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Daniel V kept making me nervous those last few episodes of PR. I mean, c'mon – those goo goo eyes with Tim? "I don't know nuthin' about shopping for vintage skinny jackets."
And did you see how Michael Kors could barely take his hands out of his pockets when Daniel was standing up there on the runway, all slim and boyish and bonsai-Adrian Brody-ish, playing peek-a-boo with his bangs? Well, okay – I made that last part up. Still, it was pretty obvious to me that Daniel workin' his booty not his God-given talents those two last episodes of the show and that's why he had to lose! It had nothing to do with Brokeback Mountain, honest!
Plus I hated his collection. Well. Except for the white cashmere coat and that white pleated skirt.
I didn't much like Chloe or Santino's collections either. Those shiny iridescent silk things gave me a headache – although, it turns out, that is her signature. And Santino's did fit funny. Tits – they look great naked but when a woman's dressed, you gotta showcase 'em, integrate them into the darts or they look like teats.
Chloe's backstory was the most compelling. I mean, she's an honest to God boat person, she is the personification of the fortune in the cookie – "Hard work and perspicacity bring success;" she is the American Dream come to life. Plus being an Asian immigrant and living so close to the Mexican border will give her a managerial edge dealing with sweatshops throughout Hong Kong and Central America. I am entirely satisfied with the outcome of Project Runway, Season 2.
What was lacking this year, though, was something that came through last year – how much quiet, solitary, hard work goes into creating a garment. How completely unglamorous the process is. You sit there alone for hours ruining your eyesight, pins in your mouth, sewing seams on that most humble and utilitarian of household appliances, the sewing machine. This year, the contestants were all minor celebrities going into the show. Last year, that wasn't true so you got a better sense of the Rumpelstilskin-like quality of this particular creative process.
Don't you sometimes wish you could go back in time and be a fly on the wall watching Michelangelo carve Moses? I do.
In other news, I'm getting sicker and sicker. There seems to be an enormous amount of fluid in my lungs. I cough until my ribs hurt. On the phone with Lucius last night – our last reality TV triste! – he kept threatening to call an ambulance. "You don't sound well, Patrizia." I don't feel well either. I'm having thoracentesis fantasies – fourteen gage needles boring straight into my chest, liters and liters of fluid gushing out. The fantasy makes me feel oddly passive. I remember Jim Henson, the Muppet Guy; how suddenly he dropped dead. Not such a bad way to go.
If I don't show any signs of improvement today, I'll go to the doctor tomorrow.
And did you see how Michael Kors could barely take his hands out of his pockets when Daniel was standing up there on the runway, all slim and boyish and bonsai-Adrian Brody-ish, playing peek-a-boo with his bangs? Well, okay – I made that last part up. Still, it was pretty obvious to me that Daniel workin' his booty not his God-given talents those two last episodes of the show and that's why he had to lose! It had nothing to do with Brokeback Mountain, honest!
Plus I hated his collection. Well. Except for the white cashmere coat and that white pleated skirt.
I didn't much like Chloe or Santino's collections either. Those shiny iridescent silk things gave me a headache – although, it turns out, that is her signature. And Santino's did fit funny. Tits – they look great naked but when a woman's dressed, you gotta showcase 'em, integrate them into the darts or they look like teats.
Chloe's backstory was the most compelling. I mean, she's an honest to God boat person, she is the personification of the fortune in the cookie – "Hard work and perspicacity bring success;" she is the American Dream come to life. Plus being an Asian immigrant and living so close to the Mexican border will give her a managerial edge dealing with sweatshops throughout Hong Kong and Central America. I am entirely satisfied with the outcome of Project Runway, Season 2.
What was lacking this year, though, was something that came through last year – how much quiet, solitary, hard work goes into creating a garment. How completely unglamorous the process is. You sit there alone for hours ruining your eyesight, pins in your mouth, sewing seams on that most humble and utilitarian of household appliances, the sewing machine. This year, the contestants were all minor celebrities going into the show. Last year, that wasn't true so you got a better sense of the Rumpelstilskin-like quality of this particular creative process.
Don't you sometimes wish you could go back in time and be a fly on the wall watching Michelangelo carve Moses? I do.
In other news, I'm getting sicker and sicker. There seems to be an enormous amount of fluid in my lungs. I cough until my ribs hurt. On the phone with Lucius last night – our last reality TV triste! – he kept threatening to call an ambulance. "You don't sound well, Patrizia." I don't feel well either. I'm having thoracentesis fantasies – fourteen gage needles boring straight into my chest, liters and liters of fluid gushing out. The fantasy makes me feel oddly passive. I remember Jim Henson, the Muppet Guy; how suddenly he dropped dead. Not such a bad way to go.
If I don't show any signs of improvement today, I'll go to the doctor tomorrow.
