I Love Project Runway. I Hate Project Runway.

I once counted myself as one of the proud few who did not fall for mind-numbing reality TV crap. American Idol — Love Kelly Clarkson. What red-blooded American homosexual man doesn’t? But Who Wants to be a Superhero? If this is the evolution being televised, please spare me.


The clouds part and a fiery chariot descents to earth to bring us … Project Runway.

I. Love. Project Runway. As far this particular reality show goes, I have dismounted my high horse. It takes a subject that makes no sense to me whatsoever — fashion — and makes into a backdrop for some really good human drama. These people live together. They are made to run around like chimpanzees trying to work out how to reach the bananas.

I simultaneously love and hate the contrivances and twists that are engineered to create drama for those poor contestants. The third season may be the best so far, but I’m worried about Seasons 5 and 6 and 7. Already they’ve been made to design for each others’ mothers and sisters (with the result that one was reduced to tears). They’ve designed for dogs. They’ve used recyclable trash as fabric. What will they make those designers do in a few years? Create underwear for each other? Design dresses for the male contestants to model? Use human waste as dyes and pigments?

Tonight, in a move both brilliant and cynical, they brought back two of the designers who had previously been removed. I nearly shit myself when I saw Vincent again. I hate Vincent. (No, Eric… You hate how Vincent behaves.) I guess it makes sense: They have some talent; maybe it was bum luck that got them removed. And they got booted off anyway, along with the pageant queen Kayne, much to my dismay.

I am now Project Runway‘s bitch. Yeah, daddy. Do it.


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the untallied hours

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