PR + WWE = Chris Wins! And The End of The Crying Game

DAHLINGS -

Be still, my heart! Although it's almost a week later, I am absolutely OVERJOYED that my dear darling huggy-bear Chris March won on "Project Runway." As soon as I saw all of those silicone-breasted musclemen/drag queens, I knew he had it in a headlock. Pardon the pun.



I SO want Chris to design my wardrobe. Er, a bit more covered up, perhaps, but I do adore leopard!

And Christian did do a marvelous job...as soon as his diva said "leather & lace" I knew they were meant for each other.



Watching Sweet P have a slow-motion nervous breakdown is quite entertaining, isn't it?

Every episode she gets a little closer to the edge; I think by next week they're going to cart her off screaming, like poor Britney Spears. (And for God's sake, would someone tell her to COVER UP those tattoos? I try not to be elitist, as you well know, but every week she wears a tiny little top. Long sleeves, PLEASE!)

As for Ricky, I know he surprised everyone by not crying at the end.

Here's one armchair psychiatrist's opinion: he has a terrible fear of success, and that's why he kept breaking down. Then, when he was auf'd, he knew he wouldn't have to be tested any more, he'd failed, and now he could go home. That bathing suit was LUDICROUS.



Between you and me, one of my favorite parts of the show was watching our Ms. Klum try to outglitz the glitziest women in show business. Sorry, Heidi, you would have done better to wear a black crepe sheath.

Off to rehearse my show, which opens in New York on February 27th! Oh, the work involved, I can hardly stand it! More later, dahlings -

Ciao,
Elisa & Bucky the Wonderdog

WHY Do They Let Idiots Be Famous?

DAHLINGS -

I was trawling the Internet in search of...I don't know, some idle entertainment, perhaps a new fashion blog as yet undiscovered...when I stumbled across an "entertainment news" site.

It was a whole new world to me. People I'd barely heard of--Ashlee Simpson, Marie Osmond, Uncle Cracker (?)--all making complete fools of themselves.

I know any number of famous people. I run into Nicole Richie on a regular basis. She's unavoidable, particularly if there are cameras around. And no sentient being can go a single day without hearing about that awful Britney Spears. I have in my Ebay store a Near Mint Condition Vintage Mickey Mouse Club jacket, size XS:



It's so terribly sad, thinking about the days when Britney was a young innocent girl. Or perhaps she was not. Who is to know what went on in the studio? Apparently Justin Timberlake, the singing parking attendant (cf. my earlier entry) was also on the show.

And then I read about some man named Kid Rock being arrested for assault in an Atlanta waffle house. Apparently this man is a" singer". Oh, yes, his mug shot quite reminds one of Tony Bennett:



How terribly suave, in a white-trash drunken way.

Mon dieu, for the days when celebrities had to DO something to be famous (except for Zsa Zsa Gabor). There was a "slideshow" of celebrities in trouble, and it was all too sordid for words.

I am going to cleanse myself by reading French Vogue.

Ciao,
Elisa & Bucky the Wonderdog

Kudos to Justin Timberlake, Bringing Sexy Back!

DAHLINGS -

I never thought I would ever mention pop singer Justin Timberlake in my blog-thing...I mean, wasn't he married to Britney Spears or Pamela Anderson or Marilyn Manson? Or someone of that low-class ilk? That is the sort of music my personal assistant listens to.

When I am not around.

Be that as it may, I found myself in the uncomfortable position of attending a dinner party in East Hampton; to my horror, the after-dinner entertainment was to be Justin Timberlake's concert on HBO!

I would have stalked out, but my escort insisted on staying. He's quite aged, but tries desperately to stay "hip" (one of those bald-headed men with ponytails, don't you know).

Well, the music was repetitive, as least to my shell-pink ears. Mr. Timberlake is a slight, handsome, unintimidating person--he reminds me of a restaurant parking valet--who wears suits, or parts of suits, and he rarely stops moving during his show. There was a lot of platforms going up and down as well.

The reason I felt compelled to write was the dancers--! The female dancers were deliciously curvaceous, with real hips, thighs, bellies, all of the standard accoutrements of a normal female anywhere outside of a fashion magazine. Your faithful correspondent was astounded. Where were the stick-thin anorexics usually seen during such spectacles? When these women shimmied, they had something to shimmy with! And the costumes emphasized their fleshiness...underwire bras, garters, wonderful panties gathered across the hips! (There was one dancer with oddly striped blonde and brown hair, but a phenomenal blonde more than made up for that one strange lapse of taste.)

In short, the female dancers were as sexy as old-fashioned pin-ups, and at the same time, in tune with the new curviness about to be trotted out for Fashion Week. Or so one hopes.

And so I must tip my fedora to Mr. Timberlake for being in show business and still appreciating what real women look like!

Ciao,
Elisa & Bucky The Wonderdog

My Near Death Experience, Courtesy of Business Class

DAHLINGS –

I am so sorry that I have not, as they say here, ‘blogged’ for some time. Goodness knows the antics of Rosie O’Donnell and Donald Trump have caused me to tell my personal assistant to LEAVE THE TELEVISION TURNED OFF, whether I am there or not! It might have been fodder for thought at one time, but tonight I am thinking Very Deep Thoughts. And yes, I have a dreadful headache.

DON’T BOTHER MAKING THOSE SYMPATHETIC SOUNDS, YOU LIAR! I KNOW YOU ENJOY MY PAIN!

Excuse me; my assistant was giving me a laughably bad imitation of a concerned smile.

I’VE HEARD YOU TALKING TO THE MAID ABOUT ME, SO DON’T THINK I DON’T KNOW HOW MUCH YOU’D LIKE MY HEADACHE TO BE A BRAIN TUMOR!

Ahem. I do get a little short when in agony.

The Very Deep Thoughts were the result of a simply terrifying experience I had the other night. No, it wasn’t seeing Cameron Diaz at the Golden Globes in that hideous white ruffled thing and dyed black hair (some rag called her “statuesque”—the woman is as wide as a hairpin!).

I’ve been down in North Carolina, to visit a friend. And oh, I should have taken my personal Lear jet! When will I learn? Instead, I flew (ugh) commercial, on an airline not to be named.

We were supposed to fly out of Raleigh-Durham on Monday night at 8 pm, arriving in LaGuardia at 9:30. Short version: the plane left at 10:30 pm, did a forced near-crash landing in Richmond, VA, then hours later I was forced to board the SAME PLANE and fly to my beloved New York, arriving at 3:30 AM.

I was sitting in business class, attired in a beautiful Yves St. Laurent suit, but even the cushioning of the business class seats could not conceal the face that this flight was more turbulent than Britney Spears and K-Fed in a cage match. I was drinking the rather bad champagne the airline had to offer, but it did not still my delicate nerves. I took a few Xanax, but still, something felt deeply wrong.

I could not believe my shell-pink ears when the captain announced something was badly wrong with the left engine and we would make a forced landing. And that there would be fire trucks and emergency crews on the ground. The flight attendant told everyone to strap in. I have NEVER been on an aircraft that went toward the ground so fast!

The plane hit the runway hard, as hard as Rosie O’Donnell could bitch-slap Donald Trump. There was a loud scraping noise as the plane careened down the runway. We came to a screeching halt, and then the flight attendant told us we would be allowed to disembark to the airport once they determined it was safe enough.

We passengers sat there for a long, long time. I demanded more champagne to while the time away, but the attendant refused to pay attention to me. Commoner.

With nothing to occupy my attention, I began to think about Very Deep Things.

What if the plane had exploded?
What if it merely burst into flames?
What if I had been burnt and my beauty scarred? Would I still be welcomed at Hype?
How could the world of fashion survive without MOI?
My head began to throb in earnest.

There was supposed to be another plane waiting for us. Ha! Instead, your faithful correspondent was forced to sit for hours in the Richmond, Virginia airport. Believe me, there is no more desolate place than a closed airport terminal, except perhaps the inside of Paris Hilton's head. Before my Deep Thoughts were able to drive me to the brink, I found a copy of “French Vogue” in my carry-on.

Again, my shell-pink ears could not believe that we were told to board the same PLANE OF NEAR-DEATH!

“I demand my money back and a First Class upgrade on the first flight out in the morning!” I thundered at the man making the announcement.

The clod ignored me! I wrote down his name, and believe me, there will be hell to pay at the Richmond, Virginia airport.

I strode back onto the jet, making sure to swipe the attendant with my (authentic) Gucci bag. We made it back to LaGuardia, where, emphatically not dead, I dropped with exhaustion into my limousine. Bucky gave me an ecstatic welcome, which made me particularly glad that I am not dead.

Since then, I have been up to my exfoliated elbows in business, particularly setting up “Haute Cou-Poor” at the Fashion Institute of Technology.

Now that I have told of my Adventure, it’s off to bed. Remember to kiss your dog.

Ciao,
Elisa & Bucky The Wonderdog