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....

…

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.

…

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.

The Pillow Book of Margaret Russell

Sei Shonagon has nothing on this woman, possums.

In an acid disquisition on pillows that reminded us ever so slightly of Faye Dunaway channeling Joan Crawford in her injunction against wire hangers in Mommie Dearest, judge Margaret Russell told contestants Erik and Carisa exactly what was what.

It might just have been the effects of the peyote-and-pistachio macaroons from Ladurée that we were nibbling, but we could almost swear we saw Alexis Arquette and contestant Felicia Bushman shivering and making to cover their own trembling, pillowy lips in self-protection.

Not surprisingly, as Ms. Russell herself informs us,

"Jonathan [Adler] annointed her the 'pillow police' after [she] busted [Erik and Carisa] for the overabundance of cushions not only on their sofa but also propped on the chairs and floor. Design tip: Just because a new sofa comes with eight extra throw pillows doesn’t mean they actually look good. No pun intended, throw those throw pillows away!"

Ms. Russell, trust us, we know from puns, and that's not a pun. Not that we'll hold it against you, for you possess three of our favorite qualities in a woman--cleavage, disdain, and cocoa-butter legs. We especially loved the little bow on your dress. Oh, Margaret! (We may call you Margaret, mayn't we?) As if that demure little bow could disguise the eye-rolling, volcanic vixen within! You might as well put daisies on a land mine. But, possum, we wouldn't have you any other way.