*Both* of These Men Have Sex with Women; Pink Navy Suddenly Sympathizes with the Plight of the Modern Heterosexual Woman

“Project Runway” Shocker!!: Two 20-Something New York Gay Men Get It On! Can the Apocalypse Be Far Behind?

We know, possums, we know. What are the odds of this happening, right?

At any rate, the rumors that Wesley Nault, he of the Paul Rudd visage and the Hitlerjugend-meets-80s-Mexican-boyband shorts, and Daniel Feld, he of the greasy hair and the upholstery blazer, are in a relationship have now been confirmed.

We love it when the sodomythical becomes the sodomitical.

Is Colombia’s Fourth Most Famous Export Using Its Most Famous?

What else would explain her saying, “I like this dress,” and then having it win?

And, in case you were wondering, possums….

Colombia’s Most Famous Exports:

1. cocaine
2. Shakira
3. Gabriel García Márquez
4. Ninotchka “Nina” García de Castellanos
5. emeralds

“Project Runway” Shocker! Suede Turns Out to be a Double-Sided Fabric

Yes, possums, it happened to us too. Drinks were spilled, pictures fell off walls, and cracks appeared in the ceiling—not, mind you, because we happened to be in California….

“The earth slipped off its axis,” interjected a visibly shaken Miss XaXa.

Oh, possums, it did more than that. The earth convulsed as though getting rid of a hairball.

For, you see, Suede is…oh we’ll let him say it:

“Suede is a bisexual Sagittarius….”

Miss XaXa, recovering from her stupor, asked, “Isn’t that half man, half horse?”

“Or horse’s ass. And I’m not even sure about the half man part.”

“How on earth would he ever get a woman to sleep with him?”

“Uh, catch her in a web of bias-cut satin strips?”

Fortunately, though, the female panic button seems to work. The very thought that that might be interested in women activated Miss XaXa’s alarm, and her ladypart-panic room clanged shut with the finality of a Swiss bank vault. Jodie Foster is not getting out, and Suede is not getting in, anytime soon.

“Yeah, we’d only pay 49 cents for that, too.”

Miss XaXa’s reaction: “That’s what happens when you’re from Sacramento.”

“It’s a young Quentin Crisp! No, no, it’s the ghost of JonBenet Ramsey! No, it’s Austintacious!”

To which Miss XaXa replied, “If Blayne is not allowed to say ‘girlicious,’ you can’t say ‘austintacious,’ ok?”

What we are allowed to say, though, is that success definitely agrees with Miss Scarlett. Never have the golden locks or the opera pumps possessed such luster and sheen.

Oh the Hughmanity! Week 1: “A Brazil Wax for a Smurf”

Possums, we have never been able to resist a cri de cœur, and a cri de cœur is exactly what we heard after the first episode of the final season of Project Runway. (As Shakespeare might have written, we come to bury PR, not to praise it, and we will chime in presently.)

Indeed, it was a veritable chorus of cris de cœur, and our favorite baritone voice crying out in the fashion desert belonged to the inimitable Hughman. When we asked him to give us (and Bravo) a piece of his mind—à la mode, as it were—he was gracious enough to cut us a generous slice. Spoons at the ready, then, possums, as Hughman dishes it out:


Project Runway has been for many years now a constant in our lives. Indeed, it has been with me longer than many of my relationships. I can point to when Heidi Klum first appeared in my life, when Tim Gunn gazed lovingly at me and the first Lover’s Spat I had with Nina Garcia. Like you, I looked forward to the return of our beloved show before it was shot along with Bruce Willis into deep space (aka Lifetime), where no one can hear you scream—unless you’re Valerie Bertinelli or Tori Spelling.

Well, fuck me, is all I have to say thus far. Judging from the premiere, this time around the relationship is going to be a bumpy ride.

First things first.

Let’s all place one gloved hand on the September issue of Vogue and swear to Coco Chanel we will never ever, ever—EVER—mouth the “word” girlicious again. EVER. If I could invent a time machine, possibly the first thing I’d do is go back and slap the concept right out of Blayne’s orange, red-hatted teeny head. It’s not a pun, it’s not funny, it’s not clever and Blayne is certainly no Christian Siriano. Also, if you hear a friend say it, you are authorized to just dump them on the spot. No good can come of this utterance and you are certainly, by your mere presence on this blog, far too glamorous to have people like that surrounding you.

It says in his Bravo bio that Blayne was voted the Most Stylish Man in Seattle. So to all the men in Seattle and the blind nuns who voted for him, I say, “Poor you”. As for the outfit he created, I’m sure it will make a dramatic conclusion to The Vagina Monologues : The Musical.

Then we come to “Suede”...eh... Pleather. He has managed to take the standard fauxhawk of Bravo contestants to the next level. Here it’s like a Brazil wax for a Smurf. Thankfully he talks of himself in the third person, which I can only hope is a stilted attempt to distance himself from whoever BeDazzled his jean vest with his nom de douche. Supposedly he’s monied or somesuch and owns a dairy in Pennsylvania or somewhere. Perhaps all the milkmaids there are wearing dull gingham frocks and giggling about all the cute fabric nicknames they’ve given to the bulls. “Cashmere! Poly-blend! Uh... suede.”

Speaking of trash, we shan’t forget the Bag-a-lencia stylings of Stella, the Patron Saint of Bad Choice of Drug Use in the 70s. If Donatella were barefoot and pregnant and living in a trailer, this dress would have been what J-Lo would have worn to the Oscars. Would it have killed her to make a bra out of some of the other crap she threw away? Also, word to the wise : do not wear your circus costume in the supermarket. No one wants to worry that a circus hippy in pigtails is going to rip a box of Glad Wrap out of their hands in Aisle 3.

Other dribbles that caught in my eye:

Man shorts like the ones Wesley wears are fine. On the Von Trapps. Yes, they’re supposedly fabulous fashionable now and all that but really... c’mon. They make a reasonable adult look like Pinocchio, and do we really need to compare ourselves to wooden toys that live with old mustached men? I thought they looked silly on the runway and now that I see them on an actual person and not a model, I realize I was right. Just assume we believe you when you state you shave your legs.

Finally, all the brouhaha about Jerry’s Morton Salt Girl outfit is grossly exaggerated. American Psycho?? Please. Patrick Bateman wore Armani, fer Christ’s sake! I actually went and looked at Jerry’s fashion line “Form”. And it was NOTHING like what he did on PR! They were, uh, t-shirts. See, if Gristedes sold t-shirts, this would have been a no-brainer. Oh well. Sigh. Better luck in the reunion show!

Pink Navy Hair-oine of the Day: Wendy Williams

Ladies, this is how it's done. Watch starting at the 3:49 mark.

A Packet of “Crisps”: Marlene Dietrich

Possums, while going through our library recently, we re-read with great pleasure a collection of essays by Quentin Crisp, gnashing our teeth all the while over how neglected he has become of late.

In an effort to remind ourselves of just how perceptive a writer he could be (in addition to being endlessly entertaining and peerlessly bitchy), we will bring you a few of his best tidbits about the subject he knew best: as Countess DeLave might have put it in The Women, "Oh glamour, glamour."

To start, let Mr. Crisp tell you, possums, about Miss Dietrich:

“Miss Dietrich’s early Hollywood movies were the most immoral ever generally released. She did not reveal any more of her body than other screen sirens of her day, nor was she seen behaving in an any more explicitly sexual way, but the plots of nearly all these pictures showed her living a life of total degradation. In Shanghai Express, for instance, she forever plied her trade back and forth from Shanghai to Peking until, after a great deal of mileage, to say nothing of footage, she re-met her former fiancé quite by chance but without, one must add, the slightest sign of embarrassment. Here as elsewhere, her costar was chosen from among the most boring actors that the casting office could supply. This was done to make it clear that matrimony was inevitable.

Though on one occasion she sank so low as to wear a hat—the brim of which was weighed down with artificial cherries—Miss Dietrich never seemed to pay the smallest price for her sins, but perhaps I have read the message wrongly. It may be that the ultimate punishment for a lifetime of unremitting fornication is that you become too weak to defend yourself from marriage.”

Operatic Carmen Webber Undone by Baller, the Tiki Barber of Seville

Scarbo Speaks! Pink Navy Listens, Becomes Convinced of the Wisdom of “Pistol”-Whipping

Don’t worry, possums. We took plenty of notes and will be toiling madly on our addled recap tout de suite. However, we couldn’t let the morning pass without giving some kind of award to the best, choicest, lowest-hanging-fruit speech of the night.

We were treated to the spectacle of Miss Kit “Pistol” Scarbo do-declaring, “‘Kit Pistol’ is kind of like my Mark Twain.”

Our eyebrow twitched. Where could this possibly be going? Sure, we were impressed by the literary reference, but our minds raced to complete her thought—was a Huck Finn reference forthcoming? Folksy wisdom? Scathing wit?

Nah.

“It’s my alias.”

Oh. Well, we knew she didn’t exactly look two fathoms deep.

“Or sharp as a pistol,” agreed Miss XaXa.

(Oh, and Kit, possum, Mark Twain is really more of a pen name or pseudonym, but don’t let that stop you.)

Really, though, we spoke too soon, for there was, indeed, folksy wisdom to come.

Wearing a little number from the Courtney Love for Blowup Dolls Collection—



















“Oh, come on,” said Miss XaXa, “it looks more like a costume from a tv sitcom, What Ever Happened to Baby Jane?: The Early Years.”

—Be that as it may, Miss Scarbo proclaimed, “I believe that the clothing that you wear represents who you are and life is too short to have on a bad outfit.”

As soon as the words were out of her mouth, we looked at Miss XaXa and promptly hit the ground. When the lightnin’s a-comin’, you don’t want to be the vertical one.

“Good God,” we said to Miss XaXa from our crouching position. “If life is too short to have on a bad outfit, this woman’s lifespan must be measured in minutes.”

“Out of the mouths of Baby Janes,” Miss XaXa gnomically replied.

Alas, lightning did not strike, and this is really a pity. No, possums, no; it’s not what you think. It’s just that we foresee we’re going to have trouble telling her and Sweet P apart—was it really wise, oh producers, to have two tow-haired punk chicks on the same season?—and we were just hoping lightning would take care of that little matter for us.

Oh well, perhaps next week. Lightning may not strike twice, but we can always hope it will strike once.

Mrs. Vreeland Declares

Possums, in the spirit of "Why Don't You?" Wednesdays, which will continue, and in honor of a very dear friend, we will also occasionally bring you bits of memos Diana Vreeland wrote to her Vogue staff, and which we think will put you in the right frame of mind. Without further ado:

August 16, 1967
Re: Hair

I think it is really essential that you all re-think these terrible looking curls next to the face...we agreed long ago they look dipped in salad oil...they also look like poor white trash people with hair all broken off and they can't get the front to the back...

I am all for the cut around the face as you know--that is to say down the side of the face to give a good clean guiche...

But, I really don't think we ought to carry on with these awful-looking curls--they do nothing for the clothes and nothing for the girl--it all gets depressing...

I assure you this association with people with broken hair, no hairdresser, no money, no vitality--and the will to live is gone...

Pinking Shears at the Ready, or Apocalypse and Anticipation

Possum (or, one hopes, possums), we will, indeed, be covering Project Runway 4.

There was never any doubt, of course, but perhaps we ought to explain the absence of posting. Due credit ought naturally to be given to the tedium and rigor of real life, including those pesky wildfires you may have read about.

But, really, possum, it isn't real life that you read us for, so let's cut to the chase.

Aside from simply needing time to let our claws grow back, we confess that all this while we just couldn't bear to go on the Bravo website and be faced with that damned countdown clock, ticking off the days, hours and minutes until the premiere of PR 4.

We were having none of it, for, as a matter of principle, we refuse to be browbeaten into enthusiasm, but this seemed somehow more egregious than that, as if it were nothing less than the Second Coming. Talk of the Second Coming inspires in us either a) jokes about the refractory period or b) a desire to wear our favorite tee shirt, the one that says, "Jesus Is Coming! Look Busy!" So you can see how this sort of apocalyptic vibe wouldn't really work for us.

And really, this does a disservice to Project Runway itself. How can it possibly live up to such hype? What if Tim were one of us, just a slob like one of us, just a stranger on the bus....

"Oh, honey," Miss XaXa interrupted, "if Tim Gunn isn't on the bus, no one is."

And that, possum, is the Gospel truth. Welcome to Project Runway, Season 4.

Pink Navy Recommends: Design Flaws in the Human Condition

Well, possums, if Bravo can engage in an orgy of promotion tonight, why shouldn’t we?

And so, we’d like to tell you about Paul Schmidtberger.

Paul is a droll writer friend of long standing, and our friendship has, at various times, involved Jean-Paul Gaultier’s hand, Lenny Kravitz’s favorite falafel, the Père Lachaise cemetery, and Edgar Allan Poe’s The Raven (though, bien sûr, not all at once).

And now the bitch has gone and gotten a comic novel published. And by Doubleday, no less.

And did we mention that Publisher’s Weekly described the novel as “a promising debut about love, friendship and anger-management” and “an assuredly entertaining romp”? Like we said: Bitch.

Paul, one of the funniest people we know, hails from deepest, darkest New Jersey. Schooley’s Mountain, to be precise. As Paul notes, that’s near Hackettstown, which “is famous because the remains of a wooly mammoth were discovered there,” transported to Harvard, and given the misnomer “Harvard Mastodon.” The mastodon, Paul assures us, was “the last candidate from Hackettstown to get into Harvard.”

Paul himself went to Yale, then did the whole Lost in Translation thing in Japan before Sofia Coppola made winsome, quasi-comedic, Tokyo-based anomie fashionable. Then, of course, he cornered the market in anomie by going to work for an international law firm that was like the collective hallucination of Stanley Kubrick, the Marx Brothers, and the now-deceased Supreme Leader of Turkmenistan.

Paul’s travails at the law firm ended thus: “Typically, the decision to leave a law firm is one that’s undertaken after careful consideration and reflection. In my case, the firm made things easier by firing me, marching me downstairs, and throwing me out onto the street. Me and the apple I'd been planning to have for a snack that afternoon. Hey, thanks.”

And now, Doubleday has published Paul’s first novel, Design Flaws in the Human Condition. The back of the book tells you all:

Set in Manhattan - the conniption capital of the world - a riotously funny and fresh debut novel about anger, infidelity, and friendship.

Through a hilarious series of events, two strangers find themselves railroaded into an anger-management class, where they soon become fast friends. Iris is there because of an eminently justifiable meltdown on a crowded flight, whereas Ken got caught defacing library books with rude (but true!) messages about his former boyfriend - the boyfriend that he caught in bed with another man on the same night he got fired from his job proofreading in a law firm.

Needless to say, Iris and Ken were cosmically destined to be friends. What follows is a strikingly original comedy of (occasionally bad) manners as Ken enlists Iris to infiltrate his ex-boyfriend’s life in the hope of discovering that he’s miserable. And Iris reciprocates, dispatching Ken to work himself into the confidence of her own boyfriend who she suspects, is starting to stray. But what if Ken's ex isn’t crying himself to sleep? What if he’s not the amoral fiend Ken wants to believe he is? And what should Iris do when her worst suspicions start to come true? Exactly how perfect do we have the right to expect our fellow human beings to be?

Anger, betrayal, loyalty, and friendship - Design Flaws of the Human Condition explores these universal themes with wisdom, compassion, and a wickedly irreverent sense of humor.

And did we mention Paul is single?

The current issue of Out magazine had this to say:

“Debut novelist Schmidtberger’s take is very funny, and his hilarious observations about contemporary urban life, from its escapable therapy-speak to the damage done to the skyline by Donald Trump, play well alongside this ultimately sentimental story about the virtues of friendship. ... Schmidtberger’s wryly wrought characters lend authenticity to this confection of a summer novel.”

Doesn’t it sound like just the sort of thing to get you through the dog days of summer (or the rainy days of summer if you’re on the East Coast) and boring patches of Top Chef?

So get thee to Paul’s website, and to Amazon or Barnes & Noble or your local book emporium and get thee a copy. And write to Paul and let him know how much you liked it, and maybe, just maybe, he’ll explain about Jean-Paul Gaultier.

And now, as an amuse-bouche from Amuse-Biatch, to whet your appetite, here is the first page of the novel:

PROLOGUE. In Which the Peace and Tranquility of Manhattan Are Disturbed by an Unusual Meteorological Phenomenon.

Helvetica Carlyle, née Fahrtstaller, had never gotten a cab that quickly in her entire life, and Helvetica Carlyle, it has to be said, was an extremely demanding woman.

Was being the operative word.

At thirty-two feet per second, it took only about 3.8 seconds for her body to plunge from the seventeenth floor of her Park Avenue co-op down onto - or more precisely, through - the roof of the taxi that had just pulled up to the awning outside the building. The cab driver, one of three Bangladeshi brothers who shared a single studio apartment, a single driver’s license, and a single counterfeit green card, panicked and clawed his way out of the car, leaving the passengers, a well-dressed elderly couple, sitting face-to-face with the corpse. They exchanged a long look before the wife finally sighed, leaned forward, bent back what remained of one of Helvetica’s ears and peered behind it.

“Oh, that lying little such and such,” she said. “She did have work done.”

Absence makes the heart......

Oh Possums! Please forgive our silence!

Contrary to public opinion, we have not:
1.) fallen victim to the Matt Lorenz drinking game and entered rehab
2.) joined (formerly Teflon) Don Imus in a crusade to bring civility and non-meanness to the airwaves
3.) joined the rogue gypsy bunch known as the "Travelers" to escape the wrath of Alexis Arquette

This Miss is completely covered-up (as we say in the South!) planning a permanent relocation back to California and Charlus is in the middle of an extended business trip.

We will see you all (y'all!) next week. Oh, how I love to make Charlus cringe with my abuse of the written word! Well, that's what happens when the "hourly" are in charge!

Bravo Representative Looks Into the Future, Sees Pleather, Misogyny, and Fat Feet

We feel old this morning, possums. And it's not just the hangover from hell after playing the Matt Lorenz Drinking Game last night.

Well, maybe it is, because we have begun wondering whether, pace Michael Kors, bitchery isn't a young man's game.

We pondered this as we read the Assistant's Blog on Bravotv.com and discovered, in the timeless tradition of Bette Davis in All About Eve, that there is always someone younger and bitchier. And he nests like an asp in Bravo's bosom. Get a load of this:

"Everyone has an Achilles heel when it comes to members of the opposite sex. Women like Andrea vex me." [We suspect he's seen 300.]

"Oh, dear Carisa. What can I say? Every reality show needs a villain and she graciously stepped up to the plate this season. She's a classic archetype that exists in every group of friends, everywhere for all time. Once a summer, she'll paint her toenails fire engine red and go salsa dancing with her girlfriends. Her plump feet screaming to break free from their pleather straps. Her face will get flushed with each successive mojito and the volume of her voice will escalate as the night rolls on.

If she wins "Top Design," she'll do all of the quintessential slight taste of fame missteps. A geeky guy from high school will come up to her at a bar. As soon as he turns around, she'll roll her eyes and say, "Ew. Gross." She’ll talk loudly on her cell phone in public and make sure everyone is painfully aware of how stressful an interior designer’s life can be. “We needed those door frames five days ago. I CAN’T WORK LIKE THIS!” Ugh, I can see it all too clearly. And her penchant for horizontal striped tops? Don't get me started. Can someone please talk to her about that?"

Ugh indeed. Or, as the kids say, Wow, just wow. (Or, as Miss XaXa put it, "Dayum, boy has issues.") Do you see what we mean, possums? Because we have no trouble calling Carisa a bitch, but we would never call her a fat bitch.

Oh, and maybe because of (in spite of?) his being half Puerto Rican, the Assistant's "mojito" and "salsa dancing" cracks about someone named Carisa Perez-Fuentes are just precious, adding a delicious soupcon of potentially self-hating racist condescension to the delicate blend of misogyny and disgust at the overweight. Neil LaBute would be proud. Freudians, start your engines!

Frankly, we can't imagine why he's no longer working as a lawyer.

Never Mind. THIS Is the Official Photo of the Matt Lorenz Drinking Game. Most Tags Still Apply.

And if you're not passed out from playing the Matt Lorenz Drinking Game last night, you might have a wee hair of the dog that bit you after seeing just how "fashionably" thin Matt is, and after you learn from Kelly Wearstler's blog that:

"Poor Matt lost 17 pounds during the course of the competition; 17 pounds! Who knew stress diets were so effective?"

Miss XaXa concurred--"Bitch is gaysting away"--and sipped her Bloody Mary.

This Week's Official Photo of the Farrah Fawcett, Er, Matt Lorenz Drinking Game, Which Nearly Gave Us Alcohol Poisoning

“Why Don’t You?” Wednesday

Well, possums, it’s our penultimate Wednesday with the decorating wisdom of Diana Vreeland, and we certainly hope it has been valuable and useful for you.

And so, without further ado, Why don’t you…

* In a white room drape the enormous bay window with machine-embroidered broderie anglaise dyed bright green, and held here and there with black pailletted butterflies?

* Clutter, not pile, on a Chippendale butler’s tray table all the newest books, some flat, some on their ends, some like fans?

* Have your telephone-message pads, scratch pads, and menu cards all the same, such as white with red printing and initials or blue with navy blue?

* Put on the guest-bathroom shelf a set of medicine spoons and at least three glasses? One is never enough.

* Give a new note to your sitting-room by introducing a Victorian chair upholstered by Jansen in bright emerald green cotton, buttoned in white with little white chenille earrings on either side?

* Or place beside a low sofa Jansen’s little Victorian table of polished metal encrusted with a collection of precious shells?

First Reaction: “Bland Hotel,” Starring Goil “I Don’t Vant to Be Alone” Garbo

It’s hard to believe, possums, but for possibly the first time in memory, it was minutes before we were able to take a drink pursuant to the rules of the Matt Lorenz Drinking Game.

We first had to sit through the usual blather about how they’re down to the final four, and Andrea’s statement that it was always a “huge goal of [hers] to make it into the final four.” It makes no sense; why the final four as opposed to the final three, or the final two, or, indeed, the winner? Color us a little incredulous.

At last, the designers are driven to Santa Monica, and the Viceroy Hotel, decorated by Kelly Wearstler. Matt nearly hyperventilates, telling us, “I pulled these images out of a magazine, and now I get to see all of it in person.” We snicker. It isn’t as if we were expecting the Kelly images that Matt pulled out of a magazine to be from Playboy. We take our first well-deserved drink.

Uncle Todd is waiting for the designers, along with guest judge Linda O’Keefe, director of design at Metropolitan Home Magazine. Dressed in black and having apparently dyed her hair with cherry Kool-Aid, she is working a sort of Vivienne Westwood does Run Lola Run personal aesthetic. “Don’t you mean Run-Down Lola?” asked Miss XaXa rhetorically.

“I would like to be just like her,” says Andrea. Well, possum, keep hitting the hair dye and you’ll soon have what you want.

The challenge is to design “a high-end suite focused on today’s travelers’ needs.” Unlike the subject of fine dining, Goil knows a thing or two about hotels, having been in a few of them.

But there’s a twist! The rooms will have to be based on one of the four elements.

Just as in the Bacardí challenge, when he spelled out what the five senses are, Uncle Todd can’t help but do the same for the four elements. We roll our eyes—it’s not as if we’re dealing with the four humors, or the seven wonders of the Ancient World here. Perhaps this is a sly commentary by Uncle Todd on the state of the American educational system?

Fate decrees that Carisa gets “hot air,” Matt gets “what’s in the water?”, Goil gets “where’s the fire?”, and Andrea gets “what on earth?” Andrea is suitably distressed, reassuring us (and herself?): “I’m not earthy, I’m not crunchy.”

When he draws fire, as it were, Goil confesses, “My initial thought was, ‘disco.’” But of course. We always think of The Trammps and disco infernos, too.

Of water, Matt says, “I think it was meant to be; I’m a Scorpio, it’s my sign.” We’re quick with the trigger finger on the bottle, but we got nothing. Water Boy is determined to keep us dry.

“Wait,” says Miss XaXa. “A straight guy who knows about astrology, and knows that he’s a water sign? Hmmmm.”

“Maybe he’s a Mormon.”

“Do Mormons believe in astrology?”

We find it as profound a question as, “Do androids dream of electric sheep?”

A quick bitch through Wikipedia gives us this:

“…water signs are characteristically intuitive, imaginative and deeply emotional (unlike the shallow emotional character of fire signs). Water signs are believed by astrological theory to often possess a much more penetrating insight into the true nature of other people than other zodiac signs: they are supposed to be remarkable in their ability to judge people. Water signs are seen by astrological theory as sensitive (often hypersensitive) people, and to possess a great desire to help others. Although they are not seen as intellectually weak, water signs are occasionally referred to as mute signs because they supposedly rely so much on non-verbal communication rather than logic. At their worst, water signs are supposed to be withdrawn, secretive, possessive, and pessimistic, often withdrawing into their own private world rather than facing difficulties. They are also often unforgiving if injured or even slighted.”

Hmmmm. Judging by the previews for next week, Carpenter Sarah is in for a doozy of a time.

The designers go back to the PDC to design and shop. Matt stares (quizzically? provocatively?) at a water bottle laid flat in his palms. “Is it enough for a drink?” asks Miss XaXa. We fear it’s not. But then he says “grasping our element,” and we take a quick sip.

Matt then tells us, “I think everyone does have their unique design style. Mine just happens to be better than the rest.” Mee-ouch! Certainly doesn’t sound like a “mute sign.”

After a design-and-carpenter-and-shopping montage, during which we are not allowed a single drink, we find ourselves back at the loft residences, where Matt and Carisa are discussing their designs for the hotel rooms. Alas, they’re not asking Goil for his opinion or input, and he turns to the camera and says, in his husky, Swedish-Thai accent, “I don’t vant to be alone.” Actually, he stamps his foot and complains that the others are not perceiving him as a threat.

Based on the extraordinarily-deceptive-even-for-Bravo preview—what with Goil’s cries, whirring saws, and blood on the 2x4’s—we were expecting Goil to demonstrate just how much of a threat he is: Saw meets The Shining—“Here’s Goily!” Alas, it was not to be.

Andrea flashes a metaphorical thong of bitchiness by saying, “I hope somebody tanks.” Finally!

It’s Day 2, and Carisa is already badmouthing Carpenter Carl: “Carl does not play well with others.” We begin to feel sorry that we’re not playing the Carisa is a Bitch Drinking Game. It does take that little something extra to be so condescending about a man 20 years your senior.

We get to wet our whistles soon enough, though, as Matt confesses, “I’m a total floor snob.”

“Gayest line ever,” exclaims Miss XaXa.

“Well, for this episode, at any rate,” we caution.

“Let’s make it a double, then,” says Miss XaXa, “just in case we don’t get anything else.”

Carisa tells Matt his room looks like a nursery, Matt calls her a bitch, and we take a drink. (Sure, straight men call women “bitches” all the time, but the inflection on this occasion was drink-worthy.)

When told of Carisa’s comment, Andrea concurs, “That’s a bitchy thing to say.” Which the editors immediately undercut by having Andrea bitch to us that, honestly, she’s surprised Carisa’s in the final four. We love it. In terms of bitchery, this is more than merely flashing a thong; it’s lifting her top and flashing us for Mardi Gras beads.

And then Andrea tops herself, worrying that her room looks like “a bad Smurf Neapolitan thing.” To which we say, That’s not nice, Andrea. You’re taking quips out of the mouths of hungry bloggers.

Carisa has warned us that this is not The Carl Show or Top Carl, but it threatens to turn into EdTV as Matt’s carpenter, Ed, cuts his finger on the circular saw, dribbles a little blood on the 2x4, and is taken to hospital.

Matt frets because Ed has cut his finger, telling us repeatedly how upset he is. Finally, he says that if he has to go home because his carpenter cut his finger, so be it. It sounds nice, but if you parse it out, it would actually blame the carpenter for his loss. According to the preview for next week’s episode, he seems to be making the same argument to Carpenter Sarah. Very interesting. It’s the water sign all over again.

But Ed is just fine, and comes back, leading to this touching dialogue, worthy of Shakespeare, or Cameron Crowe:

Ed: Matt, I’m back. You’re gonna still have me?
Matt: Would I want anyone else?

We swooned. We sighed. We drank.

We drank a good deal more once we saw Matt’s room. Lucite tables?! Is there anything gayer than that? Lucite is right up there with sequins, gold lamé, and mirrors as a gay material par excellence. And wouldn’t you know it? Matt incorporates mirrored side tables, too. It shows that Matt is thinking of the high-end clientele for the room, since the side tables are perfect for cutting lines of cocaine.

Carisa was right. The room does look a little like a nursery, but a nursery in space, since it reminds us of that room at the end of 2001: A Space Odyssey, where (spoiler alert!) David Bowman turns into a baby. (Incidentally, Keir Dullea, the actor who played David Bowman, is the subject of one of our favorite Noël Coward quips: “Keir Dullea, gone tomorrow.”)

Carisa is very confident about her own room, and being the great historico-political theorist we’ve come to love, she quotes President Bush as she says that she’ll be “shock and awed” if she gets sent home.

She doesn’t get sent home, but she does lose to Matt, in whose room the judges, according to Jonathan, will be having a slumber party (be sure to share the fairy dust on the mirrored table, boys and girls!) Poor Goil gets sent home by Jonathan Adler, is embraced by Todd Oldham, and then bursts into tears. If that isn’t the definition of Disco Inferno, we don’t know what is.