Judges' Spouses, They're Just Like Us: Jonathan Adler Hubby Confesses He Watches the Super Bowl for the Cheerleaders and Not the Tight Ends

It's going to be a good Wednesday, possums.

How do we know? Well, irrepressibly injudicious judicial spouse Simon Doonan is back with a new installment of his column after a one-week hiatus In it, he appears to confirm that he loves Ladurée macaroons just as much as we do, no matter what Pierre Hermé may be up to, and that he, too, watches the Super Bowl, albeit not for Brian Urlacher, which is why we watched.

Here, then, the cherce bits (and did we mention that we want to write like him when we grow up?):

Sunday 5 p.m.: It was so bloody cold that I bagged any further shows and ran home to catch Super Bowl 41. After staring at all those haunted, wraith-like models, the adorable Indianapolis cheerleaders were a real picker-upper. With their 1950’s physiques, these doll-like cuties possess an optimistic joie de vivre not shared by those poor, stringy melancholics in the Bryant Park tents.

As I watched the Colts-Bears game, I thought of all the blokes across the country boozing, belching, farting and munching their way through the Super Bowl, and I had an epiphany: Why not serve food before every fashion show, à la the sports stadium? Maybe the reason that men have a more laissez-faire attitude toward food is because they are around it more often....

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Monday p.m.: Finally, the weight-loss babble took a back seat to fashion, with a capital F. Thom Browne’s men’s show that was a jolt of insane creativity: a Visconti-esque, Pasolini-esque montage of gender-confused fascist lesbianism. Thom took his signature silhouette—a shrunken preppy jacket with a high-waisted pant—and drove it to its complete and utter lunatic conclusion. We’re talking Lacroix meets von Trapp; we’re talking Liberace meets Hitler. White mink stoles, calf-length skirts, marcelled hair, fur-trimmed capes, cashmere stockings and Swarovski-encrusted attaché cases—and that was just the men! David Furnish was kvelling. It was right up Elton’s boulevard.

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Then she arrived.

Voluptuous, amused, exotically fleshy, Lost star Michelle Rodriguez sauntered toward her seat wearing a pale yellow strapless chiffon cocktail dress. Her only accessory: a massive police ankle bracelet!

“Shackle chic!” quipped my neighbor, Williamsburg musician Casey Spooner, as the stampede of yelling photogs recorded this fashion first.

Scoop Doonan charged over to Ms. Rodriguez, notepad in hand. I toyed with congratulating Hollywood’s current bad girl on not having adopted the prevailing super-skinny look, but decided that I wanted to keep my front teeth, at least for the time being.