True Story!

There's a story that I'm pretty sure I have to share with the world. But there's a problem: I'm a webcomic geek. Hardcore. Every day I check two email accounts, one personal journal, one or two social network sites, three or four blogs, and eight to ten webcomics. I could try to defend my habit, but I'd just be securing my spot on the Geek Hierarchy: "It's not, like, the funny papers or superhero comics. Webcomics are, like, art SLASH comedy."
I run a blog and not a webcomic for lack of artistic talent and patience. I could always go the Ryan North route, but that would be ripping off Ryan North. I write well, but some stories I just feel would be best conveyed in pictures. Such as this story, that I am pretty sure I need to tell you. It will be slightly amusing to read, but it would be much more affecting to see. I would make a half-assed series of illustrations, but my scanner is permanently busted. Thus, I present to you, the first of possibly many True Stories, as accompanied with beautiful MSPaint illustrations.


I couldn't have been working in my restaurant more than three weeks when this happened. I had a few tables, all served and happily eating, so I was hanging out by the cash register when a voice from the take-out area beckoned to me. I turned around and see a very, very short man with a shining bald head, a curly red beard, great round glasses and business attire. If hobbits hired accountants, this would be their man. Now, I'm not saying he's a loser because he was short and bald and sported a curly beard. There are definitely very awesome, short, stout, bald, bearded people. I just needed you to create a mental picture to combine with his further inward creepiness, thus you get the full idea of the great weirdness of this encounter. This man said to me:



He was referring to the sign between the cash register and the take-out window that reads "WE DO NOT ACCEPT CHECKS!" Not completely understanding why we didn't accept checks, but obviously knowing there was a reason, I just shrugged. Then, he asked if he could hang up some flyers. He was, he informed me, a DJ. Yes, this hobbit-man made a living playing music at parties. I know a DJ. I think old guys who own a bunch of speakers and switch CDS for two hours should be called something else. Like "expensive fleshy jukeboxes".
Anyway, he hands me some of his flyers, which are a bit hideous because he used tiled dollar bills in the background. He made sure he pointed them out to me. He sure was proud of those flyers. "Only two-hundred dollars!" He insisted. "That's very cheap!" I nodded in vauge agreement, but I was distracted. In the corner of his flyer, there was a stamp that had nothing to do with disk jockeying.



No matter what you opinion about abortion is, if I know it within ten seconds of meeting you, you are probably an asshole. I told this story to the boy and he cried, "Why didn't you call him out on being ridiculously forward?" Well, I couldn't really call him out on that or, you know, not having a vagina in front of my other customers. Being paid below minimum wage and making half your salary on based on a stranger's opinion of you has its down side. Oh well. Maybe he was actually just a fan of WHAM?
He gave me his card, which was also graced with the Seal of Making Me Uncomfortable. Seriously, how much time did he have on his hands to stamp all of these flyers and cards? Was that part of his pitch? "I shouldn't just be a cheap middle-aged DJ. I should be a cheap middle-aged DJ that preaches pro-life. I'll have to keep the customers off me with a picket sign!"
He shook my hand. He stopped, and he smiled at me. Not in a friendly way. You know what I'm saying. He said, exactly:



He pointed to his ring to prove it, thanked me, and left. Even after he gave me the old creepy eyes, I didn't have the heart to throw out this odd little man's flyers, so I gave them to the boss's son.
He threw them out for me.
True story.

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Yes, dad, she is.

Whereas my mom goes dancing every week, offers to lend me her books on dirty talk and openly prefers men on motorcycles, my father is roughly a New England version of Hank Hill who likes skiing instead of hunting and appraises houses instead of selling propane, but still has that small-town good-dad sensibility to him. Case in point: tongiht I was invited to join him and his ladyfriend (definitely a Peggy Hill, but less feminist- FYI, I adore Kathy Najimy) at a historical society presentation to watch an hour-long slideshow about, I kid you not, the history of main street. I'm open-minded and everything, but I have to draw the line somewhere.

Anyway, I being my mother's daughter, I enjoy testing his limits occasionally. He's not a racist homophobe in the slightest, but he does refer to his ladyfriend as "domesticated". In his company, I've enjoyed explicit CDs (the less offensive eliciting "what-is-this-junk"s, Blink-182's "Family Reunion" met only with uncomfortable silence from the both of us), Harold and Kumar Go To White Castle (my brother informed me that he was pulled aside and asked, "how could you let your sister watch that trash?" to which my brother proudly replied, "dad, shut the fuck up"), Project Runway ("Keep it on, I want to see that gay guy cry", in reference to Austin), and To Wong Foo, Thanks For Everything, Julie Newmar. Though, that last one is actually intended to be Staight Man's Intro to Crossdressing.

Tonight, before pancakes for dinner, I sat down and flipped channels, eventually landing on my girl Alexis Arquette. I decided to watch for a while and gauge the reaction.
"That woman has a deep voice." Dad points out. "Is it a female impersonator?"
"Um, well, that's Alexis Arquette. She's transexual. David Arquette's sister?"
"Oh. That name sounds familiar, David Arquette."
"Yeah, he's married to Courtney Cox. He was in Scream."
"I don't know. Hmm. So, he was his brother, and now he's his sister?"
"Yep."
"Oh." A pause, he raises his eyebrows. I'm expecting either the familiar sound of uncomfortable silence, or a mumbled weird! Instead:
"She's a pretty good-looking woman, huh?"

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In which I rediscover that bald is beautiful and sex toys are not a sin.

Remember when I said there might be movie reviews in this space occasionally? I probably lied, Unless of course, I happen to see an absolutely mind-blowing movie that I can summarize and praise without spoiling its surprises or over-hyping it to the point that it's a dissapointment were any of you to actually see it, and I also happen to be three feet away from a computer with an internet connection when the credits finish rolling.
I'm just not a movie person, or rather, a movie theater person. The other day, my brother told me he wanted to see "Inside Man", like, a lot. Resisting an eye roll, I asked an honest question: what is that movie about? There's like a bank robbery or something, and that guy (Me: "Denzel Washington?" Brother: "Yeah, I heard he's a pretty good actor." Mom: "Yeah, he is. Do you know the movie Philadelphia?" Brother: "No.") is a hostage negotiator, but there's (I quote) more depth to it than that. I then correctly inferred that he drew this conclusion from Denzel screaming "This ain't no bank robbery!" in the last four seconds of every commercial. It's a clever trick, really, but overused. They don't tell you what the movie's about, but they promise a twist, and you fork over upwards of nine dollars to find out what it is. Call me cheap, but I'm spending my ten dollars on something I actually know I'll like, say, a pizza, or a vibrator.

Totally unrelated note: I had a revelation about sex toys and television the other day while I was meditating. Yes, I gave up meat for Lent, and now I'm trying for yoga and meditation every night. I would undergo full hippification and stop shaving my legs for Lent, except I already did that around November. It's winter, people, and I work in long-legged uniform. Who's going to care? Anyway, my epiphany. I set up my yoga mat (yes, I own one) in the middle of my living room, and was at one point facing the family television in the lotus position. My family went without cable for a year or two, and now that we have it back, it fells dirty. Sure, I watch, but I always feel bad. I realized in a calm, clear moment that watching television was an equal sin to an affection for vibrating silicone- it was unproductive, perhaps even a waste of time, but it did no harm to the person watching/coming, and most importantly did no harm to others. There are better things to be doing, sure, but unwinding by watching fashion designers rush towards a deadline is not a wrong, nor is twisting one's toes in the privacy of one's own bedroom. Of course, the most revelatory bit of this was not the fact that vibrators were probably ok by the higher power. It was the fact that I shouldn't be getting angry with myself or others for watching TV, lest I be a hypocrite. If I demand to be allowed to relax by pleasuring myself, it's only right that I let others sit back and worry about the CSI unit's problems instead of their own for a few hours without complaining. Treat others as yourself, the golden rule, and all that nice hippie stuff.
Of course, if sex toys are ever outlawed in my state (as they are in Mississipi), I'm calling out cable TV as equally masturbatory and campaigning for it to be outlawed, too. I can legitimately tell everyone that I was told so in a vision. I wonder how long dildos would stay illegal if half of the population's glowing fetish went down with them.

Right, so, anyway. My original point was that I don't go to movie theaters more than once a year, and that's if I'm feeling adventurous. However, I might have to fork over nine dollars pretty soon. Why? Because the boy is away at school for a record eight weeks, and V for Vendetta is in a theater near me. It's not that I'm bored without him, and interested in seeing a film to satisfy my casual interest in graphic novels. It's that I'm longing for someone to oggle at, Natalie Portman is a total hottie, and I want to see her get all bald and angry.



I saw this picture in a magazine at least six months ago, and my tingling loins told me that no matter what this movie was about, I was going to see it. I later learned that I had heard of the story, and that Natalie was actually playing a lesbian. That should be a plus for my lust, but I was actually a little disappointed that lesbians in action movies keep getting short haircuts in what seems to be a cheap method of getting a point across. Hey look, they're not a damsel in distress- they're butch!
(edit: a reader pointed out that Natalie herself is not playing a lesbian, just that lesbians and gays are part of the plot. Well, someone lied to me. Thus, my point is invalid, but my disappointment relieved.)
I probably won't work out the logistics to actually see this movie, but I swear I'll be renting it the day or so after it comes out. Until then, I have a perfectly beautiful woman to oggle at on DVD.



Oh, Clea Duvall, you get me every time.
That review for But I'm A Cheerleader? It's still in the works, I just always get distracted somehow while I'm watching. I usually end up in the privacy of my own bedroom.

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Gay, gay, gay, gay, gay.

Is this a gay blog? I didn't really intend on that to happen. It just sort of did. Ok, so it was created to blab about Project Runway, so the shift to caring for the gay community isn't out of left field or anything. Well, among the things that inspire me, feminist and queer politics are high on the list. You know, idealistic (soon-to-be) college student that I am.

Anyway, if you ever visit those blogs to your right, you'll know that two of them recently reported on The 16th Annual Barring of Irish GLBT Groups from Marching in the NYC St. Patrick's Day Parade. Of course, being bisexual and Irish, this makes me quite sad, but I also couldn't get a funny thought out of my head. Both funny-odd and funny-haha. I thought someone would point it out at some point, but it seems I'll grab the opportunity.
When you search "St. Patrick's Day" on the internet, what do you think you find? Leprechauns, copious amounts of leprechauns. And, who is anyone kidding? Leprechauns are gay. They remind me of bears, but shorter and with a preference for green. They always seem giddy, and beyond physical stereotypes, they hang out around rainbows. Just look at this little guy. What a cutie.

Also, it's time for disclosure. I watched the premiere of The Surreal Life tonight.
It's not like I planned it or anything- VH1's weird reality TV just sort of sucks you in while you're changing stations. I stopped for Alexis Arquette. I wanted to see how her role would unfold. I didn't catch the beginning, so I didn't see any cheesey coming-out scene or shocked reactions, if there were any. Thus far, it seems to me they're treating Alexis like a woman. While she's got a little bit of a big-assertive-queen vibe, she's showing other sides. In the previews, it looks like she gets to be genuinely sexy. It's promising- maybe I'll take note on it again.
Oh, and I watched part of the second episode of Top Chef, because they went to a sex shop, and I caught sight of RuPaul in a preview. I think they're trying to trick me into watching. RuPaul! I love RuPaul.
It's like I said. My blog is getting exponentially gayer.

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Something Corny Like "My Mom Is MY Inspiration!"

No, I think a better title is "My Mom Could Kick Your Ass, But She Wouldn't Cause She's Chill Like That".

I won't quote Santino on this matter again, out of the fear of starting some kind of Santino-quoting trend. I'm pretty glad it seems people have stopped quoting Dave Chapelle and Napoleon Dynamite (Jen had to sit through two boys reading the entirty of the script in a study hall last year), I don't want six months of "It looks like a couch coming at you!" So, I'll just say, my mom is pretty awesome. She's amazing. Corned out yet?

I bring this up because I thought about this fact (that my mom is awesome) often last night. She took Jen and I down to a lovely little store called Miko Exoticwear last night- no pictures, sorry. Feel free to check out their website. Though, it's tasteful- not much as far as racey pictures to be found there, either, unless you head to the store section. Once again, kids- wait until you're a legal adult to explore adult stores and websites. It'll be a much better surprise.
Now, when I say "my mom took me to a hippie sex toy store", I don't mean she dropped us off. I mean she's the one that told me about this lovely place, she's been promising to take me for a while, she drove us there, shopped with us and discussed items with us. Not, you know, in excrutiating detail- that was the sales lady's job. One of the several, um, alternative-looking women who worked there was seriously enthusiastic about telling us which ones she really loved and how things worked. I call them "alternative" instead of hippies or punks because, hey, they might hate hippies, and they might hate punks. Then, they might hate the term "alternative"- let's say they were beautiful vixens with impeccable unique style.

Anyway, my mom, right, awesome. I've always considered writing a book semi-based on her life. Let me go straight to the major points on why my mom is, sigh, the shit. I hope she doesn't mind my sharing. I'm not even getting into some of the most awe-inspiring bits, this is just the stuff to put on the back cover.
-On the first day of first grade, she walked in wearing an eye patch. Also, due to her severe excema, her hands were wrapped in thick bandages.
-When she was a child, she woke up one morning and found her legs paralyzed. No one knew what was wrong. Her mother took her to church every day, and she was soon completely well.
-She once told me she was (in the woods at summer camp, I believe) feeling self-loathing due to her aforementioned excema. She told me that at that moments she wished she had no arms. Minutes later, a future friend of hers climbed down from a nearby tree. He had no arms.
-She went to bartending school (we have the textbooks to prove this one), and during her bartending career physically forced men out of her drinking establishment. Judging from pictures of her at the time, she was probably around 5'5" and probably weighed less than 130lbs.
-She partied with The Kinks. Hello.
-As I found out last night, a musician friend wrote this song about her (or, at least, he once claimed to). Doesn't she just sound like she could kick your ass? But she won't, because she's chill like that.
-Lately, she's been repeatedly threatening to commit crimes of arson against specific fast food restaurants moving into town.
-Eddie Izzard definitely checked her out at a DVD signing.

Ok, so that last bit isn't as monumental, but it was one of those moments in which I realized that my mom is cool. There's so much more to talk about, trust me. I just hope that's convincing enough. It sure impressed the heck out of me.

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Happy 3.14159265 Day

Yes, it is the one and only recently invented holiday for nerds. Well, besides talk-like-a-pirate day.

If regular old pi and pie don't fit your fancy, or if you've already stuffed your brain and/or face full of them, don't forget to add these pi(e)s to your fetivities:
Pi,
American Pie,
Better American Pie,
Pie Pie Pie,
And for the daring, Man Pie.

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Jesus Loves You, And Wants You to Get a Pap Smear

Apparently some bots have been impatient about my posting the pictures from the sex-ed conference- I apologize to anyone who might've witnessed the flooding of porn links. On to a more intelligent conversation about sex.



This is my third church-camp sex-ed conference, but my first time acting as a counselor at one. I was sneaky enough to guarantee a spot at this one- what can I say? Sex ed has been a hobby of mine for a while. I pride myself on knowing the ins and outs body, and there's always more to learn. A plug for one of my favorite sites: Scarleteen. Reader-friendly and oh-so-aesthetically pleasing.



The couple that runs the weekend are amazing, awesome, and several other positive adjectives. The wife is an Episcopal preist and the husband is a science teacher. They are, literally, a marriage of science and religion. How beautiful. They're the type of parents that disallow Barbies, repeating the "real women don't look like Barbie" mantra. (By the way, I had one of their kids in my cabin over the summer- she's the coolest nine year old I ever met.) They're the kind of awesome hippies that support free expression and Christian love over their own political agenda. Only one kid spoke up against gay marriage, and after the session they thanked him for speaking his mind.


That fuzzy fellow is a giant microbe of gonorrhea. The red book is The Vagina Monologues, which I borrowed and read with my campers. It was pretty beautiful.


Listen, these beads are AMAZING. My friends and I wished we could have an impromptu arts & craft project and make our own. You put a ring on the red bead on the first day of your period. The brown beads tell you what days you're less likely to get pregnant, and the white beads are when you're very likely to get pregnant. Sure, I'm already on birth control, but damn, additional birth control through jewelry- I want one.


Yes, this is a blown-up condom. There were several examples of how far small condoms can be stretched. The most memorable, of course, was when the male conference leader, with less effort than you'd imagine, slipped it on like a glove and pulled the thing all the way up his forearm. Soon after, this silliness happened. He's the best.

Among other things, we watched a documentary about breasts, which acted to demystify boobies for the boys and inspire the girls to feel comfortable and even empowered in their skin. We didn't get all the way through it, but it was more interesting than you'd probably imagine. We also watched the movie Saved to chill out after a long day of learning, including the most horrifying slideshow I've ever witnessed. It was an extensive collection of photos of the effects of STDs. The very first one was a green penis. They know how to start a show, eh? The most distressing had to be the one of a baby born from mothers with gonorrhea. We all twisted our heads, wondering where this bloody, dirty sore was, until it was explained to be an eye.

On that note, I'll plug that fantastic site again: Scarleteen. You should know all about it well before you do it.

Sadly, this was the last sex-ed conference I can attend, unless I'm a chaperone or even a leader many moons from now. It was great to be the older-wiser type this time around. Just about everyone fell upon a certain plastic whatsit while overlooking the table of goodies, and time and time again, I explained that it was the tool used during a pap smear. I displayed how it functioned, talked about my own expiriences and assured them the slight discomfort was ignorable, and definitely worth enduring considering the importance of the tests. I was so, so happy about to impart my limited knowledge to those young'uns. I truly care about those girls.
Ah, also, my darling friend Emma and I created this beautiful question box.

It's being saved for the next sex-ed conference, so I'll always be a small part of the tradition.

I'm so proud.


Finally, I thought I'd get photographic evidence that this all went down at religious establishment. So, here you have it, Jesus Christ overlooking our sex education.


One last time now, check it out, Scarleteen.

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Annual Maple Syrup Entry

No, not the sex-ed entry. It's coming, forgive. I was too busy going to a party this weekend. What kind of party do nerds that live in the woods go to, you ask? This being a blog dedicated to a reality fashion TV show, I wonder if you have doubts about my self-described hippie tendencies. Let this be but one piece of proof that I and my loved ones are at peace with mother earth, father sky, brother tree and sister beaver.
One of my best friends, let's call him Sam, because that's his name, holds an Annual Sugaring Party. What does a sugaring party entail, you may ask?

Well, first of all, gotta have a sweet band:

In case you can't see/don't know, those gentlemen are playing a fiddle and a bagpipes. Alright, well, that was actually really cool.

Of course, the reason for the season so to speak was good, wholesome syrup-boiling. Samuel and his family have enough maple trees on their property to collect buckets full of sap and boil it into delicious syrup.

Yummy!

We didn't get to try any syrup yet, as there are a few more steps before it's edible. But, I did eat a spoonful of tree sap out of a plastic trash can. Everyone said it tasted like water with a bit of sugar, and I'm inclined to agree, except attatched to the sugar-water taste was the weird feeling of eating something straight out of a tree.

Hopefully I'll be getting a bottle of the real stuff in a few weeks. Much tastier than sap, and more comfortable than what I've turned to, now that last year's stash ran out:


I'm glad I never had this stuff when I was a kid. I was the type to get freaked out by my own bizarre unconfirmed theories. For example, I was long haunted by my own idea that if I put down a drink and walked into another room, witches would poof into my house and try to put potions into it. So, drinking a glass woman's thick, sweet innards? Happy to have dodged that future therapy. All I could think about while I consumed my Eggo was that I was also consuming Mrs. Butterworth's brain matter. But not her mouth.


If she was animate, she'd still be screaming.

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Pay No Attention to the Glitterbat!

(Ok, first of all, everyone of proper age needs to go over to Nerve's Sex Advice from Project Runway Stars. If you're into excessive curse words [I am], Jay is absolutely hilarious.
Oh, and do you recall my early excitement that Kara nudged my gaydar? Well, it turned out she was just a hippie, however, hope restored: Zulema is gay and married. A lesbian can be a great designer! She'll just be portrayed as a sexless bitch.)

So, as you might've heard, my dreams came true. In the literal sense, not the Kara-actually-winning sense. I wish someone had bet on my precognition! And now I'm publicly defending her collection- freaking eerie, people!

Listen, putting everything aside but the clothes walking down the Fashion Week runway, here's why I'm fine with Chloe winning:





I actually love these. Chloe had the only pieces in any of the three collections that prompted vocal response. These three evoked oohs, aahs, and I-like-that-ones from my mother and I (we had a cookie-and-finale party, much like Ms. Rice, my mom is the shit).
Of course, a few of them incited groans and what-is-THATs:




But I guess that's the risk factor that Tim Gunn piddles his panties about. Oh well. Even the weirdest looking shit looked really well-made. That's the next, and perhaps the most important point in rationalizing why Chloe won. She knows what she's doing.
Daniel's designs, conversely, spoke to his inexpirience.



Didn't he see the other Daniel's bust problem in, you know, the very first week? It's like there's a Daniel Bust Syndrome going around, and several of Dan V's dresses caught it. Some of his stuff was good, some of his stuff was ok, but it didn't speak to expertise as Chloe's did. Which isn't really that bad- he's young, he can learn. But, he might seek out a few years real-world expirience before being catapulted to super-fame. Though, he's already 80% there. 80%, get it? Like how much he likes boys? I suck.
Now, Santino. In the final hours, I was almost rooting for Santino, because I realized I didn't have any problem with any piece in his collection. Of course, that's different than being thrilled by it, but a few were admirable:



(Side note: I think it's great that my favorite piece of his collection, just from internet pictures, was the one that Andrae made. Also, the piece in Dan's collection that the judges fawned over? The one Nick made. Does that say anything to anyone?)
So why didn't Santino's non-offensive collection get any praise? Because the judges are fickle, first of all. While he was going for subtle, they saw it as stifled. And, um, they apparently missed this thing:



Safe? Excuse me? Did the judges have their eyes closed when the Glitterbat walked by?
Anyway, like Tim Gunn's blog points out (in the less gentle words of "Project Freakshow"), if Santino won, we'd have a season three full of vulgar nutcases who would slap neon f-bombs on a dress and hope to make it all the way on shock value. Besides, super-flamboyant small town boy won last year. It's politics. This year, it went to professional and poised woman of color (last year's runner up, if you recall).
No, in seriousness now, go Chloe. She's stayed humble all the way through the competition, unlike Santino and Daniel. Sure, she never blew us away totally, but that's asking for a lot. Everything she's done has been of high quality, she's a nice person, and I'm happy for her.

Also, I'm so happy for Grace.

Sure, she's a monstrously tall twig of a woman, but you can't help but love that face. Grace has a unique flare, and I'm have glad that Chloe wins just because that means, Grace wins!

End dissapointingly agreeable entry. See you next season, Project Runway.
News from sex-ed church camp up this weekend.

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And the winner is...

KARA!

Duh! Her collection was the most exciting.



...Oh, fantasies. I won't ruin it for any west-coasters yet. But, I'll admit it, after seeing the details of the designs and how they looked on the girls, I'm more pleased with the outcome than I thought I'd be.

How hilarious is it that in the first ten seconds, Top Chef is an exact clone of Project Runway? Except, with food, so you can't pass your own judgements and have to practice blind faith in the judges. Sorry, Bravo, I ain't watchin'.

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An Update of Only Slight Relevence

I got a comment from a Project Runway-loving Ithacan today- which reminded me, I never did post any pictures of, you know, Ithaca itself.
For the curious, the beautiful town of Ithaca looks like this at night:

Taken from the boy's room in one of the tower dorms at Ithaca College. The picture does no justice, the view is magnificent. A nice detail that I was told but never bothered to ask for a source about: a city planner made part of the town look like a swan for his wife. It's just like Highlights for Kids. Can you spot it? The neck's a little to the left of the center.

I also remembered a detail of the trip I overlooked: I finally saw Harry Potter and The Goblet of Fire. Listen. I'm a nerd. I enjoy Harry Potter. I only saw the third movie, because I had matured past my fuck-Harry-Potter-for-getting-enormously-popular-and-all-commercial phase, and it didn't look as bad as the first two. The atmosphere seemed more fitting, but I still had the average nerdy book-was-better complaints, and thus avoided the fourth movie for a while. My friends all said it was great- didn't believe them. The boy's friends also said it was great- didn't beleive them. The boy's friends also said it was cheap, so I figured my dissapointment was worth roughly three dollars (and it actually ended up being free).
I'm sorry, fellow nerds. This movie was bad. Not the-book-was-better bad. This was a bad movie. Like, bad-bad. Laughabley bad. I seriously laughed at things I wasn't supposed to. For example, the Beauxbatons girls' hats were shaped like boobies.

I guess their entrance were supposed to be humorous? That's what someone told me, but I don't believe it. The girl's school enters in outfits seeming to be designed by Austin Scarlett. They wiggle their butts and sigh daintily and I'm pretty sure they giggled girlishly. They're from a girl's school. They have vaginas. We get it. Of course, the boy's school follows, grunting and waving their big sticks around. Later, Harry Potter is molested by a ghost, and eventually the film evokes an emotional response.
Emma Watson is a decent actress, in my opinion. My only problem with her is that she's become too glamourous to look properly nerdish. Boy'sFriends argued that she acts mainly with her eyebrows, and that Daniel Radcliffe is the good actor of the group. See, I actually believe Emma Watson, out of place hotness aside. Something about Daniel Radcliffe makes me not believe him. He says one of his lines, and I say, "Daniel, you're lying. You are not really Harry Potter, you are not really an orphan and you are not about to fight the Hungarian Horntail."
Who knows, maybe Rupert Grint is the good one? He's got playing an obnoxious twit of a best friend down pretty well, as far as I've seen. Wonder how he'd do if they gave his character some depth?

Moving on, I've been tremendously lazy about updating. I watched the Oscars, but I'm sure I'll find the Tonies more comment-worthy. I had a great camp at sex ed/church camp, I've just got to get the pictures up- I think I'll mostly let them speak for themselves. Oh yeah, that show that we like had its finale like tomorrow. I had a dream a few nights ago that Chloe won and I had to publicly defend her collection. Since then, I've been more unsure about the winner. I know my premonition skills aren't spectacular, so I'm keeping with the big winner not being Chloe. However, I'm shaky on my original Project Vosovic theory: judging from the previews of the, um, judging, I think Daniel will come under some heat. So is that big poopy head Santino going to actually take it? Eh, I won't be upset. He's hopefully had enough public blows to the ego to humble him down. Really, like I said, I don't have a personal investment anymore- I just want to know which outfits the professionals think were the least dissapointing.

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I Done Been Tricked!

Maybe it's because I had such low expectations for this episode, but I actually enjoyed it. Of course, in a sort of sentimental-reality-TV, glitzy, like-eating-corn-puffs kind of way.
Seriously. This episode was not about designing, it was about designers. They pulled out every silly reality TV trick avaliable, just short of having Andrae propose to Tim Gunn.

Reality TV trick the first: Getting to Know You
The softer side of the caricatures created. The producers reveal one of the stars you thought you had figured out really have a tragic history, and, you know, multi-faceted personality. The Real World pretty much lived (lives? I seriously have no idea if it's still airing) on this tactic.

Example:
We're used to the cocky, driven, rebel Santino.
Much like this:

This week, we find out Santino is, in blunt terms, poor. Furthermore, he tells his critics that he's more insecure than he lets on.
Also, he's cuddly.

Man, that little girl was cute. I'm a sucker for cute kids. I would watch Project Santino if he hung out with that family some more.
I know it's designed to reach down our throat and tug our heart strings at only the appropriate moments (when it got back to the competition, they switched right back to "hey guys look at Santino's dismissive expressions! don't you love to hate him?" mode), it really made me regret calling him "Jesus/Child Molester". I also heard him mention he's "read, like, every stupid blog", and this is certainly one of those many stupid blogs. I look back at stuff I write and feel low sometimes. Hey, maybe this exactly is how Santino feels?
By the way, "Vampire Jesus" still stands. Totally. Like I said, the man is not ugly- he just looks like Jesus, if Jesus was a stylish vampire, and there ain't anything wrong with that.

Santino wasn't the only one given the tragic-history treatment. As Santino was destitute, Daniel Vosovic was a gay man in a small town, and Chloe's big family emigrated from Vietnam (edit: whoops! Chloe's family is Vietnamese, but lived, as a commenter pointer out, in Laos) when she was a child.
They didn't go over the top with this one: nobody broke down and cried on Tim Gunn's shoulder. The tears came later.

Reality TV trick the second: The Biggest of Big Twists!
Here's where the tears came. You've been waiting all damn season to see their faces when they find out the rich guy is actually broke, the entire show has been a farse or, I don't know, they have to eat each other or something. The biggest of Project Runway's increasingly ridiculous twists? The designers have to design an outfit in a short period of time!
Oh, except your entire career probably depends on this one and you have a shitload of other work to finish and WHAT A RIDICULOUS THING TO DO. Of course, it's biggest function is to lead into the third trick, the one that dropped my guard and made me putty in the producer's hands.

Reality TV trick the third: They're Baaaaack!
I should've known- they already had Daniel Franco magically reappear, not to mention milking the fan favorites from last season. Yet, when they said the words "extra set of hands", I inched forward, yearning for Kara to return. When Andrae walked in the door, my heart fluttered. When the lovely Diana Eng smiled from my screen again, my blind faith in Project Runway returned.
Of course, it was all a clever ruse. Is it any surprise that Nick, Andrae and Diana are to be featured in the finale episodes, considering they all have a pretty big, loyal fan base? Not that I'm complaining about having the lovelies back. It's fantastic, even if it is a trick to make me more invested in the finale. It's a trick that worked.
It's like we're rooting for teams for the first half of next week's show.

Santino and Andrae: Team Sexual Tension

(No, I am not shipping Andrae/Santino, nerds. I'm being silly and taking an Andrae quote out of context, with hilarious/sexy results.)

Daniel V and Nick: Team Just Plain Sexual

(Bravo had no pictures of them together. They're falling behind on the Danservice. Maybe they'll ask the pair to make out when they're done designing. By the way, for whatever reason, the half of John Wade's head in the background is kind of freaky. Also, in the "things I regret writing" category, I would not actually do John Wade. Just an initial reaction. If you don't skip over the entries about my personal life, you'd see I prefer my boy with meat on his bones.)

Chloe and Diana: Team Sweatshop

(Ok, I am very aware that that's probably the most offensive joke I've ever made. I hesitated to write. It'll probably end up in the regret pile, but I only thought of it because Chloe Dao once referred to herself as a one-woman Asian sweatshop.)

I'm almost conflicted- I like Santino's aesthetic more than Chloe's, but do I treasure Diana more than Andrae? Which psuedo-team do I hope will do something remotely worthwhile? Luckily, it will only matter for fifteen minutes, and then I will be sucked in for rest of the episode, because I done been tricked.


Oh, and of course, when all else fails, Product Placement. Project Runway knows this one intimately. Why are the designers winning a car again? Oh right. Saturn, Saturn, Saturn. Once again, I don't have a picture of it, but I don't believe that Tim Gunn actually drove his suave looking, brand new, bright red Saturn from New York to Los Angeles.

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