I’m blowing out of here for a week. The Girl Cousin and I are going on vacation together. (With our husbands, it isn’t girls on the town… at least, we aren’t planning on that.) In talking over our trip, we realized that we have somehow managed, despite our years, to have never gone on vacation together before.

Believe it or not, this came as a surprise to us. We always spent our summers with our mutual grandparents in Newport, RI. We have shared memories of Grandpa’s vegetable garden, of Grandma’s raspberry bushes, of the Big Rock, of the corner candy store, of our cousins across the street, of our Aunt Annie’s terrible, horrible cooking. Except, we went in alternate months, because our parents couldn’t leave the store at the same time. Shared memories, yes, but not shared vacations.

So here we are, about to embark on a trip to, of all places, Disney World, and for Christmas week, of all times. Christmas IS a shared memory for us. Having sore feet and legs on Christmas Eve is something we know well, and so do not fear the Disney lines. We used to work the wrapping table at the store during the holidays. Between us, I think we got it down to less than thirty seconds a box and no more than three pieces of tape. EVER. More than three, and you faced the wrath of Max.

For the past month, I have been torturing her with pleas that we need to buy, and wear, matching Minnie Mouse Princess ears. Neither one of us is exactly sure how serious I am.

You’ve been warned. We’re off to see the Mouse. There may be ears involved. Pictures to follow.

Thirty years ago today, I was living in up-state New York, in Saugherties, and the then-significant other and I headed down to Kingston to get a hotel room, because the Dolphins were having a winning season, and the only way to catch the game was on cable. We didn’t have cable, hence the field trip.

I was sitting on the bed, watching a nail-biter of a game, when Howard Cosell came on and said that John Lennon had been shot. Then he came back on and said that John was dead. I grabbed the phone and called Jayne, The Coolest Person in the World, and we sobbed over the phone on each other for what seemed like hours.

It was unthinkable that John was shot. It is still incomprehensible.

I met Yoko Ono six years ago at a White Party event (where I was wearing a mermaid costume…one of my finer moments). I wanted to tell her how my heart ached for her, how I admired her grace and her strength and her passion in keeping their message of peace alive in this day and age. I think I managed to ask if her hat were Phillip Tracey. It wasn’t. But it could have been.

This may be apocryphal, but it is still my favorite John Lennon quote: “I would have been a fisherman if I could, but I can’t because I’m a fucking genius.”

He was, and will always be.

And with that winner, Project Runway has not only jumped the shark, they have kissed, petted and humped the shark. Wearable? Really, NinaGarcia, that was the best you could say about that sad, monkeyshit brown mess? I quit Tyra, and I can quit you, too.

When you, NinaGarcia, said that the object of this competition is to sell clothes, you gave it away. Project Runway has sold its soul to the devil of mediocrity and the free market proletariat. To make money for the masters and not excite the souls of the rarified aesthetes? After tossing around the word aesthetic all season like a ping pong ball at a tournament in China?

MKors, you are better than that. You cannot in this or any other world make me believe that you responded well to that shiny black leather coat worn open over the mildew-stained granny panties. Or the intentional hat-hair.

Who would have ever guessed that poor, tragically-styled Jessica Simpson would have been the voice of reason, sanity and fucking taste? Please read that sentence over again and recognize to what depths this show has sunk, dragging the loyal viewers along. But no more. MizShoes quits.

Previously on Project Runway, Mondo outed himself, Ivy was a stone bitch, Mayor Michael Bloomberg whored New York City, and the designers were unable to find inspiration in the second greatest city in the world (Miz Shoes respectfully bows to Paris). April did her same old same old and was aufed, but so did Andy, Gretchen and Michael Costello, who made it to the final four. The room is so small now, that Andy and Gretchen are pretending to like Michael C, at least for the cameras.

They get sent home with 9K and 6 weeks to make 10 looks. They will all come back to NYC to show pieces and one of them will not be showing (for teevee or money, but forever and ever on an internet search). Go home and create.

First we have to hear the deep, inner thoughts and reflections of our designers. Blah, blah, blah. And now, it’s Tim’s Travelogue Time. First up, Andy’s mountain top fish farm in Oahu. It’s an amazing place. Tim is freaked out by the catfish. Andy’s mom is a love. His is the immigrant story. He cries. He can machete the top of a fresh coconut. Miz Shoes loves Andy despite his treatment of Michael C.

He is working from the inspiration of the Buddha Garden in Laos, including hand-woven fabric from Laos and photos of his grandfather who was an elephant herder. There is nothing made, because the fabrics just arrived. There is a drawing of a pair of pants that looks like fish scale armor. Interesting. He has two weeks to finish his collection.

Next is Michael Costello in Palm Springs, California. Tim meets Richard and checks out the collection: feathers and the sunset skies. Feather skirt that looks like clouds, fringed top with sequined pants. He’s designed TOO much. Tim tells him to edit. Michael has a table full of friends in black t-shirts who all look like him. Richard (his boyfriend) outed Michael to his parents, and Michael’s parents as homophobic jerks to Tim.

Mondo in Denver! His studio is a Mondo space with a checkered floor. His inspiration is a marriage of vintage Mexican circuses and Day of the Dead iconography. He’s made a long evening dress in over-sized polka dots and black blocking. Mondo’s parents are totally blase over the fact that he’s gay. They tried to butch him up, but whatever. Mondo’s gay. He plays the piano. Miz Shoes says that Mondo’s “It gets better”-type confessional is tantamount to openly declaring him the winner. Miz Shoes also says that the PTB should just declare him the winner and put the audience out of the misery that has been Season Eight.

Finally, Gretchen in Portland. Gretchen’s life has fallen apart. She is perplexed to find she has come home to find out that she’s been dumped, has an empty bank account, an empty home and an empty life. Gretchen is not ashamed to share these darkest, deepest, most intimate moments with the one person she can share them with other than her mother and the millions of viewers on the other side of the confessional camera, Tim Gunn. Tim should be ashamed. Miz Shoes is embarrassed for Gretchen, but still finds herself shouting “I hate you, shut up” over and over at the screen whenever her face and Valley Girl flat drone come on. Miz Shoes may not be able to be objective about Gretchen. Miz Shoes would like to remind her readers that she had Gretchen pegged as insufferably self-absorbed halfway through episode one. Gretchen is inspired, as always, by herself and her childhood in the great southwest. BlahblahblahGRETCHENblahblahblah. Gretchen needs to be “authentic”, so she makes some authentically ugly costume jewelry that would look too cheap to be sold from a blanket on a New York City sidewalk.

Mondo claims the big room at the Hotel Sponsor. Michael arrives next and they have a joyful reunion, soon joined by Andy with a Pocahontas/Naomi Campbell weave. Gretchen brings the downer. Tim Gunn brings the Evil Velvet Bag, but in an attempt to rehabilitate the Evil Bag’s rep, the only thing to come out of it is Hotel Sponsor Resort Vacations for each of the designers. It doesn’t matter though, because the next thing Tim tells them is that they will be showing three looks from their collection: two that they brought with them and one that they will be creating in the next two days with $300.

Gretchen knows what she needs is casual to offset what she refers to as the sophistication of her collection. Mondo is a little lost. Andy is looking for a special shade of green. Michael is floundering. Andy goes back to his existing green fabric and pleats the shit out of it. Mondo makes a jersey color blocked dress, and at the end of the day, he hates it and decides to make something else the next day.

Sewing. Cutting. Tim. First he visits Michael Costello and finds that Michael is choking. Gretchen has made a little sundress with a diaper drape over the butt. She’s also making a bag. Mondo shows Tim the dress that looked too Junior. Gretchen opines about Mondo’s looks. Andy shows Tim the green pleats. Tim is happy. Mondo is unimpressed. Carry on, Mondo, Gretchen, Andy. Don’t choke, Michael, who now chokes harder. Mondo gives him a pep talk. Like that will work.

Day of Show, Gretchen is wearing a great burnt orange velvet tunic. She still needs to shut up. Scrambling in the workroom. Scrambling in hair and makeup. Gretchen wants the models to look like her and she wants to be the models. And it’s show time. Mondo cries. Andy cries. Gretchen cries. Michael C cries. Miz Shoes rolls her eyes. Heidi taunts the designers and introduces the judges: Michael Kors and Nina Garcia. There is no guest judge.

Andy sends out a silver cocktail romper, a dumbed-down version of his winning resort wear bikini and cover up, and the little green dress of pleats.

Michael C shows the fluid, drapey chocolate gown, a badly proportioned feather skirt and top and the sequined pants and fringed top. Gretchen calls it chicka chicka bow wow. Her work is brown. And more brown and animal prints and black and chartreuse and it is grim and not pretty.

Mondo sends out an impeccable collection, of course, and Miz Shoes wants the hot pink Evil Clown Day of the Dead purse with dingleberry fringe. So Mexican! So fun. Mondo is up first for critique. He easily explains his work. NinaGarcia beams at him. Heidi wants the polka dot evening gown. NinaGarcia says the polka dot dress is too close to farce, but NinaGarcia beams at him again anyway.

Andy talks about the Buddha park and how his fabric was made for him. MKors loves the green pleating. NinaGarcia is concerned about his range, and slams the bathing suit. He apologizes for not showing a better range in his mini collection. The judges slam him for not showing all his wow pieces today. They slam his styling. They slam him for the sake of slamming him.

Michael C is attempting to show that he can make structured. Of course the effortless gown is loved for being effortless. Heidi loves the blouse made of fringe. NinaGarcia calls him on his use of one color. MKors takes Michael to school about the concept of a collection. Heidi calls out his taste level, without saying “taste”. He, too is taken to task for not choosing the best of his collection for this.

Finally, Gretchen gets her turn in the barrel. She has delivered range, but NinaGarcia calls it “crunchy granola” that says that not only did Gretchen NOT pique her interest, but that “the only glimmer of hope I have of somewhat polish is this” and points to the diaper under the open-fronted tuxedo jacket and pimp hat. She flat-out says that she doubts that Gretchen “has it.” Heidi says that her models are schlumping along and MKors says that the girls do not look like a fashion show. Everything looks cheap. Gretchen challenges MKors’ opinion and says that she didn’t bring her best looks out.

The judges call the designers idiots for not figuring out that doing just that is exactly what they should have done. Gretchen is a phony. They are all over stressed. Heidi loves Gretchen’s granola, and MKors say that there’s nothing wrong with granola as long as it is fashion show granola. Mondo, on the other hand, walks too close to the line of not being taken seriously, according to NinaGarcia. MKors is concerned about Mondo being too over the top. Michael C is applauded for his draping, but the judges think he’s too inexperienced. And they worry that he may have edited out some of the better pieces. Andy gets praise, despite the underboob cape over the bikini. He used beautiful colors. Heidi finds him iffy. We hear a lot about the need to put on a “show” at Fashion Week, as if more than half of the discarded designers aren’t showing throw away collections.

Heidi says that this was a hard decision to make. Mondo, you are in. Be sure to keep on this side of the fine line between fashion and folly. Gretchen, Heidi loves your crap for no reason anyone else can fathom, so you get to go to fashion week, too. Mondo and Gretchen call each other ‘gurl’ and Miz Shoes tells the teevee to shut up.

Andy, you chose the wrong shit to show us. The last minute look was your best. Michael, a color isn’t a collection. We are afraid that you may not have anything new to say. Andy, you are in. Michael, we’re so sorry to crush your dreams. The next seven minutes are the longest, hardest to watch in Project Runway History (TM). Frankly, Miz Shoes did not need to see the depth of Michael C’s grief for that long, that up-close and that personal. Andy feels a little guilty for taking the last spot from Michael, but Miz Shoes believes that what Andy’s really feeling guilty about is what a shit he was to Michael C for most of the show.

Next week, a reunion AND the final show? Can that be right? And will Gretchen finally shut up and leave my consciousness forever?

Miz Shoes regrets she will be unable to recap today. She and The Renowned Local Artist had to take the Noble Dog Nails (aka Lt. Commander Nails, Retired, Sah!) across the Rainbow Bridge. He was a good and loyal companion for fourteen years and will be forever in our hearts.

The Noble Dog Nails was a Jack Russell Terrier. When his vet first saw him, he warned us that JRTs tend to die early, because they are suicidal: jumping out of moving cars to chase a dog spotted in another car, running into traffic, running away, going down a hole only to never be seen again… Nails did many of those things. It took longer to train the RLA that a Jack can NEVER be off-leash anywhere without a good fence and adult supervision than it did to train Nails to sit.

Nails graduated at the top of his puppy training class, accepting his biscuit and carrying it back to his spot before he ate it. We were also thrown out of agility classes after a couple of sessions because the trainer felt that Nails “didn’t want it enough”. Which was probably a fair assessment of the situation. Nails fought an Akita and later a Golden Retriever, and came out ahead with the Akita and slightly the worse for wear with the Golden (known forever after around these parts as Cujo). He field stripped a banana tree, leaf by leaf until we had no banana tree. He caught birds, possums and bufo toads, and was smart enough to find the RLA after the first two bufos caused him to end up at the vet’s office for anti-toxin. Toad. RLA. Mouth wash. No vet. Smart dog. Nails was not afraid of thunder, nor was he afraid of fireworks, as our friends who were with us the July 4th when he seized a lit firework and tried to kill it can attest to. We got it out of his mouth before it went off.

When my father passed away, Nails jumped up on the bed, sniffed Daddy from one end to the other and then stood guard over his body, like a little terrier version of Anubis, escorting the Egyptian dead to the other side. I’m sure that my old man was waiting on the other side of the Rainbow Bridge for Nails, greeting him with a gruff “Hey, Dog.”

Nails was able to destroy indestructible dog toys. He could, and did, climb trees. He was a fearless and grouchy companion, who swam in our pool every day. He would sit like a little old Jewish man on South Beach back in the day, on the top step of the pool, with the water coming up to his chest. Then he would launch himself off the step and swim in doggie laps, a circle about 4 ft. in diameter, before going back for another sit on the step. He hated pool noodles. Whenever they were in the pool, they were the enemy and had to die. He would dive in the pool, and grab the noodle in his teeth and wrestle it out of the pool, where it was rendered harmless and could be ignored.

Our very favorite game that we played together was “Hunting Lubbers Out in India”, where Miz Shoes would wander about the back yard, a long stick in one hand and a martini in the other, Nails close behind. Once a giant yellow lubber was spotted decimating the foliage, Miz Shoes would beat the leaves with her stick, and when the lubber leaped for safety, Nails would pounce upon it, and with a quick shake of his head, kill the lubber. Miz Shoes would sing the great Bonzo Dog Doodah Band classic “Hunting Tigers Out in India” as we hunted. It was cracking good sport, and Nails was in full Lt. Commander Nails, Retired, Sah! mode, all empire and duty.

Good dog, Nails. Smart dog, Nails. Brave and loyal and fierce and handsome Nails. Sail on, little old man.

Last night I took Surrogate Daughters Two and Three (and Star, their mother) to see The Bob. Star has been to a Dylan show with me before, but I felt the need to warn the girls what they were in for. Don’t, I said, expect certain things. Don’t expect to necessarily enjoy the sound of his voice. While Bob’s voice can be generously described as “rough” on his recordings, live, it’s more like a phlegmish gargle. Don’t expect to necessarily recognize any of the songs. Bob’s been touring pretty much non-stop for the last 35 years, and he never plays the same thing the same way twice, much less the way it was released. Don’t expect a long show. Bob plays hard and fast, and then leaves. Don’t expect any interaction with the audience. Bob will not tell stories, talk between songs, or even acknowledge that there’s anyone in the room besides him and his band. Don’t expect to see him strap on his guitar for more than one song. (Rumor says it’s a bad back?)

Star nodded sagely. Yep, pretty much. Except it wasn’t. Bob was in amazingly fine voice last night. He smiled…a lot. He (I swear) almost mugged for the phone cameras in the front row. He postured. He posed. He played guitar on FOUR songs. The show ran well over an hour. His Workingman’s Blues #2 was almost like the recorded version. It was, all in all, the best Dylan show I’ve seen in years and years. And years.

Here are my notes from the Nova Southeastern University show:

The stage is hung with black scrims, and while we wait for the show to begin, D.W. Griffith’s Intolerance is projected on them. The idiot teen behind us reads (incorrectly) the title cards. His papa is indulgent. The Number Three Surrogate Daughter offers, as a certified Autism Worker/Assistant, to help the father control the boy if he needs it. This shuts them up a little.

Rainy Day Women #14 & 35

It Ain’t Me, Babe (Bob on guitar for this and then next three songs, until Tryin’ to Get to Heaven)

Stuck Inside of Mobile With the Memphis Blues Again (and in the middle of this, he somehow sticks in a surf guitar riff or two)

The Levee’s Gonna Break

(Then he leads with a beautiful, true waltz tempo harmonica solo. Is it? Could it be??? It is.) Just Like A Woman (and he does it as an audience participation)

Honest With Me (into which he inserts funky under line of sci-fi woo-woo from the electric dobro. I can’t explain it.)

Tryin’ To Get To Heaven

High Water (for Charlie Patton)

Desolation Row. (And this is where Miz Shoes drops to the floor, dead from happy. I cannot even begin to explain the arrangement on this. It is not C&W, and not boogie and not blues. It contains a descending 4-note repeat)

Highway 61 Revisited (For reasons unknown, Bob sings this as Highway 65. The Surrogates and I are thrilled, because I have been reciting this to them during Rosh Hashona services since they was babies… G-d says to Abraham and all )

Workingman’s Blues #2 (with an exquisite harmonica finish)

(At this point my notes say “some boogie-woogie or another” and the drunk, slightly obnoxious Dylan-head to my right tells me it’s)

Thunder on the Mountain

Ballad of A Thin Man (This is an amazing version. It is all slinky rhythm. The black scrim is left black, with no lights. The band moves up. Dylan takes the mike at center stage. The band is lit with a flat yellow light, and the whole look and feel is like a vaudville minstrel show. It is absolutely fucking perfect, and the end of the show. They come back for an encore of)

Jolene

Like A Rolling Stone

It was the best I’ve seen him in years. Miz Shoes is a tired, happy woman today.

ETA: Just ganked this from YouTube. Shot with a camera phone, it isn’t exceptional footage, but it is the show from last night.