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Above: Giving Michael Kors a run ... to the tanning
bed: Blayne
Project Runway has caught me sort of off-guard
this season. The last season seems like it just ended,
really, and now they’re back and I’m not
exactly ready and the only fashion thought I have at
the moment is Well,
Seth Rogen is on the cover of GQ.
It’s about motherfucking time a man
approaching my personal girth wound up on the
cover of that damn magazine.
As for style tips from GQ this month, apparently I’m supposed to be walking around in chinos cut off just above the knee. Preppy summer home on Martha’s Vinyward chic or some shit like that. But here’s my own style announcement for men: Shorts are for the beach or for little boys. If you’re a professional surfer, maybe, too. My own husband/partner/whatever wears them, but he gets an exemption from scorn because no amount of that scorn from me will change his mind. Oh, and as for calling him my “husband/partner/whatever,” as I tend to do in just about everything I write, it’s like this: We’re legally married in California now, but still haven’t decided yet what I’m supposed to call him in public. It’s complicated because in Iowa and 46 other states we’re still strangers in a legal sense, and what if we happened to be traveling through Iowa or one of those 46 states one day and he had an accident caused by his rebellious wearing of those cargo shorts? What if they had to take him to the hospital and he was unconscious? I’d be unable to make a medical decision for him, and no amount of sweetie-boo “husband” play-talk would make a fucking bit of difference. Yes, it’s all serious and real here in my more highly evolved state, and I can say “husband” with paperwork to back it up, no matter who doesn’t like it, but this here is the Internet, and that means my words are transmitted via an international and perhaps intergalactic forum, and until gay marriage is legal everywhere, I remain in solidarity with the whatevers of this world. Gay pride.
Anyway, maybe this is your first time to read one of these recaps. Here’s how it works (and yes, I more or less just cut and pasted the following from the first episode recap of last season, and I did that because the facts remain the same and you probably forgot what I wrote anyway):
I watch the show a couple times.
I make sure there are at least a few friends in my presence. Not dumb friends. Dumb friends never have interesting things to say. You keep the dumb friends around because they’re nice or they make you good food to eat or they’re rich. But you don’t consult them for smart words.
I write what I saw. Because sometimes you can’t get to the episode and you need someone to tell you what happened with more details than “Yeah, it was boring.” Or maybe your TiVo didn’t change the channel properly and you wound up with whatever else was on at that time, Living Lohan or whatever. Maybe you don’t have a TiVo. Whatever your situation is, please don’t write to me and tell me. I’m super-busy with fashion thoughts. And it’s not because I’m a gay. It’s because I’m awesome.
So, on to episode 1:
No intro yet. I don’t even think the show is ready to be back. All we get is Heidi saying, “This is Project Runway,” and bang, here’s the show. It’s starting. The first gay shows up at Atlas, where they’ll all be living again, and he’s got on a stupid woven hat. These hats are now officially with us for all time, and the sons of bitches who wear them will pollute my sightlines until I’m dead. Thanks, whoever brought these damn things back. It’s enough to make you wish we’d all return to the backward baseball cap of 1991. The other item of barfwear he’s got on is a kind of Cosby-like sweater-shirt-cardigan thing with a shawl collar and no shirt underneath -- knitwear for guys who really want to show off their nipples. His name is Jerell Scott. He used to be a model. He says, in an audition video, that he couldn’t afford “the cool clothes,” so then he had to “make the cool clothes myself.” He says this while wearing a big sleeveless oversize hoodie adorned with braided somethings and buttons and pouches, so it makes me wonder where he’s hidden all those cool clothes. Then he explains that he designs “one-of-a-kind custom pieces for a very select group of people: from celebrities to Saudi royalty.”
I like that kind of homo self-aggrandizement, because if everyone were humble and nose-to-the-sewing-machine, this show wouldn’t even make it out of the gate. As Jerell continues his spiel, he uses the reality-show-ism “it’s time for me to take it to the next level” as we witness a still photograph of a male model in a jacket whose peaked lapels are festooned with giant brass furniture tacks and delicate chains. Wherever season 3’s Glamour Mom Laura is right now, I think I just heard her scream the words “serious ugly” at the top of her lungs.
Next up is the immediately disturbing Blayne Walsh. You know he festived up his name with that letter Y in middle school. He’s 23 and so deeply fake-tanned that while standing next to the orange wallpaper of his Atlas dorm room he becomes invisible. He reminds me of the bug-eyed meth enthusiasts I used to see stumbling around my West Hollywood neighborhood when I first moved here. He’s stick-thin, straw-haired, and seemingly strung out. But I’m not here to accuse anyone of drug use without evidence. It’s my Jason Castro-inspired, innocent-until-proven-born-again-and-doofus-y rule. He could simply be high on life.
As for his burnt sienna-Crayola skin, I had to consult an expert. If you read last season’s recaps, then you’re already familiar with my pal Elyse Sewell of America’s Next Top Model fame (second runner-up or whatever they call it when you come in third, season 1, way before it all started sucking). She’s spent her post-Tyra years lady-posing all over the place, especially in the Asian countries, and writing about it hilariously on her own blog. So I just said, “What’s the deal with extreme tanning, Elyse?” Her response:
“Dave, extreme tanning is a very real part of the fashion world. Like drug use and hideous stretch mesh Jean Paul Gaultier tank tops, it is something that models accept without comment. My most beloved and favorite agent gets my unwavering sympathy whether he was too tired to make it to the tanning beds or going to the doctor to have 22 precancerous growths removed from his arms, back, and face (true!).”
Joe’s here. He’s from Detroit. He’s the straight guy, and when Blayne repeats “Detroit,” Joe smiles and says, slyly, “Yeah,” like he knows special 8-Mile life secrets because he’s done the time there. Maybe set fire to a few cop cars. You never know with people from Detroit. It’s a good move on his part, though. You have to establish dominance in the sausage party early on.
Stella Zotis has built a career out of dressing rock stars in the kind of stage gear that wannabe rock stars enjoy wearing to the supermarket and the bank: typical dull black leather and vinyl and studs and cuffs and other items that match your awful tattoos. Then she calls Debbie Harry “Blondie” and says that she designs for “hookahs and pimps and whoever’s tough enough to wear it.” “Tough” here means dumb, naturally.
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