Picnic Time! The Project Runway recap

Don’t blame yourself if you missed last night’s season premiere of Project Runway. Nope, blame Bravo. Look, we all understand that the Weinsteins have pulled a Bob Irsay (shout out to my Baltimore readers) and are planning on forcibly moving Project Runway to Lifetime, quite possibly the least sexy, least high fashion, least gay network on cable TV. (Not since Padma Lakshmi married Salmon Rushdie has there been a union more inexplicable.)

We understand that you are going through the various stages of grief (stage number 3: file a lawsuit!). But that is still no reason to not promote this season at all. I mean, bupkis! No magazine ads, virtually no TV ads, no Tim Gunn appearances on The View. Seriously, did this season come as a surprise to Bravo, because it sure came as a surprise to me.

That being said: Yay, the bitch is back! I shudder at the thought of what it will be like next season (a big tea cozy challenge?) but this season, it’s same as it ever was—almost to a fault.

One of the problems with not just Project Runway, but any reality show, is that the longer they are on the air, the more meta they become. So last night, we had contestants talking about how “surreal” it was to walk down the street with Tim Gunn—“I’ve seen so many cast members walk down the street with him and now it’s me!” We had little tanning booth abuser Blayne already trying to trot out Christian-style catch phrases, like “girlicious” and—ugh—“Holla at your boy” (in one of the season previews we even saw Tim Gunn awkwardly wrapping his lips around that catch phrase—no, Tim Gunn, no! Step away from the tired b-boy speak!). And of course, we had the inevitable Tim Gunn impression—hottie model Jerell’s incredibly weak “make it work!” which sent the colorful Kenley into spasms of uncontrollable laughter.

It’s way too early to get a sense of anyone as a designer, but my early favorite is Daniel, who is not only the cutest Daniel since, well, Vosovic, but does wonders with a Dixie cup.

Also, mad impressed with Beverly D’Angelo lookalike (and our big winner!) Kelli for her awesome dye-splattered skirt and push pin fasteners (not sure how I felt about that coffee filter bra thingy, though).

I also loved Suede, because he refers to himself in the third person, has a little useless tuft of blue hair, and his name is freakin Suede. Also, he sent one of the most butt-ugly dresses I’ve ever seen down the runway. This is one to watch.

(Ditto on tanaholic Blayne—giiiiiirl, that dress had no alibi.)

Already, my heart aches for aging rocker chick Stella, whose insecurity pretty much bleeds all over the television screen. (“This is the first runway and it makes you want to vomit all over the place,” she said, later noting that if she went home first she’d be the “jackass of the world.” That’s the spirit!)

And what was up with all the damn table cloths? Really, people? Gingham? Could you be any less creative? I loved when Leanne looked around the work space with dismay and said, “I was surprised that others are using table cloths. I wanted to be different.”

If you wanted to be different, you should’ve rocked some sliced cherry tomatoes and kale like our girl Korto. Now that was different (and oddly fashionable).

In the end though, certainly the most “different” outfit had to go to the loser Jerry. It was extremely obvious to me that this was an homage to the Huey Lewis scene in American psycho, right down to the couture-meets-blood-scrubbing rubber gloves. His is a genius that will remain unrecognized.

Auf wiedersehen, Jerry. Now go home and please try not to kill anyone.