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.