I'm sort of at a loss for what to say about last night. Do none of these people know the meaning of the word 'hubris"?

The challenge was to design a pageant dress for Miss America, who was there to tell the designers what she wanted, and then to judge how well they did. The guest judge last night was the inimitable and formidable Grande Dame of Evening Wear, Miss Vera Wang.

First the ground rules. They will each design a dress based on her requirements, and then pitch their designs to Miss A. She will pick seven designers who will then pick an assistant from the remaining seven designers to help them construct the dress.

So the designers as a group heard what she wanted "monochrome, earth tones - stay away from white, play down the bust, show off the back, make me look taller" and then had half an hour to sketch. Angela didn't sketch anything, though, because she was too busy trying to convince Kayne-the-pageant-designer to make her his assistant. I'm amazed that he could draw anything with that harpie over his shoulder. Wahwahwah. Much eye rolling from the other designers who saw exactly what she was up to. As usual in these sorts of shows, that nagging and ragging came back to bite her on the ass.

Sketches. Pitches. A few creepy Daniel Franco/Heidi Klum lingerie episode echoes are heard to reverberate. Laura is a pro. Kayne is Mr. Pageant and lets Miss A know it. Mooooolan's design looks great, despite my hopes to the contrary. Jeffrey's doesn't suck either, damn it, and Miss A likes his pitch of her being an empowered goddess-woman.

Back in the workroom, Miss A announces her choices for team leaders and the magic button bag is brought out so that random selection determines the order of picking assistants. Pageant boy picks Barbie boy in a great syncronicity of talent and style sense. Laura picks Michael (coffee filter dress) which also produces a powerhouse of a team. Keith snatches up Bradley; Shmoo goes for Alison. Uli gets Bonnie (one of the two women who look alike to me, and who have sportswear experience) and Mooooooolan takes Katherine (the other one). That leaves poor, poor, put-upon Vincent, who gets the last kitten in the box, the interesting Angela. This would be the part where all that nagging came back to bite her.

Vincent is gracious about it, although he gets her name wrong. But, hey, if I didn't work in an office where everyone wore name tags, I'd still be saying "You There", so once again, I have to cut Vinnie major slack.

And they're off to Mood to buy fabric. Kayne goes for a beautiful golden something or other and decides to layer it under what looks to be a sheer mulberry chiffon. The combination is stunning, but somebody (JEFFREY) feels the need to snark about "sherbert is NOT an earth tone". There is lots of charmeuse and chiffon and drapey stuff, and then we see Angela ragging on Vincent. She's whining about lack of time, and we're gonna have to leave before you pick fabric and wahwahwahwah. Finally Vincent asks her, very politely, to put a cork in it, because she's making him nervous and she made her point about 10 iterations ago. Me? I would have just bitch-slapped her until she shut up.

Back to the workroom again, and we see everybody working nicely together. Some more together than others. Katherine keeps trying to get Moooooolan to tone down his corset top. He's doing some very interesting and complicated work with ruching, and really, it only needs to be simple ruching. She explains that all that bulk in the bodice and hips is going to frighten away a woman, who will rightly think that it just makes her look bulky.

Robert and Kayne are kind of like Satan-ino and Nick, if Satan-ino WERE Nick. They are too much fun together. Jeffery is seen to be an egomaniacal asshat. What a shock. We only glimpse Laura and Michael (and I would have liked to have seen more: what an interesting pairing that would have been.) Mostly we get to see Vincent (and his olive green satin) getting ragged on by Angela. "I don't like your design. I made something like that in college. Let ME do the draping so that it looks better. I don't want any part of your crap. I don't like it. I'm going to go off in the other room and eat worms." And she does, so that when Vincent DOES want her help, she's nowhere to be found.

Finally, and after more stuff that I don't feel like reviewing, we get to the good part: the runway. Most of the dresses are forgettable. Jeffrey's vision of empowered goddesshood looks like crap. The pieces don't flow together right, the fit is awful, the draping is off. Moooooolan's dress is unfinished at the hem, because his model was taller or longer waisted or some such thing. Sure enough, all that dark brown fabric across the bust and hips makes his poor model look thick. More drapey stuff, more floating stuff. Uli's dress is better than I expected. Laura & Michael's dress comes out and it is, of course, stunning. It is sleeveless, with a deep scoop neck and a plunging back. The skirt is full. The interest comes in the beading or crystals which, very New Look Dior-style, are clustered more densely at the waist and then spread out above and below, to emphasize the wearer's shape. It is absolutely magnificent. It is also white. Oops. Kayne and Robert send out an absolute confection. The colors are stunning. The halter slash be-jeweled necklace is gorgeous. The cloud of silk organdy at the hemline and reaching up to the knees is sheer glamour. The model overworks it, frankly.

Vincent trots out his vision and it is the only dress with any real color. There is a plunging v-neck, with a little open rhinestone heart at the end of the plunge, between the breasts. Though sleeveless, there is a futuristic (and very couture) sort of cap sleevelet that almost looks like a Jetson's epaulet. The back is low-cut, but the straps of the dress come down in another deep vee to the small of the back, emphasizing the width of the shoulders, and the narrowness of the waist. The seams look like they are princess-style, which also emphasizes the contours of the wearer's body. I would wear this in a New York minute.

Vera Wang is the guest judge, taking Michael Kors' place. Is this not wonderful? Vera fucking Wang? judging evening gowns? I swoon a little.

There is the usual designer explain yourself, you're in, you're on the line. The bottom two were Mooooolan and Vincent. Moooolan, taking a cue from Daniel Franco, accepted that it was his vision, his styling, his choices and that if one team member had to go, it should be him. Angela immediately jumped in to tell the judges that she hated the dress, had no input in the dress, TOLD Vincent that the dress sucked, and as she paused to draw breath to continue, Miss Vera Wang said something to the effect that it was a gorgeous dress, in her opinion, and that except for the epaulets, something that would be a show stopper in a pageant. So. There, Miss Smartypants, Monday morning quarterback.

Miss America finally made her choice, and it was the delectable sherbert and bronze delight from Kayne the pageant guy. He's thrilled. She's thrilled. Vera Wang is thrilled. Robert and Heidi and Nina are thrilled.

Mooooolan is out, and Angela is told that she can stay, but to suck it up, ho, and quit being such a backstabbing whiner. Told you that stuff will come back to bite you. Vincent survives to design another day, and I could not be happier.

This is wrong. On so many levels.

I do not want to be subjected to this first thing in the morning. Once and for all, if you need makeup to appear in public, you should have it on BEFORE you appear in public.

This, my dear, glaring girl, is why. That is just disgusting. That's why I was staring at you, watching you put your face on. Why you felt that you had the right to be giving me the stink eye for watching a public display of crassness, I do not know.

Here's the whole thing.

OK. Thank the tv gods of programming that it's back. Finally.

First of all, Mr. Tim Gunn is right (as always, and about everything, DUH) when he says that this year's crop of designers is more diverse and more talented than ever. But, really, people. Do we need another Santino? Mr. Jeffrey Sebilia needs to go away, and soon.

I hate his tats, and that's not because I hate tats. I hate HIS tats. He has a little pea head, and his neck is wider than his ears, and all that writing going up and down his neck just makes him look "like a shmoo" according to RJ. According to me, it just makes him look like a pencil-necked asshole.
Also? His design, while not completely sucking, sucked. Again, just like Satan-ino, with the shredding and the distressing and the whickety whack.

(Hey! Bravo! Where's the whickety-whack t-shirt that Nick had on at the finale? We out here in tv-land want to buy those.)

Laura. Laura, I'm not sure if I'm going to love or hate. On the one hand, she has some major, major design chops. On the other hand, she had the cojones (as we say here in Miami) to ask someone from Ohio, to their face and seemingly in dead earnest, "what do people DO in Ohio?"

Then again, she has that whole Judy Davis
thing going on, and how can you hate anybody whose fashion sense involves ALWAYS wearing red lipstick?

Still, I feel I must make mention of the fact that she moved into the Atlas with matching Louis Vuiton luggage. Steamer cases. Please. The woman does not need the 100 thou prize. She's an architect who lives in Manhattan with five children. FIVE. That 100G must be chump change for her.

Vincent, I think, is this year's Daniel Franco. And I loved Daniel Franco. Don't ask me why, I can't say, except that he made beautiful garments and was the only person to get back up in Satan-ino's grill. Vincent openly admits that being in the rag trade in NYC almost killed him. Guessing by his age and look, I'd say it was the 80s (i.e.: drugs to excess, drink to excess, sex and drugs and rock and roll to excess) that almost killed him. But, since NYC nearly gave me a nervous breakdown in the 70s, I'm willing to cut him some slack.

And for all the wahwahwah about the basket hat, I didn't find it so repellent. I remember those hats in fur, and feathers and all sorts of materials, including straw. I found the sunglasses more distracting. I thought the whole thing looked like an interlunar stewardess from 2001. Not that there's anything wrong with that.

I also love, love, love Michael-the-hiphop-guy. That little dress made from coffee filters? Oh. My. God. Give that man a contract, stat. And, if he really is a street-cred sort of guy from Atlanta, maybe he'll just give that asshole Moo-lan the smack down.

Mooooolaaaaaan. I got him pegged as this year's snippy-ass blow hard. That accent, whether real or not-so-much has me gagging. I think he sounds more like Austin Powers than Austin Powers. I'm not expecting much from him except my-shit-don't-stink attitude and indifferent design. I wasn't impressed with the assymetrical shrug thing he produced for the first challenge.

Robert, The Mattel dude. Designing for Barbie hasn't made him loose his ability to design for real women. That little white dress, with the built-in bling and the big red bow in the back was to die for. I can't wait to see what he does next.

Keith Michael, the designated menswear-only designer, who took Tim Gunn's advice, added crap to his blue dress and then, after sleeping on it, turfed the advice and the add-ons and won the challenge is another designer I can't wait to see do more.

Not only did I love the dress, I loved his "Look. Just because I've never done women's wear before doesn't mean I can't do it, it only means I haven't done it." attitude. And, though I wouldn't suggest making a habit of it, he turfed Tim Gunn's advice and WON. the. challenge. If you haven't watched Project Runway before, let me tell you this. You do not turf Tim Gunn's advice and win. Ever. This may have been a first.

Except for my girl Laura (at least for today I love her) none of the other women have struck me as potentially very interesting designers. OK. I take that back. Girl from Ohio (Angela) seems like she might have something in her bag of tricks worth watching.

Wow. I just read her bio on that link. I KNOW she has stuff worth watching, now. She may just be my new favorite.

And last, but not least, I have to hand it to Michael Kors this year. He's come out of the gate with a bang. While "pink parts" is no "entirely too much tootie", the way he delivered it was golden. And the eye-roll while he dismissed the "granny panties" under the sheer curtains, well, it was brilliant.

My favorite annual writing contest, the Bulwer-Lytton fiction contest, has announced this year's winners. While the winner is, in fact, kind of humorous, the runner-up's entry had me on the floor.

The 2006 runner-up, Stuart Vasepuru from Scotland, played with one of the most famous pieces of dialogue from the Clint Eastwood movie "Dirty Harry."

"I know what you're thinking, punk," hissed Wordy Harry to his new editor, "you're thinking, 'Did he use six superfluous adjectives or only five?' -- and to tell the truth, I forgot myself in all this excitement; but being as this is English, the most powerful language in the world, whose subtle nuances will blow your head clean off, you've got to ask yourself one question: 'Do I feel loquacious?' -- well do you, punk?"

Oh, come on. You know you want to laugh and you know that you're jealous that you didn't write that first.

At least I am.

Yeah.

Syd Barrett, R.I.P.

Sigh.

So I get an e-mail yesterday from another stenodrone telling me that her micromanaging boss has given her such and such information for me. She ends by saying that the info comes "straight from the horse's mouth."

I reply that she obviously deals with the other end of the horse than I do.

(bada boom)

One of my very favorite sci-fi titles ever was "What Entropy Means to Me".

The bottom line on the estate issue is that the old childhood home, to which I planned on retiring and living out my dottage, will be sold. The insurance company has forced our hand by refusing to insure an empty home, and I can't buy it now.

Many years ago, my professional portfolio was stolen out of the trunk of my car*. It was simultaneously the most frightening and the most liberating thing that ever happened to me, career-wise. This is sort of the same.

I don't want to give up the house, but the RLA and I will be able to retire wherever we wish, and if our wish turns out to be my home town, then we can find our own dream house, and not my parents'.

Still, this is the third or fourth family home that we've had to close, and had to say goodbye to, when we really would rather have lived in it.

If there is one thing of which I am sure beyond all doubts, it is that the universe will unfold as the universe will unfold and no amount of wishing, dreaming or planning can change the course of time.

So. What can I do instead of trying to change the universe? I can appreciate the universe as it reveals itself to me.
I was so enamoured of this guy's hoodie that I actually asked him permisssion to photograph it. I usually just take pictures, figuring if someone is out in public looking like that, or doing that, then it should be no skin off their nose(s) if I take a picture.



Those shiny studs? It took me a minute to figure out what they were: the metal guards from the tops of bic cigarette lighters. Removed. Attached. Voila. Art.

How cool is this?



* from the trunk of my car as it sat in the parking lot at Tobacco Road. Figures.

Well. after eleven whole days of indolence, today I go back to work.

I have a list as long as my arm of things I need to do that isn't even remotely related to my day job, and I can only imagine what a pile of paper I'll have waiting for me on that desk.

But like Nixon, I'm tanned, rested and ready. And that, dear readers, is the ONLY way in which I am like unto Richard Milhouse Nixon.

The year is half over? Or there is still another half of a year to go through.

Anyway, it wouldn't be the Fourth of July here at the Casita de Zapatas if we didn't crank up the old hi-fi and blast Springsteen's "Sandy" through the entire battery of speakers.

Today is the last day of my vacation. I was able to smooth the old brain wrinkles out to a marble for a while, but tomorrow I go back to the real world, which includes a major issue with the 'rent's estate.

Biggus Dickus (he has a wife, you know) and I are co-executors of said estate, and can do nothing independent of each other regarding same. This works out in real life to Biggus Dickus (he has a wife, you know) turfing everything to me to figure out.

The current issue came to light while I was on vacation. When I got home, there was a message on the answering machine from someone who said that they had discussed this with Biggus Dickus (he has a wife, you know) and that he told them that they had to speak to me about the issue. I now have less than 30 days to find a solution to this mess and Biggus Dickus (he has a wife, you know) still hasn't had the courtesy to give me a heads up.

But then, if he understood the situation, he wouldn't have turfed it to me. And I have an underlying and uneasy suspicion that it was his incompetence that brought this newest crisis to bear.

Have I ever mentioned that he's the older child? By six years and ten months, which has always been shorthanded in the family to seven years. His wife, Incontinentia Buttocks, very pertly corrected me about this matter the last time anyone mentioned it. "SIX YEARS older, really. He was born in '48 and you in '54."

Whatever. He's still the big brother (no holding company) but you'd never know it by the way things are around here.

Fuck it. I'm off to listen to Bruce, and tomorrow?

Well, tomorrow is another day, and I'll think about everything then.

Tequilla should come with a warning other than the one about not drinking if you are pregnant. Like, maybe, don't drink in the sun or don't consume if you wish to remain conscious for longer than it takes to consume three of these.

But then, where would the fun or challenge be in that. Star drank me under the beach chair yesterday and she claims that she wasn't even trying. Of course she says that now, but the last clear memory I have is of a story wherein she told a co-worker that she could drink him under the table and he didn't believe her, but the bartender did and told the kid if he wanted to see the morning through clear eyes, he wouldn't try to prove Star wrong.

Brrrrrrrr. At least I passed out in the cool dark of my room and not the beach, which means only that I slept for 15 straight hours and not that I have the sort of sunburn one associates with German tourists and French Canadians.


Limetree was as good as their word, and did, in fact get a wireless network up and running. The best part of it is that the only place to get a good connection is out here on the lanaii, overlooking the Gulf. "Tough life," says Star, from her chair next to me. Those are my feet, and that is the adorable little tote that the equally adorable Jade brought as gifts when she came up to meet us.

Jade is just a stitch, and if she lived in Miami, she would be one of the regulars at the Casita de Zapatos, that's for sure. She's already mentioned this multi-tasking monstrosity, but sweeties, words (and even pictures) cannot do it justice (?).



This dress... this dress... is a sweet little faux-wrap in the most hideous of shiny, slippery, synthetic knit fabric that you know will be cursed with static cling every nanosecond of its miserable life. It will stick to you and crawl around on you no matter what you try to make it stop. And then there is the print. It is a photo-real print of crocheted granny squares in some of the most unfortunate colors since they showed up in kitchens in the 50s.

Star says that if you made this dress in real granny squares it would be unwearable, because it would be heavy and it wouldn't drape correctly. I say: your point is? Because if it wouldn't be wearable if it were real, then why would anyone think that it would be wearable as a simulacrum?

I present the dress. That's Jade's arm.

Tomorrow, the RLA, Star and I head over to the Gulf Coast for a week of serious laying around doing nothing. Except laying around and drinking and eating. And Star and I have sworn to drag our sewing machines and make a few quilt tops while we're there. That remains to be seen. I may drag some yarn and knitting needles, instead, because they're lighter and take up less room. Or not.

While we're there, I've made a date to meet up with the crafty (as in fiber arts, and not as in sly and devious, but then, I don't really know that, do I?) Jade of Unfinished Object. We've agreed to meet in a bar. It was that or a shoe store.

Jade has expressed some reservations about meeting me, saying that she didn't know if any of her footwear was fabulous enough. I told her that contrary to popular belief, there's more to me than just shoes. There's snark and sloth. And a large percentage of alcohol.

While the Limetree swears that it has added a wireless internet service, we'll see if I update while I'm gone.

Stay cool, wear things that fit, and I'll see you all next week.

P.S. The Miami Heat victory lap will be going right past my office building. I'll try to get some pics to share.

The Heat won! The Heat won! The Heat won! The Heat won! The Heat won! The Heat won! The Heat won! The Heat won! The Heat won! The Heat won! The Heat won! The Heat won! The Heat won! The Heat won! The Heat won!

And what a glorious face-stuffing it was. Damn, I love it when my home team wins on the other guy's turf. Like when the Marlins thrashed the Yankees in the high cathedral of baseball.

Can I get a witness?

I've been working on a joke all week, the punchline of which was going to be "It wasn't the Heat, it was the Humidity." I never quite got the set up to my satisfaction, but as things stand (The Heat won!) I don't need to, do I?

And then there's this joke that I can't remember (do we sense a trend creeping in) the punchline of which is "Trick question, Lemmy IS God." But I think that today, that would have to be Dwyane Wade is God.

What a game! What a bunch of clutch players! What a game! What a hot time in Miami!

And for the record, sports announcer guys? The fact that Heat players can't hit from the free-throw line is sort of a team hallmark, OK? It started 18 years ago with the guy who was supposed to be the franchise then, one Rony Seikaly, who was the most-fouled player in the NBA because it was universally known that the guy couldn't sink a free-throw if his life (and/or career) depended on it. How bad was he? He was sooo bad, that even Heat fans yelled "AIR BALL" every time he stepped to the line.

Or at least one of us did. But then, I also had this theory: Rony Seikaly and Vinnie Testaverde are the same person. You never see them in the same place at the same time, and they both needed the Heimlich manuever every time they played in the clutch.

Oh, and Pat Riley? Total. Hottie.

I've clearly died from this crappy lung infection, because I could swear that I read in the morning Herald that:

1. The Miami Heat are one game away from winning the NBA championship.

2. The Florida Marlins have an 8-game winning streak going.

I have a raging sinus infection. Is it moldy air-conditioning vents? Is is brush fires? Is it something else?

Don't know, don't particularly care.

Want teeth to stop throbing. Want head to stop hurting. Want sinuses to stop bleeding into the back of my throat.

Yeah. Way too much information. On the other hand: I'm wearing the cutest little drag queen shoes today. For them, I even forego my usual rule about white shoes.


And here's a close up of the bling and matching toenail polish. Hey! I practice what I preach, people.

Again with the cankles. Again with the leggings. In Miami. In the summer. And this dress? I love this dress style. I'm making one for myself even now. And Erin, over at Dress a Day has been obsessing about the Duro for a couple of months now.

But, see, it's supposed to be loose. And flowing. Not tight across the bust and constricting the ribs and giving one an appearance of either A) advanced liver disease or B) advanced pregnancy. And I may possibly be wrong, but I don't think the sleeves are supposed to be medieval in length, either. You know, like only to the wrist, not over them and down to the tips of your fingers.



The things I have to put up with, living in this city... I swear, it makes me yearn for the days of old men wearing bad wigs cruising the beach in their white shoes and shrimp-colored sports coats. At least in those days a person could get a decent pastrami sandwich over in Miami Beach without having to take out a loan on their house.

And while I'm on the subject of "what ever happened to Jewish delis in this town", what ever happened to the bowls of free pickles and cole slaw and the basket of rolls on every table, even before you ordered? Huh? And Jewish bakeries like the late, great, sorely missed and never to be replicated in my lifetime or yours, Pumpernick's? Where the ashtrays had "Nicked from Pumpernick's" printed on them. It was at 63rd and Collins, and I once rode there, on my bicycle, in the dead of night, from the University of Miami for a slice of cheesecake.