless there happens to be an epidemic of used hypodermics washing up on said beach). Stella admits that free is not her “design aesthetic” and that she is urban and bondage and tight. In what seems to be a theme for Stella, she pronounces that having to work outside her comfort zone is confusing to her. This is not what she does. She does leather. And for the record, my dear, dear darling Paulie of the House of Gallofornia does leather, too. And he doesn’t look like a rode hard hag and he would never, ever whine about having to work outside his comfort zone. I know, let it go.

Emily is happy with the green aspect of the challenge and interviews that the amount of chemicals and such that the textile industry dumps into the environment is, and I quote, “gnarly.” Thank you for expressing yourself so eloquently, Thing 1. Korto is yapping about being African, and her model being Latina and therefore the two of them have curves and she is all about the curves, and she is going to make a dress that shows off the curves.

And then we get to that tanorexic little troll, Blayne.  Blayne says that his pet name for Heidi is (and I may have to heave before I finish this sentence) Darth Licious. Because she’s all dark on the one side and light on the other or some such horse shit.  We need to talk. I loathe that little troll. I loathe the stupid knit hat with flair. I loathe the over-tanning. I hate the ‘holla’ crap. But mostly, and particularly, I hate the Licous. So, what shall we name Blayne?

Over in the other corner, Suede is talking about himself in the third person and getting on all the other designers’ nerves. Thing2 (Leanne) speaks for us all when she interviews that Suede needs to stop talking about himself in the third person. But then she totally blows her credibility out of the water by taking a perfectly acceptable, if not actually nice, dress and adding random, appliquéd shapes to it. Her basis is the same monkey-shit brown as Wesley. Korto is working herself into a tizzy by thinking that Wesley and she are making the same dress. Tim comes over to throw a little cold water on her. He looks at her dress, and makes a comment about the darts. Korto tells him that the darts are going to remain on the outside of the dress. This sets Tim back on the heels of his Florsheim wingtips. Hmmmmm. This all has to be perfection or you’ll be dealing with a hot mess, he says, and yes, that is an absolute direct quote. Oh, Timmy. You loved Christian, too. I bet Tim has the same Hot Mess, Tranny, Fierce t-shirt I do. Wesley is doing structured satin.

Tim arrives at Thing2’s work station and politely mentions that she has a whole lot of stuff going on, and that she needs to edit. Tone it down. Resolve it.  Oh, Pee Ess, the winner of today’s challenge will not be getting immunity. Rather, they will be having their dress manufactured and produced (and presumably sold) by Bluefly. Speaking of whom, get a new freakin’ ad. If I have to see that smug bitch walk naked through the airport one more time, I’m going to be tempted to stab her in the heart with those spiked heels. The other announcement has to do with the challenge judge: one young Hollywood starlet. OK. That narrows things down.

COMMERCIAL INTERLUDE

Wherein Bravo posts the following poll:

Which is crazier:

1. Blayne’s tanorexia

2. Stella’s leather fetish

3. Suede’s use of the third person

I don’t think anyone will argue with the premise that if your owners/handlers are pointing out your crazy foibles, that you are not in the running for the win.

THIS IS THE END

Back in the workroom, Daniel 2.0 is just hoping to get his garment finished. Where have we seen that before? But does he do the Daniel shuffle?

Kendall and Stella are having a fitting. Kendall is thrilled with the skin-tight, champagne colored, asymmetric, one-armed, laced-up-the-side sheath that Stella has made for her. She doesn’t mind in the least that Stella paid absolutely no attention to her desires, or even her fabric choices, because she says it looks better than what she had in mind. Playing to the stereotype of a dumb clothes hanger, are we, Kendall? Stella and Blayne get into a pissing/dissing match, then make up when Blayne tells Stella that he “loves [her] leatherface.” Nobody in the room seems to notice that he’s just called her a psychotic chainsaw-wielding murderer who makes sausages out of the dead.

Daniel 2.0 is still sewing. Wesley’s dress doesn’t fit. Jerell looks over and says that Team Ugly Brown Fabric seems a leetle panicked. Suede says that Suede will be rockin’ the show. His dress looks a little bit like bondage gear, what with all the strips and the red jersey showing through.

Out on the runway, we are introduced to our young starlet: Natalie Portman, who has started her own line of vegan shoes. So who better to judge the green challenge? Nobody. And we’re off.

Keith sends out a scalloped lamp shade in ivory something. Terri’s dress is simple, navy blue and has some interest at the neck. It is stylish and wearable. Wesely’s dress prompted the following note: “Ooof. Wrinkly.” and that wasn’t the worst of it. Jerell’s dress is blue, hemmed in peacock feathers and with side panels of something darker blue and sparkly. Wasn’t that the crap that Runa bought for Keith? My brain hurts. Whatever, it’s as ugly as homemade sin. Jennifer sends out something cute and floaty and grey and orange with color blocks and straps that look like the whole thing is sort of a jumper. I love it and would wear it. That’s the kiss of death. Daniel 2.0 sends out a totally boring baby doll with a lot of fabric in the back that makes it look sort of trapeze-y, sort of train-y and sort of not so hot.

Joe is another designer saddled with that ugly brown satin, and he has made an ugly brown slip dress with a stupid rhinestone-rimmed circular cut-out just between and below the boobs. Suede’s bandages have a tulle miniskirt. Kenley (Thing3) sends out something with an enormous, face-eating neck ruffle that looks like the dress that Thing1 (Emily) sent out last week, except without the color or dingleberries. Kelli’s dress is skin-tight and has a color-block bodice and a fauxlero with a ruffle.

Thing2 (Leanne) has produced a hot mess, just as Tim predicted. It’s way too short, it has pockets on the bottom hem, flounces and shapes and attached pieces and it’s wrinkly. Satin is the devil for wrinkles, ask the Fug Girls.  Stella’s dress is well made and skin tight and as much as I want to, I can’t hate it. I don’t love it, but it doesn’t suck, unlike, say, The Little Tan Troll’s asymmetric slop of a hot pink dress with a neck/sleeve combination that looks like someone tried to rip the dress off the model and only partially succeeded. Emily (Thing1) also has a baby doll dress, one which barely covers the model’s tootie. But that isn’t her fault, since it was the model who bought an insufficiency of fabric. There is some braiding. Is it Terri from last week, Rami of the Heavenly Arms from last season, or Santino from Season 2? Don’t know. Don’t care. Don’t love it, even if it were longer.

Korto’s dress of mustard colored something or another is immaculately constructed, and badly designed. But it fits like nothing else on that runway. Except, maybe, and it pains me to say this, Stella’s one armed banshee.

YOU SAY GOODBYE

Keith, Terri, Jerell, Jennifer, Daniel 2.0, Joe, Kelli, The Little Tan Troll and Thing 1 (Emily) are all safe and sent off the runway.

Kenley: NinaGarcia says that it is adult glamour. The black detail at the waist is declared chic. The judges declare that she’s the only one who handled this fabric correctly.

Wesley: He claims not to have had enough fabric. Heidi claims it is overworked. Michael Kors advises that satin, to look good, must look as though no human hands have touched it and Wesley’s dress looks like 20 sets of human hands have had their way with it. Also? Crazy short. It is at this point that NinaGarcia reveals the Universal Truth: “Shiny, tight and short is the quickest way to look cheap.” Word.

Stella: Michael likes the lacing and the fact that Stella’s personality comes through. Miz Shoes thinks that Michael hasn’t seen the footage of Stella’s personality enough to make that judgement. Queen Amidala says that she’s not fond of the asymmetry, but that the dress is nicely done. During the judges’ confab, MK says that Stella can make the Bicker Chick Chic.

Korto: The bottom is off balance and the flanges look like ass wings. MK says that even curvy girls don’t want fins on their asses. He would know. But, he says, that the inside-out darts were genius. Well, he liked them.

Suede: Natalie loves the dress and says she’d wear it. Heidi says that if she were 10 years younger, she’d wear it too. Miz Shoes has no clue in this world what it is about the dress that makes Heidi think she needs to be younger to wear it, since in this past year Heidi has worn a dress that showed her ass-crack, many dresses that are much shorter, and many dresses that were cut much lower. I think it may be the tulle skirt, which Queen Amidala says does NOT look like Ballerina Barbie, although it could have.

But look at this close-up, which I stole from the Project Rungay boys:

You call that well made? Uneven, lumpy, and messy. The bias strips are all pulling. That neckline is a disaster. I can’t believe that the judges didn’t jump all over this shit. But they didn’t. No, they rewarded it with the win. Because Suede can rock it. He is as gracious a winner as the Pencil-Necked-Shmoo ever was, and crows: Yeah, Suede fuckin’ won. Whoo-fuckin’ Hoo, says Miz Shoes, who can’t wait to see how that gets interpreted by the BlueFly group.

Leanne: Her model kills her by saying that it isn’t what she had in mind. Michael says that it’s five, five, five dresses in one, and that none of them were very good. Editing is a skill, and one she needs.

In the end, Leanne (Thing 3) is allowed to stay and try to learn editing, and Wesley is sent home for making something unflattering and a lousy fit. And for wearing red suede scuffs with a cut-off three-piece suit. Please, girl. You were cute, but nobody is that cute.

I am not the seventh son of a seventh son, but I am the only daughter of an only daughter of an only daughter. My maternal great grandmother was married twice. Her first husband was named Rub. That was his last name. Nobody ever knew or remembered his first name. They had a single daughter. Her name was Lillian. Lillian had only one child, a daughter. Her daughter was born on May 11, 1918. Lillian died in the Great Flu Pandemic of 1918, on December 7. Her daughter was only 7 months old. With her second husband, my maternal great grandmother had more children: Ann, Marilyn, Harry and Aaron.

Ann and Marilyn were my mother’s half-aunts, but they were closer in age to being her sisters. Aunt Ann took my mother to see Cab Calloway up in Harlem in the 30s. Aunt Ann took my brother to Coney Island in the 60s. Aunt Ann is long gone.

Aunt Marilyn was, in a word, formidable. She was a milliner who became a multi-millionaire selling hair ribbons and silk flowers. She was a self-made business woman, sharp as a tack. She had advice for everyone, whether you wanted it or needed it. She was a force of nature, and one to be reckoned with. She was also only about 5 feet tall. But her personality ran much, much larger. I guess the women in my family are all a little out-sized, personality-wise. When Marilyn was in her mid-80s, she decided she didn’t want to wear glasses, so went in for Lasik surgery. She was not a good candidate. Nevertheless, she not only had the surgery, she had outstanding results. I told my cousin that it was because nobody, not even G-d or a machine, would dare to do less than what Marilyn demanded.

That being said, Marilyn left this world yesterday morning, one month shy of her 101 birthday. She had a long life, and an amazing one. There are not many people like my Aunt Marilyn left in this world. I mourn her passing, and rejoice at having had her in my life. She was not easy, my Aunt Marilyn. I acknowledge that she was dictatorial and demanding and difficult. But she was the last tie to the mysterious and lost woman for whom I am named. With Marilyn gone, there is no one left of that generation. It is the end of our line.

A confession: my dear, dear, darling Paul of the House of Gallofornia tried out for this season, and a slightly crabby Tim Gunn told him to tighten the portfolio and try again next season. My immediate reaction was a knee-jerk fuck you that caused me to throw my martini glass across the room and declare that I would never watch PR again. Paul told me to get a grip, and make another shaker of drinks, so it’s back to the couch for another season of our favorite show.

Annnnnd, open on the Atlas, as our newest crop of designers arrive. The first is Jerell, a former model. I think I recognize his pictures. Former models don’t usually do well on this show, but we’ll see how it goes. Blayne is a barrista from Portland or Seattle or somewhere in the PNW, with a tanning addiction and a stupid knit hat and I hate him already. This is not to be confused with the stupid twee hats of last year’s cry-baby, whatsisname. Joe from Detroit is our token straight guy who is going to talk about his daughters right up until he gets auffed.

In the girls’ corner, the first to arrive is Stella, who is too old to dye her hair that black, and who looks like a first runner up at a Halloween Patty Smith look alike contest, circa 1978. Is it too soon to say that the stringy punk with black polish and tattooed eyelashes look is over? If those aren’t tattooed eyelashes, then Twiggy wants her 1966 make-up back. And she has a bad Jersey/Brooklyn accent. I hate her already.

Jennifer says that her style is Holly Golightly meets Salvador Dali. Kelli claims to be the love child of Vivienne Westwood and Betsey Johnson. She does seem to like loud colors and plaid. And she has a great arm piece tattoo involving a tape measure. Terri is wearing a black cat suit, and looking pretty road worn for under 40.

Back in the boys’ pad, Jerry Tam announces that he is on the verge of being the next big thing. Christian used that line last year. Jerry has a faux-hawk. Suede has a real Mohawk, with bleached blond sides and a blue plume. Suede says that he’s been making millions for other people and now he’s gonna make money for Suede. Suede talks about himself in the third person, and I’m all ready sick of him, too, and want to toss him out the window. Also? That beadazzled jacket with his name on the back ain’t gonna make money for nobody, no how. Keith goes by so fast I have no notes for him.

Rounding out the girls we have Korto, who is from Liberia by way of Little Rock, Arkansas, Leanne from Portland who wants to be the silent but deadly designer assassin, whatever that means, and Kenley who says something about smoke and mirrors and does the Bettie Page retro glam thing.

Finally, the men close the loop with Daniel and Wesley. Daniel is sort of a Daniel Franco Lite and Wesley is another one who impressed me so little that I have no notes.

UP ON THE ROOF

The designers get to drink the usual champagne and size each other up. Heidi looks pretty. Tim Gunn looks like he has roseacea.  Tim manages to pop a champagne cork right off the roof. He tells the designers that they are the most diverse group ever to be on the show. I think that they all look like they have the same sort of urban/punk/deconstructed gestalt. But I’m not Tim Gunn. And I would have put Paul on the show. (I know, get over it)

Keith (at least I think it was Keith) tells Heidi that the question he asks himself with every design is “would Heidi wear this?” The RLA, the two surrogate daughters and I all gag in unison. There is then some footage of him allowing as how he has a gift that other designers would kill for, and he? he was just born with it. And no small amount of ego, either.

Daniel claims that if he weren’t a fabulous designer, he would have been a fabulous zoologist, and that nature is his muse. Nature and show stopping glamour. Because those are two things that naturally go together like milk and Oreos.

And so to bed, and just as quickly, back up when Tim rings the doorbells at 4 A.M. At that hour, even he isn’t looking quite dapper, but he is nowhere near as ragged out as our designers. The sun is up as we make it to our destination: Gristede’s. Yes! A do-over of the infamous grocery challenge, and who better to judge than Season 1’s Austin Scarlett, who won that challenge with an ephemeral corn husk concoction. At the sight of Miss Scarlett, Daniel lets out a little gasp of “Glamour” and allows as how she was his favorite contestant ever. The designers are given $75 and half an hour to ransack Gristede’s and until midnight in the Parsons’ workroom to make the magic happen.

Jerry walks in and has a vision of “April Showers Bring May Flowers” and knows that he’s going to do something with a shower curtain. Terri grabs a million string mop heads. Stella thinks that black garbage bags will translate to black pleather and she plans on a vest and jeans, her stock in trade (and her entire wardrobe, apparently).

Suede declares the challenge “whackadoodle.” Meh. It’s no wickety wack, but it’ll do for a night. The designers get back to the workroom, where they find the measurements of their models and are told that the winner of the challenge will get immunity for the following week. That’s always a motivator.

CUTS LIKE A KNIFE

In the workroom, we get the first sweep of the designs and ideas. Joe is working with dry pasta and oven mitts to create an Italian antipasta dress. Kelli is using bleach and dye to transform vacuum cleaner bags into green and brown batik, in preparation for producing a garden party dress. DanielLite is making a cocktail dress with a sweetheart neckline entirely out of plastic cups. He’s ironing the plastic to make it malleable, and to melt elements into one another. It’s a pretty impressive undertaking, and he’s working on it like a terrier, not letting go of his vision for a minute.

Blayne, in a desperate attempt to be noticed, is squealing that his design is “Girlicious”, ignoring completely that it’s a word the Pussycat Dolls have pretty much invented, patented and registered as a trademark.  He’s also ignoring the fact that the word means nothing, and that his idea for a garment stinks like rotten eggs. He’s using jump rope, place mats and what appears to be Depends to make what could only be described as a monstrosity of a unitard? Bathing suit? Onsie? Blayne confesses that in an attempt to be different, he may be different and obnoxious.

Leanne is upset that so many people (other than her) are using tablecloths as the basis of their garment. Well, a tablecloth is sort of a gimme. This is a challenge to think outside of the box, people. Where are the non-fiber materials? Other than the ziti, I mean.

Stella unfolds her garbage bags and is shocked to discover that they don’t look like patent leather, but like cheap, thin garbage bags. Well, honey, here’s a clue: don’t buy generic. Look at the millage on the side of the box. If you want a thick black plastic, buy a freaking Hefty bag. This discovery so unsettles her that she spends the rest of the evening until the midnight deadline whining and pissing and moaning and complaining about the unfairness of the challenge, of the quality of her choices and of life, the universe and everything.  Have I mentioned that she has a monotone on top of having that awful Nu Yawk accent?

Jerell proves he can mimic Tim Gunn. But who will play Andre to his Santino? And can he be Santino without the stupid hat/do rag combo and mean-spiritedness? That could be fun. And he’s prettier than Santino, but then, my dog’s ass is prettier than Santino. Hell, Santino’s ass was probably prettier than Santino.

Kenley is working with a dodge ball. We don’t see much more than her materials, though. Suede is using a tablecloth accented with bright blue plastic doggie poop bags. Yeah. It’s as pretty as it sounds, and in his attempts to make it flashier, he keeps making it uglier. Korto is using a yellow tablecloth, and lots of it, to make a sort of dashiki/kimono shape. It’s actually interesting and she has a platter of kale, yellow bell peppers and cherry tomatoes waiting to be used as decoration.

Jerry’s shower curtain is lacking a wow factor, and Tim sends him back to work. Keith is using yet another tablecloth and Tim gets pissy. There are entirely too many tablecloths. The judges are going to see this and think you all are a bunch of slackers! INNOVATE!

Jerry can’t even contemplate going home in the first round, and redoubles his efforts to create fabulosity. Stella says that if she is the first designer eliminated, that will make her the biggest jackass in America. I say she’s already working the odds on that distinction, but that Blayne is going to give her some stiff competition, jackass-wise. He has the tanning addiction, he has the stupid knit hat with flair (aka buttons) and he is possessed of great heaps of the stupid, but Stella has the monotone from hell and the overworked, over-age punk aspect nailed.

MORNING HAS BROKEN

And we see, in the cold light of dawn, that Jerry has accessorized his white lab coat/raincoat with bright yellow rubber gloves. Someone points out that this gives the ensemble a whole “American Psycho” vibe. Blayne has to sew his model into the romper, and tries not to pierce her ladybits with the needle as he does so.

Off to the runway, where Heidi is wearing a silvery grey brocade dress that is basically vulva-length and a pair of totally killer spike heels. She looks great.

Kenley sends out something with balloons as fringe and baubles and a face-eating ruffle. Terell has used lawn chair webbing and trimmed the neckline of his dress with fleurchons of paper drink umbrella tops. The one sleeve is made of squishy spike balls. It’s colorful and cute. Korto’s kimono with the spectacular crudité neckline actually works. She’s used a cross section of yellow bell pepper as a belt buckle, even.

Jennifer has made a cocktail dress out of paper towels, creating a pattern of lipstick prints. It’s pretty ho-hum. Daniel’s cobalt blue cocktail dress made entirely out of plastic cups is a tour de force of workmanship, and his model, who seems slightly at risk of leaving the bodice behind every time she moves, works the hell out of it on the runway.

Terri claims to have crocheted her mop tops into a bodice, but it looks more like macramé or simple braiding to me. It is interesting, whichever process she used to create it.  Suede’s boring picnic cloth dress is still ugly and boring, but now with more blue spots. Stella’s black plastic bags have been sewn together with giant Frankenstein stitches and has side boob exposure. It is Santino without the whimsy and the wickety wack.

Wesley’s miniskirt is made from a yellow tablecloth, accessorized with cut down yellow rubber gloves and looks like a trim Big Bird. Kelli’s mini is amazing, and the midriff is studded with push-pins, and the whole thing finishes with an awful top made of scorched coffee filters. Keith has added netting to his tablecloth.

COMING TO THE END OF THE LINE

The designers are sorted into safe, and fabulous or doomed. The best and worst are: Daniel, Jerry, Korto, Stella, Kelli and Blayne. I think we all know which is which.

DanielLite is lauded for working with bravado and confidence, using something as stiff and unintuitive as plastic cups and making them into a cute, well tailored cocktail dresss. Austin says that he stood out for not using the easy fabric substitutes.

Jerry’s piece is described as a bridal nurse by Michael Kors, who also says it looks like Handi-wipes gone wrong or something you’d wear in a slasher movie to kill someone.

Korto is praised for her use of fresh vegetables, her chic sense of style and her workmanship. It is impeccably made, says NinaGarcia. The judges agree that it is the right girl in the right dress with the right look.

Stella is clocked for throwing any old piece of shit together just to have something on the runway. You took the easy way out and still failed, says Heidi. Butt ugly, agrees Michael Kors.

Kelli points out that the hook and eye fastener on the back of her dress was made from the spiral binding out of a notebook. MK is impressed by how far she could push the envelope.

Blayne says he didn’t want to bore the judges. NinaGarcia and MK almost jump out of their chairs in unison, both wagging their fingers at him as they say “Oh, you most certainly didn’t bore us.” MK says, was it provocative? Yes. Pretty? No. Austin Scarlett says that he wrote one word on his notes as Blayne’s girl walked out: HIDEOUS. Yep, I’d say that was the one word to use.

So. Karto, in. DanielLite, in. Blayne, his tan and his stupid knit hat, in (why?). Stella, in (why?). Jerry, out. No need to ask why. If Michael Kors says you’ve designed something to wear while killing someone in a slasher movie? Probably not a good look. That leaves Kelli our winner. I think her work on the skirt was masterful, but I really like Jerrell’s funky, colorful dress a lot more.

But that’s OK, because we still have the rest of the season to cut, sew and blog. Until next week, keep the scissors sharp.

First, let me say that I have officially entered into curmudgeonhood. I realized that last night when the two teenage girls down the row from me were texting furiously during Steve Winwood’s performance. And then again when folks were still wandering to their seats (FOR THE FIRST TIME) as the Heartbreakers took the stage. And finally when I saw that the drunk kids “dancing” in the aisle next to me during “Refugee” may have actually been fucking. There were no pants on the girl, at any rate. Nothing below the t-shirt as far as I could tell. And during “Refugee”? I mean, really and come on. The worst song in the whole set, and that’s what you’re doing the nasty to?

But it is also my observation that routinely the crowds go wild for the worst songs. At a Dylan show, it’s the Deadheads who didn’t know what to do with themselves after Jerry died, getting their patchouli-reeking freak on for “Silvio.” At a Springsteen show, it’s the boys getting all hot for “Candy’s Room” which, hello? is at best, a feeble rewrite of the masterful “She’s the One.” And last night? “Refugee”. Puh-leeze.

Anyway. I was wrong about the seats. I forgot about the extra-special ten rows of members-only, thousand bucks a pop seats, and the even more extra-special auction for charity row. Whatever. We were at most, 20 rows back from the stage, and dead center. Stevie Winwood and his tight little jazz fusion group started with absolutely no fanfare at 8 on the dot. His percussionist and his flautist were both top form. I’m off to buy the new CD, based on the show.  He hasn’t lost his voice, and when he took the powder blue Fender from the roadies, showed why he was a prodigy back in the day. In my notes, I say that Steve breaks the Springsteen rule of “you can’t play guitar with your watch on”, and absolutely shatters it. He can play. Period. I confess to being a guitar god groupie, and it was a sweet, sweet evening.

Sometime after 9, Tom Petty came on with the Heartbreakers. I haven’t seen them live since maybe 1979-80? during the Damn The Torpedoes tour, and then it was at the old Hollywood Snortatorium, and I was in the nosebleed seats. He was wearing a magnificent mulberry purple velvet blazer.

What a dandy that boy is. And I for one appreciate when a band dresses for the show. You know? All the money the Grateful Dead have, and they have to wear stanky cargo shorts and Tevo sandals? Not to pick on the Dead, but…

So here’s the set list:

Wreck Me

Listen To Her Heart

Won’t Back Down

Even the Losers

Free Falling (the velvet jacket comes off & dope smoke fills the hall)

Last Dance With Mary Jane

End of the Line

band intros, and Stevie Winwood comes out for the next two songs

Somebody Must Change

Gimme Some Lovin’ (and my notes say that Steve and Mike swap licks. But that doesn’t do it justice. When Winwood was in the band, the whole arena came to life, and it was the first time that the energy in the hall really started to peak.)

Golden Rose

Breakdown

Honey Bee

Learning to Fly (acoustic)

Don’t Come Around Here No More

Refugee

*Encore*

Running Down a Dream

Mystic Eyes and

American Girl

In concert, it is so much more apparent how much Benmont Tench brings to the sound and soul of the Heartbreakers. And Mike Campbell has to be the most underrated side man since Nils Lofgren joined the E-Street Band. The man is, as I mentioned earlier, a total guitar god. Like the E-Street Band, the Heartbreakers are much more than the sum of their parts, though. It was a good, albeit sort of short, show. And a quick check at the tour page shows that they aren’t mixing up their set lists much, either.

As I gave the stink-eye to the drunken 20-somethings last night, I had a moment of wonder. I wonder how much longer I can keep going to concerts? The RLA had ear-plugs in, but I was wallowing in the happy, deafening buzz for a couple of hours after. My best guess for continued rock show attendance? Until I can’t find anyone to push the wheelchair in.

And a very special thank you to Angie Chestnut for sharing these photos with me, and by extension, you. It was serendipity that had me sitting two rows behind her, and what an amazing artist she is. Check out her site.

Yesterday the RLA and I celebrated our 17th wedding anniversary. It’s totally been all hearts and flowers and sweetness and light every minute of those seventeen years, and if you believe that, I’ve got some dry land under a bridge on Alligator Alley that I’d like to sell you. In any event, we haven’t killed each other, and we haven’t even left permanent scars, unless you count the wedding tattoos. He didn’t propose to me until 15 years after we wed. We got married on Bastille Day, because I knew that I’d get one decent French meal a year, at least.

On our tenth anniversary, we did the Paris to Dakar Rally, after a fashion: we had dinner at EPCOT Paris, and spent the night in the Animal Kingdom Lodge.

This year, we stayed home, and cooked dinner together, then blew off some illegal fireworks (Purple Haze, to be exact. My rule of thumb for buying fireworks is that the words “Shoots flaming balls” should appear somewhere on the label. Also, “Light Fuse and Run Like Hell”. The mulberry tree has a few scorch marks, but the roof and the screens over the pool are still intact, which cannot always be said when the RLA and I get our pyrotechnics on.

Tonight, I am taking him to see Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers (10th row, eat your hearts out). My gift from him was this:

A Kid Robot dunny, hand covered in beads by a Huichol tribe in Mexico. In the traditional peyote pattern, no less. Awesome. Does my man buy good gift or what?

No good deed goes unpunished they say, and RJ has punished me for getting her blogging by selecting me for this Arte y Pico Award a few days ago. 

Since the original came from a blog written in Spanish, and my Spanish is limited to curses, sarcasm, menu items and finding the location of the nearest bathroom, I have to take RJ’s word that “this award was created to be given to bloggers who inspire others with their creativity and their talents, and for contributing to the blogging world in whatever medium. When you receive this award it is considered a “special honor”. Once you have received this award, you are to pass it on to 5 others. What a wonderful way to show some love and appreciation to your fellow bloggers!!!” I guess. I think a better way would be to leave comments or give me enough page views to make me more than a wiggly worm on The Truth Laid Bear’s blog ecosystem, or nominate me for an award like the Webbys that carries with it global prestige and money. Failing that, I accept this honor with my usual good humor and graciousness: “Thanks a lot, bitch.”

The rules for passing this honor on are:

And my top five are (and I have no doubt that none of them will post this or even acknowledge that I have tapped them for greatness, but WTF.)

1) Erin, of Dress A Day, for her witty and well-written blog about sewing and fashion. Erin is the reason half of my studio is piled up with vintage patterns, a dress-maker’s mannequin and non-quilting fabrics. Thanks.

2) The Rude Pundit, real name unknown. Rude is not the word for the Rude Pundit. He is a vicious liberal whose ability to curse makes me look like a home-schooled born again third grader. And that takes a lot. He’s also so much more liberal than I that he makes me look like a Young Republican, and this from a woman who drove home from the movies today shouting “TRAITOR” out of the car window at the driver of the car sporting a “Democrats for McCain” bumper sticker. I love and adore the Rude Pundit, even if he only rarely replies to my geeky fanboy e-mails.

3) Dan, of Chucklehut. He is a writer’s writer. He crafts beautiful vignettes of words and emotions and pictures. I had the pleasure of meeing Dan face to face once, and I am jealous of all the west coast bloggers who get to see him on a regular basis. His is a gift, generously shared.

4) Tom and Lorenzo of Project RunGay, who kill me with their recaps and discussions of Project Runway. I just wish they’d link to me at least once in a season, y’know? Would it kill to share the fan base? But in the realm of bitchy gayness, they are the queens.

5) And finally, Tata of Poor Impulse Control. She’s a Jersey Girl who could kill you with a few well chosen words. Whether you die of laughter or embarrassment or just find yourself sliced and diced by her pointy words, is a matter of choice. Her choice. Her choice of words. And which ones she’ll chose depends on her mood and your level of stupidity. If your name is Dubya, watch out.

So that’s it. I love these guys, and you should too.

I watched this documentary the other night and now I am obsessed with building my own earthship. I need, in a very primal way, to go to one of the seminars and learn to pound sand. (Hah, I said pound sand.) The bottle walls alone make me weak at the knees. I have images of Antonio Gaudi, Arcosanti and Nikki de St. Phalle all dancing in my head. I have fully visualized the bathroom already.

Seriously, I can’t stop thinking about Mike Reynolds and his work. I want to spend the night in the Phoenix house. I just need to figure out where to build. But I think over on the Florida Gulf, up the Little Manatee River, somewhere.

On another note, the pool tether is now installed and I can swim to my heart’s content. Or until I feel the burn in my butt, which took about 2 minutes because I am so freaking out of shape.

I’ve started a new quilt, taking apart the Sistergirlfriendgirl’s daddy’s ties and today I’ll wash, press and cut them up into the component parts for a log cabin block.

Thank you to NanV, who graciously granted me permission to wallow, but you know? Wallowing isn’t what I do best. Lolling around doing jack shit? Yep. Wallowing in self pity? Not so much.

I’m off, and the floor of my studio is mostly visible.

You know what? I got nuthin’.

Really. The movies I’ve been watching have neither sucked enough to warrant comment, nor been great enough to warrant review. My work place sucks rotten eggs, and the boss’s wife has been known to read this blog so I really can’t speak to that issue. The sturm und drang of my bother and family business is at stasis, and besides, he has accused me of speaking ill of him to all and sundry. Well, fuck, who knew he read my blog?

The usual riffraff on the train is the same old ill-mannered, appalling cattle that I always see. My studio is in a state of disrepair and I can’t find the floor. My quilting is at a standstill, ditto the tallitsim. My knitting has had to be put on the back burner because the magnificent Lizard Ridge afghan gave me bursitis.

My friends are on the spectrum of odd to totally fucked.

My financial status is firmly in the fucked catagory.

My pets are healthy, and the RLA and I are celebrating our 17th wedding anniversary by going to see Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers. So that’s a plus. As for the rest of my life? Tan’s fading. Mellow vacation head is dissipating. I’m out of Cosmo mixers. Ditto Tangerine Martini mixers.

The pool tether to allow me to swim as though I were in an infinity pool? Not installed. My new, fabulous dress mannequin? Missing parts. All in all? Life could be better.

Comment, you bitches.

It was one of those days for me on the train. The morning commute included a pair of women putting on their makeup in tandem across the aisle from me. The one was a little embarrassed and a little bit happy to be photographed while doing it and the other was totally oblivious. They both saw me shooting and just didn’t care. I didn’t get the money shot which was of the lady on the left circling her eye with liquid concealer, like some sort of inverse panda.

This was followed by this, which while ample, resembled more an apple pancake. Not all round and juicy as the name would have you believe.

Both of which pale compared to the ride home. The Person Dressed In Black and I were seated next to some grumbling old gomer who was discoursing (loudly of course, it is always loudly) about his day in court. No. Literally. He was all on about what the judge said and what his attorney said and what the other guy said and whether or not there was an acceptable offer on the table and why should he take less than the previous offer and even the judge said that and he was customer service employee of the year/quarter for ages running and and and. And of course I, of the delicate sensibilities kept shooting him the stink eye and he kept ignoring me. Such is life.

As we got to the end of the trip, a man of an uncertain age pulled a sheet out of a sketchbook and handed it to the PDB and me. It was a little gesture drawing of the two of us, and while not an exact likeness, you might have been able to pick us out of a line-up.

I’ve seen worse police sketches. We were charmed and a little unsure of what this implied or entailed. But we laughed and said of all the people on the train to draw, we were both artists and had both gone to art school. The artist-in-residence wasn’t sure if we were putting him on, and the PDB said, no, both of us held BFAs. The gnarly old gomer (who was now off the phone) piped up and said that if the artist had told us he was a chef, that we would have told him we went to chef school. That’s when the PDB offered that she had, in fact, attended Parson’s in New York City, and I had to mumble University of Miami (damn my portfolio for not getting into Rhode Island School of Design and my young self for having had too much fun at UM to consider a transfer).

Well, the Artist-in-Residence said he’d like $4 per face, and the PDB and I looked at each other and said, Uh, no, but thanks. I offered the drawing back. He told me to keep it. The train stopped, we wished one another well and deboarded. As we were going down the stairs, I saw that I was still next to the loud gomer, and said, and exactly where do you get off questioning my honesty? And he said it was easy, because I was a pain in the ass. What? Yeah, you kept staring at me while I was on the phone, like I was talking too loud. Well, I said, you were. No, he yelled, he was not, and by the way, he added, you (meaning your narrator) are cheap, lady. You should have at least given that guy a dollar.

That stung. I’m not cheap. But, dude. I didn’t ask for my portrait to be scribbled by a stranger on the train, and I offered it back to him if he thought it was worth money or saving for a retrospective of his street work. I am a BFA, I am still a working artist. And mostly, I did not need or want to hear all about your law suit. So, I may very well be a pain in the ass, but not because of the reasons you stated.

I was noodling around in the links today, and first RJ finally did a meme I sent her so long ago I don’t remember, and then Marseeah over at The Pink Shoe did this meme. Which, just as she says, is a fine and entertaining sort of meme. I won’t tag anyone else, but feel free to play and leave a link in the comments when you do.

Here are the rules:

a. Type your answer to each of the questions below into Flickr Search.

b. Using only the first page, pick an image.

c. Copy and paste each of the URLs for the images into fd’s mosaic maker.

Questions:

1. What is your first name?

2. What is your favorite food?

3. What high school did you go to?

4. What is your favorite color?

5. Who is your celebrity crush?

6. Favorite drink?

7. Dream vacation?

8. Favorite dessert?

9. What you want to be when you grow up?

10. What do you love most in life?

11. One Word to describe you.

12. Your flickr name.

And here is what I came up with:

Morning at the beach. The Gulf is a dark aqua and flat as a mirror. There are two fishermen on the shore: a boy of about 8 and a Great Blue Heron. The boy catches a fish, the heron inches closer. The boy is excited and doesn’t notice the stealthily moving heron. One of them is going to eat the fish, but which one is still up in the air. The boy is jumping up and down, calling for his parents to see this wonderful fish. The two cabana boys, 19 and worldly wise, wander over. “You’ve caught a shark,” they tell him. The hopping about gets a little more frantic. The heron proceeds with caution, and moves back a couple of feet. The cabana boys offer to take the baby shark off the hook. The heron accepts that this will not be his breakfast, and moves down the beach. The shark goes back in the water, and swims away. The cabana boys continue to place the lounges and rake the sand. The little boy goes inside. The Gulf is flat and calm.

I’m late to the party, but my excuse is that I’ve been in Sarasota, lolling about on the beach with RJ, The Sistergirlfriendgirl and her squeeze, our childhood friend the May Queen, the RLA and his childhood friend HippieBob and his wife and Star. Well, despite the excess of alcohol and good times, I need to mention the passing of George Carlin, one of the greats of comedy. I’m not jumping on the 7 Words or the Stuff routine, though. My favorite of George’s raps was this: the differences between baseball and football.

Farewell, old man. You’re safe at home now.

Yesterday I won a skirmish in the battle for public civility: there was a young man on the MetroMover, examining his face in the mirror back of his i-pod. He checked his immaculate goatee, and then (quel horror!) began picking at his zits. Or something. So I whipped out my camera and started to take a picture. He noticed, shot me a look of loathing, and stopped. He put his i-pod in his pocket. After about 30 seconds (some people have shorter attention spans than others) he pulled it out again, and again started to pick at his face, using the pod as a mirror. I refocused. He moved out of my line of vision. I moved to put him back in. Again with the stink eye and again he pocketed his i-pod. And then, the doors opened and he got off the tram, prevented by me and my camera from picking his face in public. I feel very virtuous, even if I would have liked to have posted an equal opportunity bad public behavior picture.