Sunday, December 11, 2011

Where ARE We??

Because my family is a modern-day, cursing version of the Cleavers, we decided to forego our annual Shakespeare Festival Christmas Spectacular (because none of us really wanted to see a baby Truman Capote make fruit cakes or something with an old lady), and instead headed to Callaway Gardens for a whirlwind visit and a showing of Fantasy in Lights.

And so the trip to Pine Mountain, GA commences. Our cabin-hotel hybrid: delightful. Family time: Perfection. Giant batch of cookies courtesy of Habitat for Humanity Cookie Sale: delicious. We’re all stuffed with sugar and board the shuttle to see some Christmas lights.

We tend to be perpetually early as a family (This rule doesn’t apply to me as an individual, but when you’re in the Bassett Crew, you show up, at minimum, 30 minutes prior to the start of any event.), so we had a good 45 minutes to kill before our actual lights tour departed, which meant we got to take in the kill-some-time-and-give-us-your-money attractions that come along with the Fantasy in Lights tour. The funnel cakes stationed next to the goat cheese, wild mushroom and roasted red pepper pizzas…The inexplicable 20 minute wait for hot chocolate, and then there was the giant Christmas Village. There were adorable kids dancing with an evil-eyed gingerbread man, a grown-ass man who apparently requested a Priscilla Queen of the Desert inspired Rudolph at the face painting station, and my father mistaking a mentally challenged man declaring his excitement for seeing reindeer for my sister. “Was that you?” he asks. “Dad. That was the special guy behind us. What the hell?” Woops.

And then it’s time to line up for our tour. The only Christmas lights tour I’ve been on was at the Montgomery Zoo about six years ago—We bundled up and rode a cute little train all around the property, so that’s the mindset I was working with…Instead we were herded like cattle in preparation to board giant trucks. I leaned over my sister and asked, “Dude. Are they carting us to Auschwitz? Are we in Krakow? What the eff.” When the time came, we filed into our trucks and I awaited Schindler to hose us down at the first stop. Little did I know what the trip actually had in store…

As Ma said, there’s an asshole in every bunch. And ours was sitting directly behind us.

To give you an idea the guy sounded like:

Harlan Pepper

And looked like:

The mean D3: Mighty Ducks Prep School Coach. Right down to the mock turtleneck.

This guy. Woof. Apparently it's his family tradition to load up the wife, daughter and son in law and ruin everyone else's vacation. We knew we were in for trouble when we passed a fellow truck on their way out of the tour while we were on our way in and he hollered "MMEEEEEERRRRRYYYY CHHHHRIIIIIISTMAAAAAS!!!" with all the strength his hot air-filled lungs could muster. We had not been instructed to do this. He knew it would be asked of us later in the tour. He'd done this before. And the quoting of the pre-recorded tour can now begin. Our truck was being led by an imaginary horse named Snowflake. Douche bag neighs as if he's Snowflake. And we all appreciate it. Because we don't know what horses sound like. And in order to fully comprehend, we need to hear said neighing at 200 decibels.

What really got us was this guy's continuous stream of free association bullshit. "Look at them trees. Spooky trees. Spoo. Spaah. Spaghetti trees. Look at them there spaghetti trees. You see them spaghetti trees? Think you can eat those spaghetti trees? Bah wah ha ha huh yuck!!!" Or maybe the best part was how his mind seemed to be set on loop. Like he was a fuckin annoying, boisterous, Pentecostal preacher version of the forgetful, fishy, just-keep-swimming Dora. (While driving through the enchanted forest stretch of road) "Fireflies and butterflies. Look at them fiiiire-flies and buuuterflies. Butterflies and fireflies. Poin-set-ias. Pone-set-as. And there are them there fireflies and butterflies." Good Lord, make it stop. Put him down. Put me down. Do whatever we gotta do to shut this mother up or make me not care. He stomped along to "Jingle Bells;" he thought Swan Lake was a song. Then a book. Then a play. And that fella drowned. He can't wait to get him a fried Oreo. He's gone get crazy in Gatlinburg for New Years. Just you wait til he's all hopped on Mountain Dew. He's gonna come after you like a spider monkey. WHAT? There are grandparents trying to show the kiddies the toy soldiers, to practice counting the froggies. And you can't SHUT THE FUCK UP. We all hate you. You've ruined Christmas.

The tour finally comes to a close and we hop off as soon as our truck rolls to a stop so we can get just far away from the devil's earshot to talk about what an asshole he is.

Oh, the lights were pretty, too.

Our hunger only momentarily distracted us from our recent twatwaffle encounter; We sniffed around at the vendors, but the thought of paying $12 for a Polish dog didn't quite appeal to us. We decided to get out of the sea of dicks, pick up some takeout and eat at the cabin. Because we're not assholes. And we needed some time around non-assholes. After weeding through a gang of octogenarians, we hopped on the shuttle bus to head back to the rental property. But. We weren't quite done with rabble-rousers yet. We made a stop at a sister-property to drop of about half the shuttle, and guess what? Those seats were gonna be replenished with a rowdy, shitcanned group of miscreants. I'd say there was a gaggle of 40 waiting to get on. And only 20 seats open. They filed in one by one, each hoarding vodka cranberries. When capacity was reached, and the driver was closing the door, there was a sudden swell of drunken exclamation: NO!! THERE'S ROOM!! THERE'S A SEAT RIGHT HERE. HE CAN COME ON. THEY HAVE TO COME ON!!! WE'RE ON A WORK TRIP; WE ALL HAVE TO BE TOGETHER!!!" At that, our driver said, "Well, then you can get off then, because there's no more room. So sit down or shut it."

She's my hero.

We make it to home sweet parking lot and venture out yet again in search of food, basking in the glow and warmth of our superiority and non-fuckdudgery. Well, after a quick look around we found the historic restaurant district of Pine Mountain, GA.

Ah, yes. Nothing but class. We could've either had fried chicken next to the gas station or fried chicken next to a malt liquor store. We chose the former. As we pull into the parking lot, a man stumbles out and welcomes us with a massive purge. We are in for a treat. The 80 health rating is proudly displayed in a broken frame. A bucket of mashed potatoes sits atop a pile of styrofoam plates. Gravy-colored grease pours like lava out of an industrial faucet into a fryer. KFCs should not have open kitchens. As we await our bucket and its accoutrements, we watch a grandmother pat her husband's crotch and the purger refill stomach with Subway. I can't help but wonder how long it's actually going to stay put. In near unison, we all ask, where the fuck are we??

Finally we're home. Away from people, food in hand, happy to retreat to our Fortress of Solitude.

The next morning we have to get ready for our complimentary breakfast at the Country Store down the road (And you only have to wait for an hour for it. Awesome. Great deal. I was hoping I'd have an hour to check out your selection of "made in China" local wares and muscadine byproducts before I enjoy your bastardized Cracker Barrel breakfast.), but before we left I peak into mom and dad's room to find this:

Well shit. We are the Cleavers. Right down to the separate double beds for Ma and Pa. Who knew assholicness could be so volatile to a relationship?

Of course I kid. Kind of.

Next year, I say we stay home. Just to be on the safe side...

Monday, October 31, 2011

You are so dumb. You are really, really dumb.

Hide yo kids; hide yo wives because they givin' Project Runway titles to errbody up in here.

Do I really have to say anything else?

Ok I will because I can.

Let's face it; this wasn't the most *anything* season. Not the most talented, dramatic, scandalous, entertaining. Might've had the most sob stories. And the most hair product. And the most mouth-breathers (Oliviiiiier counts for, like, 8 all on his own), but those aren't "mosts" that you really want to brag about.

The Final Four was bullshit from the very beginning. Anya didn't deserve to be in it, but for some reason...Could it be her charm, good looks, crazy mohawk and sex tape? Perhaps...She made it. And the judges knew how much help she would need to actually win this thing like they intended so instead of enforcing the traditional "Make one more look for your collection--GO!" challenge, they all get $500 and free range to do whatever the fuck they want. Giving Anya ample time to make some flowing, plunging, deep V caftans. Were some of them pretty? Sure. Could they all have been stitched together with pure gumption and hot glue? Yah. (By the way, please tell me everybody else got as big a giggle from her makeup consultation as I did. "The judges told me they look old. So I want them to look...younger." Brilliant adjustments, Anya. Just brilliant.)

Care for a closer look? The fabulous unborn fawns, Tom and Lorenzo, posted all of the decoy collections when they were released a few months ago (and I realized just how sad the finale show would be, and thus lost enthusiasm. Woops.) so let's take a look. And yeah...I link because I laze. But we're all cool with that, right?

Anya's Collection (Sidenote, aren't those polyester wigs of AR just so so sad?)

Viktor's Collection (Sadly, looking back it's pretty obvious Laura should have been in the finale. Despite her Aqua-worthy Barbie Girl ways...Hers had a lot of punch, man.)

Josh and Kimberly's Collections

It's crazy obvious that Anya's Breezy McBreeze collection has about 1/36 of the work put into it. There are more stitches in Josh's green lace up bike shorts than her entire collection.

Honestly, this was Viktor's for the taking, but he lost it in the endgame. Too much editing. Too much rethinking. Way too much sheer and high cut panties. If he'd stuck with his original prints, he'd be on his way to a (come on probably way) less successful Christian Siriano route. (I'm sorry but "Oh my Lord of the Rings" doesn't hold a candle to "Fierce." in terms of catchphrases. M'bad, V.)

All in all, I didn't see a winning collection. I did like pieces of each if that counts for anything. (Which of course it doesn't.)





So there it is: The winning 10 look collection of this season's Project Runway. The designer: Anvikoshuberly. Awesome.

Final thoughts: Do I Gretchen-hate Anya? No. Should she have won? No. Should Viktor have pulled on his big boy shorts and stuck with his original vision. Hells yes. Should Project Runway have a nice, long think about who they are and what they want in the show? (Designers or sob stories and sex-tape girls?) Yes.

And that's that. Somebody please hire broke Joshie-Poo to design things out of plastic and neoprene. He'll scare the shit out of your manual labor and clean up those dirty mouths and loose threads, for HE WILL NOT HAVE either of those.

Until next season...

Friday, October 21, 2011

Wanna Fanta, Don't You Wanna Wanna Fanta.

The season that will be known for its mediocrity and hair gel is coming to a close. The four stitching mignons are wrapping things up for a long nine days to design a 12piece collection for fashion week. (Seriously. They only get five weeks? That's insane. Didn't they used to get three moths? That's why they all blow. Boooo.) Anywho, Joshua packs up his tank tops, Viktor presses his Bermudas, Anya gathers her curtains and wind socks that she pretends are real clothing along with her bushels of bangles and Kimberly...Well she dresses relatively normal, so she just takes her hoop earrings and peaces out. Onward, ho!

They can barely blink an eye before Timothy Gunn, the Pinstriped Piped Piper comes a knocking at their door with the intention of leading them out of the fashion slums and into the light of couture where the streets are lined with gold lame and even whispering the word "jegging" calls for immediate exile.

Kimberly of Maryland is up first. There's equal admiration of each other's hotness, motorboat, motorboat, let's check out your studio. Kim's gotten a lot of work done (in probably 72 hours) for her Hard Edge Brooklyn Girl Gone Good line. Notorious TFG likes that it looks like Kimberly. I think it's loud. But I don't hate it. Probably because I like Kim. She shares her sad story (there are many this season), Timmy has lunch with her family and friends and they have leaves in their water. Gunn out, Bitches.

Next up Lord Gunnderson glops on his zinc oxide, secures his Windsor knot and heads to Trinidad to visit Aaaaaanya. They hop on a boat, she shares her sad story. Her brothers tell Gunny that their sister has become more than a pretty face and a sex tape. She makes maxi dresses now. However, she has not made any for her collection. She hasn't made anything. Because she can't draw any "new shapes." Oh good lord. Shake a can of pennies at it and make it go away. Apparently she's spent all of her time snorkeling and staring at her computer wallpaper inspiration and forgot she had to make shit. Get to work, strange mohawk girl.

Next up, we're back to New York to see Viktor. Tim pretty much doesn't stop drooling from the time he stepped through the door to the meeting of the Opie Howard boyfriend. Viktor's pretty golden with his brother's death anniversary inspiration textile and crazy coveted pearled leather jacket. You can take it easy, bro.

And last but not least...Joshua. In Queens. How fitting.

They have lunch with his sister and relive his track and field days (the Dapper Dan has only made him more aerodynamic) and Zack Morris Time Out: Why aren't the designers taking more advantage of Tim's visits. They used to do fun shit. Daniel V made him help pick out a fashion week outfit. Jay wore a wig and showed him his gun. Laura Bennett's kid made him touch turtle poop. I miss those days. Time in. On to Joshua's collection thus far...

Oh I'm sorry, is this a runway show or a mid-90s soda commercial? There is so much Fanta going on, it's not even funny. Gunnderson is horrified by his frumpy fug vintage textile, and appalled by the plastic-cross-your-eyes fabric he hadn't-yet-but-very-excited-to use fabric in the corner. In a word, he's concerned. As. He. Should. Be. Joshua freaks and...Commercial break.

The long five weeks are up and the designers are back together again, getting all sly-eyed as each unveils their designs. (Joshua drools over Viktor's leather and pearls. Who'da thunk it?) They're to present three looks to the judges that represent their collection and the weeding out will commence. Go!


The first to be sent on his merry way to fashion week. All I can say is: Quoi?

This strange toga-catsuit hybrid was the first collection sent to fashion week. Buuhhh. There ya go. That's the caliber of this season.

Modesty tab, my ass...If I can still see side cuppage, there is no modesty. But at least with her neoprene cocktail dress she can scuba at a moment's notice. And if she can't scuba...What's all this been about? (Name that sitcom.)

Um...Club Girl plays racquetball? Jacket's all right. The go-cart safety belt is kinda tragic.

Viktor aka Who should have been called first.

I mean, seriously. Heidi made the model give her the jacket. She wants it. She didn't want to crawl in Josh's satin ass pants. This should justify Viktor having first pick at the free waters in the green room. Oh, and it's a really pretty dress.

Love this. It's actually pretty flawless. Let's just leave it at that.

Yeah, it could definitely do without the leather harness. Seriously, a little editing feedback from the judging panel of Short N Tight (although she was totally sporting a Mondo T, so...You go, Glen Coco), Orange and Fab, and Viktor has a pretty obvious winning collection.


I can't talk about these individually. Because they all have the same problem. #1 They're not going to sleep away camp so leave the overnight bags at home. #2 I think she asked Garnier and L'Oreal to style them like Fly Girls. Or Lida and Melina. It's true talk. They just look dirty and in need of a good scrub-down.

Anya the Auff...Wha??



Saddest. This is a fucking black bathing suit. Show me a Wet Seal that doesn't carry this shit.

Now, I'm all for the tricky, "You're all going to fashion week!!" if they're all good. These were not all good. There was an obvious auff, and it was Anya. Her designs came in a palate of sawdust and were poorly done and not original in any shape or form. Not OK. I'd be pissed too, Ryan Reynold's Sassy Twin. So come next week we're at the same point we are now: Waiting still on inevitable mediocrity. And crying in foreign dialects.

Wednesday, October 19, 2011

I guess PR and I are on a break.

It's not that I'm not watching...I've just been totally unmotivated since I saw the 3 final/7 decoy final collections. Which bleeeewww. Plus, thanks to Jersey Shore, I'm constantly distracted during Lord Gunnderson's critiques since I keep wondering what the hell Snookie's gonna do or throw up on this week.

Quick 3-week recap: they did another 70s challenge. Uniballer made his girls look dirty and cultish so they sent him home. Tim cried. I cried. We all cried. Miss you, AR. They had to design for birds. The owl got totally screwed over. Bert had to design for the tacky parrot. He revolted by channelling the bird's talons instead of his garish feather. And he went home. I ended up kinda liking him. Who knew? They had to be inspired by some park. They all made up inspirations. LK saw circles. So designed circles. And a night gown. She go home now. And here we are: Two episodes left and Viktor, Joshua, Kimberly and Anya are designing final collections. Which will suck. Damn you, Internet!

Now on the other hand...I've got my own little Project Runway going on in my living room.

Hellooooo Halloween costume. (I mean, I'm on the Halloween Party Planning Committee. I can't not go all out, y'all.) I wonder what it will end up being? Hrrm... :) Final product to be revealed come 10/31.

Anywho, m'bad, PR. I'll try real hard to recap the finale. If you're on your best behavior.

Don't be mad, dog. WE WERE ON A BREAK!

Wednesday, September 28, 2011

He is...quite large.

Ok, let's keep it short and sweet since the new episode is on tomorrow and I had the rare opportunity of watching this episode with Sister, so let's face it: I was selfish and sucked up all the funny the night of and now the snark well is dry. (Ok, nearly...) To begin, let's start with the transcription of Oliver's one on one interviews.

Camera Guy: Tell us how you feel about this challenge.

Oliviiiiier: Well. I don't like it. Because my man is quite large. Massive, really. I don't have enough money for bolts of fabric. And even if I did our mannequins aren't equipped to handle the weight of that amount of textile.

Camera Guy: Is he really that big? He seemed sort of average.

Olivurieoruer: Oh no, he is ginormous. I'm quite surprised he was able to fit through the door to the workroom with those Shrek like shoulders. It frightens me. His guitar is actually seven feet long to appear in proportion to his Sequoia-like torso.

Camera guy: At least this is a menswear challenge. Menswear is your specialty, yes?

Olivaaaarlirrirrr: Well. Sort of. You see, I design for myself. And like my accent, my gender is a bit muddled. So really I design for flat people (Flat. Not fat. Fat scares me.)

Camera Guy: Well this should be a good learning experience. Not every client is going to be Barbie.

Olivooouuier: Oh Barbie would be a terrible client. You see, she has boobs. And those are unsettling. They just hang off one's chest being aesthetically unpleasing. And they're also filled with fat.

Camera Guy: Ok, we're done here.

Oliviiiiiiaur: But I haven't even talked about that band man's hot dog fingers. I just want to spread them with mustard. They stare at me and I find it unnerving.

Camera Guy: Seriously. Go away.

Oliviureousr: You're fat.

Oh, and there was a challenge (aka 90 minute Garnier commercial). Make the Sheepdogs, an unsigned rock band, stylish and what-not for their Rolling Stone cover debut. They were split into two teams but that was only for logistic's sake since each designer designs for each band member and there are four members, not eight. So each Sheepdog gets to try on two horrible outfits. GO!

First up the drummer. Good lord this poor man should have never said "tunic," because each of these ladies went dashiki crazy.



There's no need to review them individually because they're the same terrible muddy-brown, Shaggy-Greg-Brady-Bowler-Chicken-Shack costume. Sooo sad.

The Bassist (I think...) By the way, this guy is totally channelling Riding in Cars with Boys Steve Zahn, the coked out years.

Sorry, man...

Anthony Ryan


There's just fringe and tacky. Fringe and tacky everywhere...And I'm with Adam Lambert. I dig the "Check out my Wang" zipper Joshua installed. The front row fans are gonna be looking for it anyway, might as well give 'em easy access.

Guitarist a la Laura

Relatively well made-ish. Those bell bottoms are excessive and none of the seams popped a la Anya, so... Whatevs.

Lead Singer Rock Star According to Bert.

What the hell, man? And WHY oh WHY is this being praised. 1. He gave a grown man pigtails. 2. It's a total Maude outfit. Tell me. Just tell me that Bea Arthur wouldn't throw this on to head down to the (gasp) abortion clinic. COME ON!

Lead Guitarist (Thank you, Viktor, for making one non-fucktarded look)

Hello obvious winner. Took pleather to a new level, made fringe not tacky and gave him real jeans that one wouldn't be embarrassed to wear in public. You rock, sir. Do work, son!

How Oliver the Douche would dress a Rock God

Ok, so maybe lead singer Sheepdog isn't an Almost Famous Golden God yet, but come on. Swans? Giant leisure suit front pockets? 3/4 length sleeves. GFY, Oliviiiiiier. We all hate you. Excuse yourself. No one will miss you.


Tuesday, September 20, 2011


Yes this post is horridly late. Excuse? None. Just le tired. And distracted by pirates (more on that another day). And Oliver Bumble Bumble No Boobs Bumbleson totally irked me the wrong way. But more on Horse Hair later.

It was the real women challenge, y'all! Which started with a fake out "Real Men" challenge. Oh they were so scared. This gang of misfits doesn't know how to sew for a crotch. With junk. And poor Anya would have tried to stick her man in a silk sarong (Forshadowiiiiiing for next week [aka this week. Oh semantics.]. Man that'd be sweet.) Obviously the most lady shaped (in terms of leanness, not man boobs) were cherry picked first, and the kids come to find they'll actually be designing for the wives or girlfriends of the misters.

What came next? Boobs. Boobs everywhere. Did you know women have boobs? And that Oliviiiiier hates boobs? And clients. And would ideally design for boobless feral cats. And then there were more boobs. And the men that loved boobs. Because they're men. Men who like women. Women who have boobs. One dress form motorboat later and I've officially stopped paying attention. Who knew the Project Runway Workroom could turn into a frat house so quickly?

Oh, Laura's also turned back into More Money Than God Barbie with the emergence of her "I wish I were More Money Than God Barbie..." Client. And Bryce is dying pink things pinker. And missing his boyfriend. And crying. And getting screen time. And obviously going home... And Ryan Reynold's sassy cousin Josh is desperately wanting to have a glitter explosion all over his dress. But is determined to follow the ways of the Sequin Kama Sutra and withhold.

And enough foreplay. Let's just get on down to the nitty gritty, shall we?

The Boob Wranglin' Mediocre


Ok. Here's my beef. Squinty Pants acted like one of Cruella Deville's kicked spotted puppies when he had to actually design an outfit for a woman with her own set of pups. And throughout the consultation his glazed-over expression portrayed him as someone from a vague non-English speaking European nation, and not OHIO. Motherfucker, don't act like you have a language barrier. Your ass is Midwestern. Don't play. And then he made this outfit.

Um. How has no one said anything yet.

It's a more poorly made Kimberly-for-Nina knock off. The top's not sparkled and it's apparently designed for a woman's who's nursing...But tell me that's not the same outfit. Tell me. Send Raggedy Androis home.


Again, I wish Kimberly had gotten a little shout out or soemthing for this one. She doesn't necessarily need to be in the top, but Heidi could at least give a "Work that shit!" catcall as the girl walks off, right?


Tinkerbell made a bridesmaid dress.

Cocks of the Wok


I am so not on this train. And I love the prints. (As in, prints in general. Not this strange African moo cow print.) But there's just too much. All the fringe and the one sleeve. And the ugly. Just...No.


Absolutely effing adorable. I need this in my closet. And if this is over-accessorized, I'd hate for MK to run into me come winter when I've got a bag, sunglasses, necklace AND a scarf on. Throw in a hat, and he may just pummel my ass.

Winner of the Golden Bedazzler


Way to go, buddy! He was damn near charming this episode (thank the good, waxed lord), and he showed restraint. The man who in not-long-ago time decorated shoes with dog toys, produced this. An adorable, perfect, little black dress. You go, Glen Coco!

The Wah-wah-waaaaaahs

Anthony Ryan

Get this boy some birdseed; he needs to be inspired! I will say I thought this was kind of adorable. Is it slightly reminiscent of a Cheerios uniform? Perhaps. But I love kitsch and I love Glee, so I'd totally wear this dress.


His new name shall be, Buh-ert. Shiny, short and decolletaged (that's nice speak for "Tits McGee's dress"). No likey.

The Shunned


Bless him. From where this dress started, he knocked it out of the ball park (Did you see the first draft? A pink re-working of his sad Nina dress. He came a long way, baby.) The pink worked, loved the big pockets (But they should never be used as feed bags, dear.), but the fit was off and was over-worked. He tried real hard though... So farewell, Mr. Rumbold. Go with Gaga.