It's a widely known fact that drag queens are magical space fairies, sent to this Earth to rescue most events (Thursday nights out, birthday parties, brises) from gloom and boredom. So it was disheartening to witness last night a situation that was so fraught with misery and frustration that even the drag queens' faggy cosmos magicks couldn't salvage it. Of course it's Project Runway of which I sing—un-watered hanging Babylonian garden of a once great series that it is. At least the judges demonstrated their impeccable taste and kicked one of the season's chief annoyances out on his bedazzled behind. The challenge was drag queens, as introduced by a Flight of the Valkyries-costumed Chris March, the lovablest contestant from the ridiculously superior last season. There wasn't really any context to the challenge or, rather, there wasn't really any NBC/Universal marketing tie-in so that felt both refreshing and, admittedly, a bit strange. I couldn't help but feel that there was nothing timely about the whole smoosh—wasn't mainstream drag queen mania birthed and put to bed in the 90's by movies like The Birdcage and Too Wong Foo, Thanks For Everything IRS, Love Wesley Snipes? Whatever, it brought Chris back so that was fun, but then he didn't even get to be the guest judge! What hooey! It was nice to see RuPaul alive and well and living in Stevie Nicks' hair, at least. Design-wise, there weren't too many surprises. Jerrel, though he is so so so annoying, can make clothes well. The trouble is he has no taste, as witnessed by his strange mess of greens and blues this week (and his floppy dustbowl prom queen ensemble from the Olympics challenge.) Those brown haired girls are proficient enough, but so sleepytime. Stella fell down some stairs in Detroit in 1976 and hasn't been the same since. Suede's design was capable if uninteresting, like the designer himself. Terri's was fabulous, probably because she was the most excited about the damn dairy queens and she chose the hardest one. It was nice to finally see someone take a risk rather than lashing together some little cocktail dress. Speaking of lashing together, Keith fashioned another of his car wash fringe debacles and Blayne did something involving wings and Silly String that was so bright it made a 10-year-old girl from Tokyo blush (I know it's drag queens, but this was just urgly.) Also, Blayne continued on his Quest for Catchphrases, prancing around the design room saying that if he was a drag queen (rather than the tree burl dipped in buffalo sauce that he is now) his stage name would be Neonlicious. Because, I guess, what? Farrah Moans. There's a funny, punny drag name! Neonlicious is that new flavor of Mountain Dew you can vote for over the phone. Tranny Ferocia—or whatever Christian's chosen wrestler name was—was even cleverer. Someone put Blayne in a drawer, please. And then, pfffft, Joe won for his infantile "Ann-Margaret on The Love Boat" sailor pantsuit. For some reason, the outfit, and the way his model wore it and walked in it, made me really uncomfortable. It was like watching Shirley Temple, fifty-years-old and drunk, doing some kind of Charles Nelson Reilly pastiche. Or something. (I'd been drinking at this point.) At least Daniel went home for once again failing to complete the assigned task, choosing instead, as always, to make one of his poorly-crafted, boring frocks. No tears shed for the loss of his "high-end glamor" aesthetic or whatever it is he's peddling. So yeah, if I seem exhausted it's because I am—with drag queens, with this show, with August (and everything after.) I switched over to the Olympics once the show was done and there was competition that felt fresh and exciting and genuine. And those damn things have been around for thousands of years. Though, they didn't try to have five competitions in three years, now did they? Oh, and look. Love. Blech. Click to view