A Gay Fatwa on Patti Stanger’s Head; She Must Be Tarred and Marabou-Feathered

Possums, perhaps it’s just because today the California Supreme Court heard oral arguments on Proposition 8 (with Ken Starr, the semen-stain Savonarola himself, leading the charge for gay-marriage foes), but this evening our tolerance for idiotic bullshit, no matter how well-intentioned, is exceedingly low.

So just imagine what an effect the following video of Patti Stanger, from Millionaire Matchmaker, had on us:

We’ll let one of our capable Sapphic sisters (Dorothy Snarker, darling, are you listening?) handle the issue of whether lesbians “U-Haul it” because k.d. lang is one of only three visible lesbians, and because in this Ellen-and-Portia, L Word, Rachel Maddow world, it’s less socially acceptable to come out as a lesbian than to be gay.

So let’s get to Patti’s theories on the lads, shall we?

Stanger sayeth:

If you are a gay man, you’re still susteptible [sic & sick] to oxytocin bonding, because you have a lot more estrogen in your body than a straight man does, ‘kay? There’s not a lot of testosterone there. So the truth of the matter is you can get emotionally bonded, same as a straight female. You gotta be careful.

Possums, where does one even start? To paraphrase Mary McCarthy on Lillian Hellman, every word she says is a lie, including “and” and “the.”

Because of course anyone who’s been around gay men knows that the number-one complaint is that they get “emotionally bonded” after having sex.

For heaven’s sake, possums, just look at her. She doesn’t know—cannot possibly know—any gays. And if she does, the fact that they let her leave the house looking like that proves that they hate her guts.

As these things go, it’s almost preferable to be called a “homo” by one of Satan’s silicone dingleberries, Tamra Barney of The Real Housewives of Orange C*nty. At least you know where you stand with her.

Is that an ad homo-nem attack? Perhaps. But we blame it on all that estrogen in our system.

Oh, and “AIDS [is] still available”? “Get involved in memorandums”?

Uh, memorandum to Patti: STFU.

Oh the Hughmanity! Week 3: “Nightlife in Salt Lake City Involves Corn Pellets and Fresh Eggs”

‘Tis a pensive, gnomic, almost Trappist Hughman we bring you this week, possums, as he vows, out of boredom as much as out of propriety, to follow the example of Mother Superior García:

“I have nothing to say” - Nina Garcia on Episode Three.

Oh Nina, if only the contestants followed your lead. In fact, since Bravo has seemingly run out of original challenge ideas, here’s one I could fully appreciate - the designers have to make an entire outfit without saying a word. “Leathuh” SSHH, Stella. Corset your lips together if you have to but just shut up. Blayne, “Muffle atcha blather.” Suede, “Block on.”

Granted, we’d be spared stories about Keith Bryce’s Mormon upbringing with his (assumed) 60 siblings and 12 moms. A household so crowded that when cutting his hair, they got to that last long strand in the back and said “eh... fuck it.” I’ll admit, while that rat tail might get him better seats at an Indigo Girls concert, it kinda freaked me out. What kind of Fashion Magazines are the gays in Salt Lake City perusing? The kind that made chicken costumes for school plays and then later recreate them as “night life looks”? I guess night life in Salt Lake City involves corn pellets and fresh eggs.

Of course the whole “Holla Atcha Boy”-gate would also go away, which could only be a ratings booster. We’d be saving poor Tim from having to wrap his wise mind around an impossible amount of stupid. Later Blayne remarks he “hates his life” which is something we can at least agree on.

Last week’s “eco-friendly” theme continues with a recycled competition. It was a pretty lame challenge the first time around, not very structured towards any particular direction, where they all take some Sponsor cameras out to take pictures of whatever. Stella has a John McCain moment and asks the Einstein of the bunch (Blayne) for help with her camera. Eventually they all get some banal pics to inspire them. None of which had much to do with the original directions to emulate NYC at night. Haven’t these people ever seen a movie? People, taxis, neon lights... hello! Who goes out at night in Manhattan and looks at a clock, for God’s sake?

I’ve read several reports wondering why Sandra Bernhard was a judge. There are more reasons than you’d think:

1) Known Lesbian. In the Gay Ballpark.
2) Supposedly slept with Madonna. Gay First Base.
3.) BFFs with Isaac Mizrahi. Gay Babe Ruth.
4) Goes to all the Fashion Shows. I’d see her at shows in Bryant Park all the time with ex-Interview editor Ingrid Sischy. Gay World Series.

So yeah, in terms of the Gays, she scores more than most. Otherwise it’s hard writing about this episode because frankly it was so boring. Banal pics = banal clothes. No shock there.

And for the final results, we naturally get a mixed bag. Stella hammers her “gay little grommets” into something Jackie Warner might wear to a S&M club. It was ok, but not really an outfit you’d see on a Fashion Week Runway. Keith presents his Big Bird Burqa. Blayne’s dress looks like a uniform for Drag Flag Football. Terri’s outfit is like Mother of the Bride over pants and I just didn’t get it. The judges loved it but sorry, Michael Kors, a dress over pants isn’t groundbreaking.

The winner is Kenley with a cute dress but one that was pretty much done before on runways everywhere. It was finished but didn’t knock me out. I much preferred LeeAnne’s cleverly constructed skirt and top. It just seemed different and so much more thought out than everything else offered.

Emily’s dress was the loser even though it was really only a half step below Blayne’s. It was like something you might serve margaritas in and those ruffles were wacky, like she used an Etch-A-Sketch to decide their placement. As I noted before, Nina said, “I have no comment,” and really, how do you judge a dress that has no reason to its Helter-Skelter logic? I blame the lame headbands.

Pink Navy Ship's Catfight: Our Valentine to You

Ahoy, sailors, er, possums. As our little way of thanking you for traveling with us on the HMS Snoozefest that is Top Design, we offer you a special valentine, a brief scene from François Ozon’s film 8 Women, his fabulous French take on The Women.

You don’t have to know any French to understand what’s going on; in fact, it’s better if you don’t. All you need to know is that Catherine Deneuve and Fanny Ardant are sisters-in-law, and that they hate each other. Well, that’s what they say....

Hide the women and the children, and household pets and the elderly, too. And anyone on medication. This is not for the faint of heart.

Mr. Doonan-Adler Tells You How It is: Simon on Straight Men, British Lesbians, and Penelope Cruz

Simon Doonan, madcap spouse of Top Design lead judge Jonathan Adler (the pair is scheduled to appear on the Web-only broadcast, "Watch What Happens," after tonight's episode) is in particularly fine fettle in this week's column. As ever, the cherce bits:

* I’m totally haggard. What I’m really trying to say is, I’m totally Ted Haggard—or rather, I’m totally jealous of Ted Haggard. Last week, the former crystal-meth-snorting, hustler-hiring evangelist declared that he is now, after three weeks of counseling, “completely heterosexual.” What a huge relief this must be for the poor bloke. How much simpler and less shrill must his life have now become! I’m really quite envious. After spending a week in the screeching nelly maelstrom that is New York Fashion Week, a life of low-key heterosexuality—ahh! The Dockers, the golf shirts, the cell-phone pager strapped to one’s belt!—sounds appealingly serene.

* The female British schoolteachers of my youth were irate, nihilistic, fag-snorting closeted lesbians, almost to a man. If an ordinary pink-cheeked lass were to have shown up at my school looking for employment, the headmistress would have said, “Go away, and come back when you have become an irate, nihilistic, fag-snorting closeted lesbian—then we can talk.”

* The same lily-livered prissiness is being directed at American Idol. The judges continue to be criticized for their blunt mockery of the contestants. As a loyal viewer and person with functioning eyes and ears, I can honestly say that the contestants are not at risk, my new favorite phrase. Far from it: They are all suffering from extremely high self-esteem and will definitely survive the verbal lashings that they occasion upon themselves. Besides, aren’t there enough pleasant smarmy people on the telly? We could use more abusive, foul-mouthed and unremittingly surly people, non?

Um, isn't this like talking about rope in the house of the, er, hung man? Perhaps tonight of you possums could ask Jonathan Adler to be more abusive, foul-mouthed and unremittingly surly, and thus improve the show's entertainment quotient?

* Finally, to affairs of the heart. I normally try to avoid getting in the middle of celebrity break-ups, but I am dumbfounded as to why Olivier Martinez would leave Kylie Minogue (non-stop Aussie good times) for Penélope Cruz (gorgeous, but, like many actresses, takes herself a bit too seriously.) Any insights would be gratefully received.

Oh no she di'n't! Mira, Simoncito, con la Peni no te metas, porque vas a tener mas de una Cruz que cargar. Honey, the Penny is going to drop on this one.

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.