I wish I could regale you with tales of going to midnight raves and doing ecstasy with college boys or snorting coke with the local Good Humor dude, but my overdose was on Project Runway, the second season. The reason why I watched it isn't important. Let's just say I had to, for work. No, really.
I spent the last two nights watching the four DVD set that you can purchase for yourself, legally, and get hooked, too.
After settling into a comfortable spot each night, I viewed every
episode from last year. From the amusing selection of the semi
finalists through each and every agonizing episode of winners and
losers until someone was anointed THE NEXT GREAT DESIGNER. Since I was
a virgin to the show, I had no idea what would happen from one episode
to the next. That may have contributed to my addiction.
Before watching these sixteen or so
drama queens of both genders suffer personal meltdowns, footstomping
temper tantrums, forked tongued whiplashings, and eyerolling, hands on
hips disgust with one another, I had heard about Project Runway, but I
only caught the opening once. That's the part that seems almost normal,
when Heidi Klum gives the assignment.
But, I noticed, as I began
my marathon, as soon as the contestants began to speak, it became
apparent that these people were creative, yes, but also very disturbed,
in an entertaining way, as opposed to say, a homicidal way.
Luckily, I'm fascinated by crazy people as long as they're safely
contained in the pixals of my computer, since that's where I viewed
In fact, after getting used to the high dose of nutso behavior, I began
to develop a tolerance for it. And looked forward to my next hit
with the same anticipation as any junkie. Like many high doses of
drugs, the effect of one show after another after another becomes
hallucinatory. I began to feel like I was sitting with or working among
them. I was somehow even becoming one of them. I began to think, HEY, I
could make something, too. I can do that!! Maybe I should try my
hand at this designing clothes stuff. I sewed Halloween costumes for my
daughters one year. What's so hard anyway?
You think I'm kidding.
Here's how I know I had finally
overdosed: Last night, after I'd watched the final episode, where
that megalomaniacal horse's ass, Santino, FINALLY got sent on his way,
along with Daniel V, whose collection looked like he'd scoured
Salvation Army for ideas -- I had a dream. An up close and personal
dream about Tim Gunn.
Tim Gunn is the head of design at Parsons The School for New Design [Is
that a pretentious New York name or what?] He is a longtime
fashion icon and acts as mentor to the contestants. Tim Gunn, in case
you haven't figured out by now, is also gay, which is a good thing for
fashion, but not for heterosexual encounters in one's dreams. Or should
I say, that's the only place I could dream up an "encounter" with him.
But it made sense, if sense needs to be made. With his pinstriped suits
and conservative appearance, he could almost pass for straight at first
glance. Until he speaks and moves. Ooops, gay. But in the midst of the
turmoil and madness of the contestants trying to meet deadlines, he
offered a firm, but soothing voice of reason and encouragement, keeping
them on track with good humor and gentle admonitions. He is a nice guy.
The good news is that I like that I finally like that in a man. Maturity? Or lack of estrogen. You be the judge.
Especially considering that my relationship history includes enough men
from our nation's special forces to form a platoon of trained killers.
On the other hand, I wonder who I'd dream about after watching sixteen nonstop episodes of COPS?
These are the questions Mrs. Linklater asks the universe.