Back on the Runway

For the last 4 years I've had a good relationship with Project Runway. The warm encouragement that comes from mentor Tim Gunn balances the icy dismissal that comes from judge Heidi Klum, and lazy Sundays hit a new level of sweatpant lethargy when Bravo decides to make a marathon out of Runway.

Sure, you've got pregnant architects in company with hippie chicks and professional designers competing against garage hobbyists with tragic addictions to rosettes, but that's not what makes Runway worth looking at. Even someone whose fashion sense is based on the color palette of Hanes Her Way knows that Project Runway is a competition of descriptive wit more than it is a design challenge.

Consider these gems from Season 5:

• "It looks like a big sweet potato."
  
• "I mean -- hello -- slutty, slutty, slutty."
  
• "She looks like a woman who didn't have a mirror. It was really dark and she just grabbed things and put them on."
• "It's a pterodactyl out of a gay Jurassic Park."
• "One of my aunts would have worn that dress. It's like a good bar mitzvah moment."

Maybe Nina, Heidi, Michael and Tim don't lie awake imagining adjectives the night before the big show, but I bet somewhere there's an Honest John just waiting to hand over a cash prize for the first one to incorporate "sweet potato" into a descriptive phrase.

If that's not fierce, I don't know what is.

An Open Letter to Joey of Real World Hollywood

Dear Joey,

I appreciate that you're an alcoholic and in recovery for life and that things are tough for you. But seriously, stop crying.

You have cried more than every girl in the house. Sara got in a screaming match with Greg in the middle of the night and didn't cry. Bri had a warrant for her arrest because of domestic abuse and dated a guy with a gun-shaped belt buckle named Jo-Jo and she didn't cry. The guy Kim was screwing had sex with another girl -- a skanky one at that -- but did she cry? No, and she's Southern and prone to fits.

If you caught all your tears and put them in a bottle, you'd have at least a handle of fussy.

Because I'm sensitive to your mental state, which I personally believe has more to do with roid rage than alcohol, I'm going to leave your hair alone. But the crybabying has got to go. A man with muscles that big cannot be such a wimp.

I'm sorry. That's just how it is.

Sincerely,
Me

Initiation into the Bad Girls Club

You have to be a very special breed of reality TV fan to know about the Bad Girls Club. It's a covert little society of, well, bitches who all flock to Los Angeles to see who's the fakest of them all. Basically seven ego-maniacs are picked to live in a house with Patron flowing from the kitchen sink and have their fights taped to find out what happens when women stop being polite and start being bad.

The Bad Girls Club was established in 2007 on the Oh-xygen network. The president for that inaugural season was originally a classy gem named Ripsi. Ripsi had the potential to be a great leader -- she rallied with morning shots to cure the previous night's hangover, practiced drunk yoga to maintain a state of calm, and refused to give up without a fight -- but unfortunately on the second night in the house, she decided to launch a full-scale attack on the blonde chicks in the house and was asked to leave the club.

The BGC is not just about showcasing the clawing skills of agitated cats. It also encourages the personal and professional growth of its members. For instance, Leslie, who was a pushing-30 stripper in Atlanta before being enlightened by the BGC, decided to make good use of her time in LA to explore a new career as a model.
And Jodie, "a conservative office worker," really capitalized on her time in La La land in similar fashion.
It's nice to see all these genuine girls coming together to push each other out of their comfort zones. Sometimes forcibly.

As the BGC rages through its second year since incorporating, I've learned to appreciate their mission to lash out whenever it strikes their fancy and their vision to keep their fellow woman in check. And I'm very excited to learn what "pop off" means.

Hogan Really Does Know Best

I've been keeping up with the Hogans for a while now. I've witnessed their disputes with their neighbors about the roosters, attended their exorcism of the backyard, house hunted with them in Miami, shared Nick's drifting accident with them and cringed when that one creepy guy from the movie touched Brooke. The Hogans are a good family and excellent neighbors, even if they don't realize that everyone in their neighborhood is Jewish and therefore won't accept their homemade, non-kosher cookies. They're great people to have around.

I mean, when Terry hulks around in his wrestling pants and makes horny advances to his wife, you can't help but grin. And when that wacky, fun Linda decides she's going to get healthy and brings in Dr. Strange to give the whole family colon cleanses, you can't help but wish you were in their fleeing car. They're good, clean fun, modern day Cleavers.

Which is why the start of the most recent season of the Hogans landed a total blow. The Hulk and his bride of more than 20 years, Linda, actually said, "I'm done. It's over." If these two can't make it work, no one else has a prayer.

Linda dropped the therapy bomb just minutes after the I'm done bomb, because she was only threatening to leave to force him to improve their relationship. Like most women. The Hulk agreed to go if she set it up, because the Hulk cannot be seen needing help. Like most men.

So, off to the brilliantly blonde therapist's office they went. They were prescribed homework detailing each other's likes, dislikes, fears and goals and given two wish days, one each, doctor's orders.

After a documented back shaving followed by sex in high heels and one of the sweetest, saddest moments ever in the history of the Hogans where the Hulk shed four tears, the Hogans were back on track. Hopefully they learned their lesson.

American Idolizer

Not since Kelly Clarkson and Justin Guarini have I been this in love with Simon, Paula, Randy and American Idol. In fact, I haven't stopped by regularly since the Idols came to television in 2002. But this year, maybe because it took the place of House, maybe because I caught it during the early audition stages, maybe because I've missed the last four years, I am all over this show, dog.

I gotta say, the boys aren't really leaving me with any pangs of jealousy, but I do have an appreciation for Blake Lewis' beat boxing and Chris Sligh's witty retorts. The girls are it this season, each one opening up their mouths wider than most mouths should open and offering up the gifts they got from the singing gods. Well, everybody but Antonella Barba. Why is she even on this show?

I love the humility of Melinda and Lakisha, which is completely out of alignment with their talent. If I could make those sounds come out of my mouth, I'd walk up and down the street singing my own praises. Sabrina and Stephanie are also a couple of pipers, but of the two, Stephanie is better, for the simple fact that she falls on her knees to push the emotion of her songs over the edge and set the first standard for the girls. If Stephanie hadn't poured it all out there during her first performance, I might have been able to dodge one more season of this show. As it turns out, she restored my faith in American Idol and made me a devotee three nights a week instead of one.

A Done Deal

I've never been interested in Deal or No Deal. Aside from my mom framing my baby sister's beauty by associating her with "one of the Deal or No Deal girls," I haven't even had a frame of reference for the show. Somehow, as the Democrats were taking over the House of Representatives, Deal or No Deal came into my living room.

Howie looks great. I haven't seen him since the '80s, when he was easily confused with Weird Al. How times have changed. Now he's looking all Joey Lawrence.

If there was a night to sit in on Deal or No Deal, this was it. Probably the most fun black lady I've ever seen is on a mission to win her momma a nice house. She's all kneeling on the ground, saying, "Keep it low girl. Keep it low." The mysterious banker has just offered her $411,000, but it's highly possible she has $1 million in her briefcase. I know this all seems a little complicated, particularly if you've never sat through the best episode ever, but I've been watching it all of ten minutes and I completely understand. Anita is on the cusp of being a millionaire and one of the biggest winners ever in the show's history.

This show tugs at the same heart strings that Regis introduced to us in Who Wants to Be a Millionaire?, which is not the same now that Meredith is at the helm... well, that and the fact that a contestant actually got the first question about a power surge wrong recently. Deal or No Deal has us rooting for the common man, or woman, hoping that their momma will get a nice house, hoping that they'll have the courage to step out of safe and go for the million. I've started chewing my nails, hoping that Anita has the case that will change her family's life, terrified that she might be risking it all for $1.

That's the thrill. That's what makes this worth watching. And, eventually, worth avoiding.

Dancing with the Has Beens

I always wanted to be a dancer, but turns out, I didn't get to be long and lean or petite and powerful. So now I live vicariously through Jerry Springer, Mario Lopez and the gang as they learn to dance having never danced before on season three of Dancing with the Stars. What's strange about this gangly mix is that I think most of them have danced before, even though I thought part of keeping the playing field level included having celebrities who have never danced before.

Willa is a pop singer, so I assume that comes with music videos and stage performances, both of which always come with dancing. Like I expected, I was right, as this video of her wanting to be bad has some definite dancing and even features a dance club.


Joey Lawrence might claim to have never danced before, but I remember him flailing arms in bad music videos and doing a split-drop-down move on Blossom's opening sequence. The proof is here.

And, Mario Lopez having never danced before is an all-out lie. I distinctly remember him dancing at the Max in the afternoons during saved by the bell, whether it was for a school dance or a ballet challenge or a bad wrestling dream, he was there, spinning in tight little spotted circles and doing what can only be called dancing.

The real dancing champ is Jerry Springer, whose self-deprecating is hilarious and whose prior dance experience really is obviously nil. Somehow, even as the worst to take the stage in probably all three seasons (okay, the worst after Tucker Carlson), Jerry manages to stay in the competition and to get better every week, even if by "get better" I mean "paints his skin a healthier-looking shade of sienna."