I have a brother, Biggus Dickus (he has a wife, you know). And regular readers of this blog know how rocky that relationship is. Love|Hate|Indifference|Resentment... and that's just how he feels about me! I also have a brother-in-law, the wonderful David Lee Roth clone, or as I like to call him, David Lee Cohen.

David Lee Cohen is in the hospital, having gone in exactly a week after his brother, the RLA, came home from one. He's been in there 6 days, and had at least 3 surgeries. Because of HIPAA, I can't get information from the hospital about him, and his poor wife is so fried by his hospitalization, her two little kids, and a currently invalided mother (who is also in residence) that I can't reach her to get any information, either.

The RLA and I are Very Nervous about David Lee Cohen. I keep calling the RLA and asking if he's heard anything, and that just makes everybody more nervous, because the answer is no.

I really don't know or care how you guys feel about prayer, but all the healthful, healing energy you can spare, I would appreciate you sending on to my brother-in-law. He's more of a brother to me than the one I was given by my parents, and I really want to see him up and around and yanking my chain again.

Thanks.

I blame Angela for this. I do. The bubble skirt part, at least.

But let's look at this in depth, shall we? It is not just a bubble skirt, it is an Afro-Centric bubble skirt. My mind is just writhing in agony on the floor of my skull over the convergence of those several phrases.

It is paired with gladiator sandals, which, I suppose, could be from the same continent, if the Romans were in North Africa, which they were. Only. Look.

They are knee-high gladiator sandals, complete with a millionty-twelve buckles, only they zip. up. the. back.

What was left of my brain, just leaked out of my ear.

All of this is accessorized with a giant bag (de rigeur these days) with studs. Lots and lots of studs. A stud on every fringe/flap. And diamond shapes, outlined in studs. Which, to be fair, duplicates the shapes of the batik on the Afro-Centric bubble skirt.

Here's the close-up.

Still and all, that was way too much to see on a Monday morning, when I hadn't had sufficient coffee.

So poor, gently bewildered Bradley was finally let go. The only mystery was how he had lasted this long.

No, excuse me, the only mystery was how he had gotten to 2006 without knowing anything about Cher. The woman is ubiquitous. She can, and has, worn anything and everything. The only thing she wouldn't wear is a cropped tin-foil bag with turquoise appliqued triangles, which is what Bradley designed for her. And a pair of cameltoe trousers with the fringe on the front of the leg.

That was such a monstronsity that it would have made the poor baby Jesus drink gin from the cat dish.*
I loved this episode. In theory. I mean, I loved that the models got to pick their own designers, and I loved that the models got to choose their own icons. That had to be a bit of a trick, because there were two conflicting desires at work.

1. To be their own fashion idol, and
2. To be a fashion idol that their chosen designer could actually design for.**

So, there are elbows and hair and photos flying around and when the dust settles, the pairs are revealed to be as follows:

Uli/Diana Ross
Laura/Kate Hepburn (DUH!!!)
Michael/Pam Grier
Angela/Audrey Hepburn
Alison/Farrah Fawcett
Kayne/Marilyn Monroe (is there another Marilyn?)
Robert/Jackie O
Jeffrey/Madonna***
Vincent/Twiggy
Bradley/Cher

Sketching, caucusing, shopping at Mood. We see Robert fretting over his image as boring and matronly. Is that Robert or Robert's designs? There seems to be some overlap here, and I don't know why. The guy's been designing for BARBIE, and we know that she's hardly the matronly type. Anyway, Robert buys some beautiful blue fabric that's somewhere between robin's egg and Tiffany.

Kayne buys black and leather and nude stretchy stuff. I know, sounds like that should be Jeffrey's choices.

Jeffrey interviews at length and ad nauseum about how he should be winning everything and he doesn't know why he hasn't and nobody can sew a lick but him. It seems that with Keith Malfoy out of the show, Jeffrey has been freed to step in as the resident assholevillian/delusional whiner. Over at TWOP, recapper Jeff pointed out that Jeffrey shaves notches into his right eyebrow, something that had, blissfully, escaped my notice up until now, but which I now cannot NOT see. Thanks for that, Jeff.

They sew. Jeffrey and Angela get into a pissing match over the sewing machines. Jeffrey says that Angela broke one. Angela says she didn't. Jeffrey rants for a while about how there are all these amateurs in the sewing room who can't use a machine.****

Jeffrey won't let it go, and there is some nastiness all around. Laura (who has five kids, remember) finally puts on the Mommy voice, and while she doesn't actually say "Don't make me separate you two" (and wouldn't that have been great?) she does tell Jeffrey to shut it. That works just as well as you would expect it to, and there is continued sniping and grousing.*****

More sewing, more bickering. Robert (unwisely, as it will turn out) decides not to use the Bob Dylan's eyes blue fabric, but takes some sand-colored linen from Vincent. The models come back for more caucusing and fittings and we discover that Kayne's model Will Not Shut Up. Ever. At ALL. Kayne has the best line of the night when he says that she's a good model, and he'll work with her again, but there is going to be duct tape over her mouth.

Michael (who gets more air time in this episode than in all the previous ones put together, including his bio and intro footage) talks to his Moms (awww) and then decides that his design isn't what he wanted. So he rips it apart from the waist down and makes a pair of formal hot pants. Tim Gunn isn't so crazy about that (does Tim read Go Fug Yourself?) but allows as how, yeah, formal shorts are hott these days, so go ahead and make them.

Michael is working with the most beautiful shade of cerise satin e-VAH. He then makes a pair of formal hot pants that actually work. I KNOW. Go figure. But they fit, they aren't too short, they make the model look like several million dollars, and Pam Grier would totally wear this outfit. CHER would totally wear that outfit, BRADLEY.

Jeffrey interviews on and on and on about how he's a rock and roll designer and that he could design for Madonna any old day and he's sooooooooo gonna rock this challenge and he's whipping up a stage ensemble that is just going to wahwahwahwahGwenSteffaniwahwahwahLovechildwahwaahwahh.

Finally, we get to the runway, and YEAH!!! Michael Kors is back. But he must have had a vay-cay or something, because he is not up to his usual level of bitchy. The guest judge is Diane Von Furstenberg who may have stolen Kors' mojo. Or his bitch pills.

In the interest of brevity (and of getting done some of the work I'm supposed to be doing as I sit here in front of the company computer) I'm only going to talk about a couple of pieces. As can be expected, Laura nails the updated Kate Hepburn. High-waisted pants, cashmere-looking faux-wrap top. Caramel and pink, long strand of pearls. Perfect.

Uli channels
Dianna Ross, and I love the purple leopard print at the waist. Diana would totally wear this. So would CHER, BRADLEY. Uli's style is starting to grow on me, but I do wish she'd design a different neck-line once in a while.

Angela does something with yummy fabric that is intended to be an updated version of Audrey Hepburn, and the judges absolutely come all over themselves trying to outdo each others praises, but in my own opinion, I don't think that she would ever have worn anything with a neckline that plunged to her belly button. And also? winning the last challenge seems to have given Angela the impression that people actually like those stupid flowers, so on this dress they have grown to in size to something that I think she called cabbages roses, only in French. She's also placed them all the way around the hem, another frou-frou touch that doesn't jibe with my image of Audrey. But, hell, what do I know?

Alison does something with a highish waist and chiffon and calls it macaroni. Farrah Fawcett. Whatever.

Michael wins with this,
and for a damned good reason. It is flawless, although when Diane Von Furstenberg says that she wore a lot of hot pants in her day, and she'd wear these, I have a vision that makes me want to poke my eyes out.

Which would have prevented me from seeing Jeffrey's black satin diapers and asymetric leather bustier, and that would have been a good thing. Did I mention that there were ribbons, too? Jeffrey, here's a clue, and I'm going to give it to you for the love of God and Fashion: that sucked. Your designs all suck. Quit shaving the eyebrow, get the neck tats removed, and get a job in accounting. You and the rest of the world will all be a better place for it.

Vincent trots out something that isn't horrible, and the judges go for him like he's an antelope with a broken leg and they are hungry, hungry hyenas. Granted, the makeup was beyond attrocious, and the color way of his plaid was a little on the Halloween side, as opposed to the happyhappyjoyjoy of the 60s, but he had the black tights and the bell sleeves, and it was cute. I would wear it in a heartbeat. I'd also like to defend him referring to Twiggy in the past tense, even though that made DVF's veins stand out (farther) on her neck and forehead. I watch America's Next Top Model, and let me tell you, Miss Twiggy is not a fashion icon today. She wears cardigan sweaters and pig tails, OK? Twiggy in the 60s, past tense. Nevertheless, Vincent gets to stick around. Plucky comic relief?

Kayne's Goth Marilyn got rave reviews from all the judges, but frankly, I thought it made the model look poochy in the ass and belly. I love ruching as much as the next guy, and maybe more, but that dress was just ho. If he'd put a color other than flesh under the sheer black, maybe it wouldn't have been so awful (to me) but, ick. It didn't do a thing for me.

Robert's Jackie was universally panned, and mostly for the fact that it was linen. Apparently Jackie would never, never, never have worn linen because it doesn't hold a crease. See? Should have stayed with the blue. The Tiffany blue would have caused the judges to not notice the lack of pressing. Or maybe, if Robert had made a self-belt instead of using a piece of rope, the judges would have thought his suit looked a little sharper.

Finally, we have Bradley and what is there to say about this?



Nothing, except, you know? That really, really, really sucked. In every way possible, and in some ways that were heretofore unimaginable. As much as I would have liked to have seen someone else leave the runway before Bradley, there was just no way to defend anything about this design. Not the fabric. Not the fit. Not the cut. Not the color. Not the style, such as it was. Bradley, you were sweet, and funny and completely out of your depth.

Until next week, then, keep the scissors sharp.

* I don't actually know what that means, but I read it somewhere once and I thought it was so funny that I swore I would use it myownself some day.

** See above, re: Bradley being clueless about Cher. I'm sorry, but that one is still causing me brain cramps. How could anyone not be aware of Cher?

*** Am I the only person who, when I see/hear Madonna, automatically see/hear Robin Williams in Birdcage going "Ma-DONNA, Ma-DONNA, Ma-DONNA"?

**** Didn't she get sent home in the first episode? And isn't there one every season?

***** Did you know that snipe and grouse are both birds?

I pre-ordered The Bob's new album this morning, before I even finished my coffee. The RLA himself drove me to the train this morning, the first day he's been out and about since last week's emergency appendectomy.

There were no disgusting people on the train, unless you count the Very Pregnant Woman in the belly-baring cropped, spaghetti-strapped t and those atrocious stretch-knit gaucho/capris that seem to be everywhere but the trash heap of fashion history, where they belong.

Then I got to work and everything went to hell in a hand basket. Yesterday I finished entering the data into the national hospice registry for all forty of our programs. Said data includes zip codes. All zip codes for all counties where we serve. We are in Los Angeles, and Phoenix, and Miami and Philadelphia and Chicago. We have 40 programs. They each serve multiple counties. Did you know that there are fifteen pages of zip codes for Los Angeles alone? It's been a fun three weeks.

Today I began the task of dropping cds, dvds and vhs tapes into envelopes for delivery to 150 people. That's 150 inter-office envelopes with the last name crossed out, the new name written in and a location if I have one. Some people get more than one copy of each format.

This mindless repetition is why I love my job. I know, you thought I was going to bitch about it, didn't you? But it isn't the endless pushing and pulling of paper that makes me wish I had another. No, it's the little things like the one person who won't take their phone off forward, making me trot down the hall every time someone calls for her. Or the power play of she won't gather information for another department her own self, she has me drop what I'm doing to pull the papers together for her. She's the person who talked to the other department. She's the one who knows what they want. She's the fucking media person, but I am the lowly dogsbody who gets to do the grunt work. All the grunt work. All the time. Sometimes even at the same time.

Having a sick hubby has shortened my already somewhat truncated fuse. So this morning, when the woman pushed past me to get on the train first, and then took the seat next to me and started applying her make up (of course) I said to the woman across from me who was rolling her eyes at the sight, "Well, at least she's not picking her face, I've seen that, too."

We both snickered and then the make-up applying woman got all offended and asked me if I had something I wanted to say directly to her. I did. And I did. I said: "If you need to wear make up to appear in public, shouldn't you have it on BEFORE you appear in public?"

She said that EVERYBODY does it. (Boy howdee, I haven't heard that argument from anyone older than 15 in forever.) I just gave her a supercilious sneer and said that, yes, and everybody picks their nose, too, but that doesn't make it right or nice.

Snap.

I've been staying away from this issue, but the Girl Cousin sent this to me, and I felt the need to pass it along:

"If the Arabs put down their weapons today, there would be no more violence.

If the Jews put down their weapons today, there would be no more Israel."

That, in a nutshell, is the truth of the situation. And I am soooo fucking tired of hearing about the death of "civilians" in the Arab states, and the death of "Israelis" in Israel. The implication is that all Israelis are... what, exactly? All soldiers? Not innocents? Deserving of their deaths in a school bus, or a pizza parlor or a shopping mall? Because those places don't sound like military targets to me. But to hear the world press yammer on about it, they aren't civilian targets.

I am sick of the Hammas and the Hezbolah hiding behind the shields of women and children and then claiming that Israel (politically correct phrase that really means "The Jews") are guilty of brutality and wholesale slaughter of innocents.

I am sickened by the whole Mel Gibson story. The arms-length intellectualism of analysis of his "alcoholism" and "non-anti-Semitism". Bullshit. The man, to quote my SisterFriendGirlFriend, "drank the bad Kool-Aid" and needs to be treated.

I am tired of the creeping tide of anti-semitism that is rising across the world. I am tired of the attitude that says just ignore it, it isn't that bad, it's only a few people, it's blown out of proportion, it can't happen here.

Oh, it is happening here. And there. And everywhere. And I am tired of it all.