Simon Sez!: Jonathan Adler Fiancé Tells You How to Look Like a Fairy

N.B. Once it starts playing, it goes and goes, possums, in different little segments, with Simon telling you about neon and the 18th century and so forth. Don't say you weren't warned.

“Top Design” Breaking News: See You Later, “See You Later, Decorator”

Hallelujah, Praise the Lady Bunny, and any other religious ejaculation you can think of. In the above clip, Raggaydy Andy Cohen announces that on the upcoming season of Top Design, we will no longer be hearing Jonathan Adler say, “See you later, decorator.” What the new send-off will be remains to be seen. We’re counting on you, Simon Doonan, to save the day.

Breaking News: Husband of "Deeply Cynical Truth-Avoider" Jonathan Adler "Grab[s a] Ball-cock"

Oh come on, possums, cut us a little slack. We've been gone for a bit, and our other headline was going to be "Jon's Problems with the John," so we think that what we ended up with is really quite restrained by comparison.

And no, this is not another tale of marital dissolution in the ranks of Bravo reality-show judges.

Instead, from today's edition of The New York Observer comes news of what head judge Jonathan Adler has been up to, and it doesn't sound quite crappy. Apparently, Jonathan and his merry Mary mari, Mr. Simon Doonan, had a recent stay at the Canyon Ranch spa in Lenox, Massachusetts, a city once inhabited by Edith Wharton (we'd pay good money to read Simon's version of The House of Mirth). From Simon's column:

When the john in our suite started spontaneously gurgling and overflowing, I surprised my husband with my knowledge of plumbing. I sloshed through two inches of water, removed the back of the toilet, grabbed the ball-cock and saved the day.

Recalcitrant toilets aside, my Jonny and I had a lovely weekend at the legendary spa. Canyon Ranch remains a great winter getaway, not just for New Age truth- and wellness-seekers, but also for deeply cynical truth-avoiders like myself and my Jonny.

We wonder what truth Jonny is so desperate to avoid.

Jonathan Adler, Chubby Chaser?

When we groggily checked out Towleroad this morning, we nearly fell out of our chair at seeing a photo of Jonathan Adler with a bear.

Miss XaXa's first reaction was, "Jonathan is leaving the Queen for the King of Queens?" (Sorry, Simon. Miss XaXa's got quite a tongue on her, but if Helen Mirren can be the Queen, so can you.)

Alas, further investigation revealed no cause for scandal. As uncanny as the photo is, it's not of Jonathan. That's his twin brother, Adam Sandler, up there with Kevin James, and this is the poster for the film I Now Pronounce You Chuck & Larry, about two heterosexual firefighters who pretend to be gay and get married for the insurance benefits.

So we can all breathe a sigh of relief. The verdict on Jonathan Adler remains the same: gay, no chaser.

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.

Bravo New World

Not having entirely shaken the Top Chef bug, we were a bit taken aback when we saw this photograph of former America's Next Top Model judge Simon Doonan, Top Design judge Jonathan Adler, and Top Chef guest judge (that's an awful lot of tops, isn't it?) Suzanne Goin (best known in reality tv land as the woman who confronted a "Cheeto dick" with a, er, cocked eyebrow, a dry wit, and the original dentata opening). Not shown, but also present at the same party, was Top Chef judge Tom Colicchio. It's a bit like one of Jasper Fforde's Thursday Next books, where characters from one novel can walk about willy-nilly into another novel, but in a reality tv context, of course. This has done nothing to alter our impression of Mondo Bravo as an incestuous world of telegenic folks who set 'dars aflutter with their attitude of "gaybe, gaybe not."

From Home Dec. to Homewreck: Can This Marriage Be Reupholstered?

First, a confession.

Sometimes, when we're all alone, and it's late at night, and singing along to Juliette Gréco's bump-and-grind version of “Mon Homme” has lost the power to chase off the sugarplum demons in our sooty soul, we throw on our Sulka dressing gown, make our way into the kitchen at Withering Depths, and there, back-lit by the open frigo door, we throw our heads back and, well, we... eat... whipped... cream... straight from the aerosol can.

It's shameful and frightful, but there it is. Still, as Diana Vreeland's father was wont to say as an answer to every crisis in life, “Worse things happen at sea.”

When it's Wednesday and the old existentialist crisis stirs up like a war wound from the siege of Mafeking, we do something that makes us feel just as good, but without any of the calories. We turn our suffering eyes to the rose-hued pages of the New York Observer and look for the week's vertiginously frivolous and addictive column by Simon Doonan, prince consort to Top Design's toothsome head judge, Jonathan Adler.

Unfortunately, this week's column brought no solace at all. Quite the contrary, in fact. Indeed, we rather worry that Top Design has claimed its first victim, the fairy tale marriage of mannequeen Doonan and mannikin Adler. But we'll let Simon tell you himself as he recounts what happened when, at the Winter Antiques Show opening soirée, he asked the wealthy and the weaselly for their opinions on what the Spanish (per Almodóvar’s Volver) so elegantly dub “telebasura” and we call reality television:

After these negative comments, the evening’s hostess, Margaret Russell, editor in chief of Elle Décor, was a beacon of fiery enthusiasm. “I started with Queer Eye—I just love reality television,” said she, lovely in simple black Lanvin and Prada.

In the interests of full disclosure, I should point out that La Russell’s excitement could have something to do with the fact that she herself has thrown her chapeau into the reality arena. Starting on Jan. 31, Margaret—“Peggy” to her pals—will star in Top Design, Bravo’s interior-design version of Top Chef. And—further disclosure—the fact that I am ranting on about it in this paper could have something to do with the fact that my Jonny, Jonathan Adler, is the lead judge on the same show. Yes, my Jonny has a major TV gig!

Entre nous, I’m actually starting to get a bit worried about my Jonny. Top Design has not even begun to air yet and he has already turned into a deranged spotlight-crazed Gloria Swanson–esque figure. The turning point was a recent West Coast Bravo press junket, where he hung out with his idols, The Real Housewives of Orange County— “They’re my new posse, now that I’m part of the Bravo family,” he bragged—and hasn’t shut up about it since. As his media star rises, mine, of course, is plummeting. If this show is a hit, I will end up in the Erich von Stroheim role, picking up his dry cleaning, chauffeuring him around and keeping my trap shut regarding my own former reality-show glories avec Tyra Banks on America’s Next Top Model.

If it so happens, possums, that Top Design is turning the Adler-Doonan ménage from a mariage "white-sale" to a mariage blanc, Raggaydy Andy Cohen of Bravo will have even more to answer for, and we will be forced to say, along with Jon Stewart, "Stop! You're hurting Gaymerica."