Go ahead, I won’t tell anyone. Just admit that you were as excited about the premiere of TLC’s new series Craft Wars as I was. Handy as I am at gold leafing a vintage fauteuil or covering picture frames in rare imported silk, I’ve got nothing on those bitches with the cardboard and glue guns. And forget about bedazzling! I also like competition shows where people have to complete difficult tasks under ridiculous time constraints because, hey, life isn’t stressful enough already.
It’s always nice to see what Tori Spelling is up to, too. As host of Craft Wars, it seems that her main goal is to say the word “craft” as many times as she possibly can: Craft Wars, crafting, crafters, craft closet, arts and crafts, craft experts, etc. I think she said it enough times in the first forty-five seconds that I can now entirely eliminate it from my vocabulary.
by James Killough
This blog has becoming something of a daily beast of its own, attracting glamorous star contributors like James Tuttle and Eric Baker, getting picked up and aggregated by powerful international websites with ties to the fashion mafia. We have started to view ourselves as the two-thirds homosexual lifestyle-and-entertainment Julian Assange. And it is understandably going to our heads. Always one to try to keep us grounded and humble, Tuttle is prone to tossing off quips like, “We must make sure our tens of readers don’t think we’re losing touch with reality.” He is just being a snarky homo, as is his right under Article 2(a) of the Provincetown Declaration of Equality of 2011, which allows a Ghey a measure of dark-roast sarcasm in direct proportion to how old he was at the time of the repeal of Don’t Ask Don’t Tell.
With so much Perez Hilton-ish red-carpet flash and glimmer going on around here, it’s hard to remember this blog’s original intent, which was to promote Pure Film Creative, our web content company, with a side purpose of exposing the nefarious dealings of my erstwhile landlady, the Wicked Blais. With the Wicked Blais safely out of harm’s way, seething behind the walls of her own private Mordor of shithole Hollywood real estate, we should try to cast an eye on web content from time to time rather than just name-dropping for the sake of tags, and lamenting the lack of style on reality shows.
by James Tuttle
In deference to our non-gay readers, I shall attempt to tread rather lightly here. Too much gay can be a frightening thing, especially in the wrong hands. If you don’t believe me, just read Perez Hilton.
Here’s where I’m going with this. We’re all fans of RuPaul’s Drag Race, right? I mean, what could be more stimulating than a weekly talent competition in which a six-foot-four vision of black cross-dressing glamour purrs “Con-drag-ulations, you are the winner of this week’s challenge” and “Now it is time for you to lip-sync for your LIFE!” before kicking a failed drag queen back into the gutter? What’s not to love?
The producers really have kicked it up a notch this season with the quality of the contestants and the production itself. After the mostly fat “performance art” queens got booted off in the early stages, the remaining queens are mostly quite beautiful, and they’re pretty damned skilled at padding those hips, tucking that junk, and making those racks look squeezable.
The guest judges are pretty sensational this season, as well. This week, they included Sharon Osborne and comedienne Margaret Cho. The absence of my friend, fashion journalist Merle Ginsberg, does leave quite a gaping hole on this season’s panel, though. There’s still a jar of Vaseline smeared on the lens every time RuPaul is in the shot but that’s part of the charm. All divas need to manage their on-camera image. A friend who worked with Faye Dunaway told me that she would put cans of Sterno beneath the lens so the fumes blur the shot.