Love & Romance, Rambles

ROM-COMS HAVE SUNK THEIR GILA MONSTER FANGS INTO MY HEART

(written after eating Panda Express and talking about RuPaul’s Drag Race with Thea, a tru g0ddess)

Mindy Kaling once said that she classifies rom-coms in the genre of science fiction, and I agree. The premises are so thin, the coincidences are so transparent, and the characters are…Matthew McConaughey.

But there’s something about the rom-com that appeals to me, and since its Gila monster fangs into my heart. Rom-coms shape, for better or for worse, how we interpret romance. We think it should be hard, with twists and turns, and at the end, we believe that everything will work out in the end. And that’s not bad, and I don’t want to stop believing that. Because the alternative to the rom-com world—likely Nihilism—sucks ass.

Rom-coms allow us to take the shitty and spin them into gold. The boy that didn’t call back, who was kind of a douche—instead of taking them as them, you take them as the steady montage of Boys That Weren’t, before the Boy That Was. Unconventional romances take the tune of a No Strings Attached.

Side bar: remember when everyone was very into the “friends with benefits” movement? That’s very much the grandfather, or slutty uncle, to our “hookup culture.”

And the boy that drags our hearts through the mud like a kite—made on last week’s episode of The Amazing Race—becomes not just another guy, but the One. We make all these excuses and parse all these moments for hidden meanings; we peel apart words like artichokes, searching layers for the core.

Sometimes things aren’t artichokes. Sometimes they are, but sometimes they aren’t. and that really sucks. But I don’t know if I can shift my frame of mind to believe that. For better or worse, I’m a sucker for a Mindy Kaling, Nora Ephron moment, a swell of non-diegetic music when their name pops up on your screen. There’s something painfully beautiful when fantasies crumble, a la Her, but life is hard enough. I have depression and anxiety—I feel like I’ve filled my cup full of all that kind of hardship. I’ll keep believing in rom-coms and even when the poison incapacitates me, I’ll welcome that fat, slobby Gila monster into my bed.

Because why not? It’s better than nihilism; it’s better than cynicism. The world is built for cynics, and who wants to follow that crowd? I might be dumb and hopeful and completely wrong, but all that buildup before the fall is excruciately beautiful and inspirational and worth it. I don’t mind falling and breaking and sad. I can deal with that. I’ve been dealing with that. But to put up with the inevitable fall for the taste of rushing wind and the excitement before the strike of teeth and flash of pain…that seems like a good trade for the flush of excitement when he likes your Instagram, or when she looks your way. In a sickening way, it’s all worth it. Even when it’s not.

Give me a Troop Beverly Hills over a Ten. Give me Guardians of the Galaxy. Give me improbable love that I can ingest and carry with me even when I’m feeling like smacking books out of people’s hands. Give me unlikely, unrealistic, sci-fi-worthy romance that’s so saccharine it’s painful. I’ll deal. I’ll take it all. I don’t have a sweet tooth, but I can handle it.

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Inspirational, Life, Rambles

BAD DIVING BOARD METAPHOR

(Written in front of Tatte Bakery while shivering violently and pretending that I’m not)

Today in the last British Literature class I’ll ever (hopefully) take, my professor asked us if we write in journals. He did, and he said how fun it was to look back on journals from years ago and read what he thought. I had to bite my tongue to avoid plugging my blog (because not even I’m that obnoxious to do a shameless plug in British Literature)—

I should point out, legally, that I have actually put my Twitter/Instagram handle on the blackboard in this class; but that’s less of a shameless plug and more of a public service to my classmates. @dnnymccrthy on Instagram and Twitter.

—and thought back on when I had my old, horrific teenage blog—The Amazing Unicorn Files—where literally all I did was talk about boys I had a crush on, Honey Boo Boo (she was big in 2012), and vaguely offensive satiric “articles.” I have since shoved a stake into that blog’s heart and started this wonderful old broad. And this Elaine Stritch of a blog—shocking, funny, elderly—has morphed to be greater than TAUF. I get to write about politics and pop culture and what’s happening in my world.

But when I look back on this blog in a week, or a month, or a decade, I don’t think I’ll care about Donald Trump—unless he’s Il Duce Trump by then—or Lemonade or what queen went home on that week’s RuPaul’s Drag Race. I’ll still care about the Kardashians obviously, but that’s because I’ll be curious to see how Kris Jenner manages to outlive everyone else in her family.

I’ll care about what I felt, and what was happening in my life. What boys I liked, and what friends I had made, and how good I looked that day. I plan on getting extensive plastic surgery when I turn 40, so it’ll be nice to be able to look back on that youthful boy that I’m desperately trying to recreate.

So I just finished the last day of classes in my junior year. I still have finals and papers to write and loose ends to tie up, but that’s next week and an eternity away. Right now I’m sitting in front of a very chic café, watching cars go alongside my table and shivering from what I’ll say is the cold but might just be the coffee that I’m sucking down but don’t want to acknowledge because coffee shouldn’t make me spasm like a dying fish.

I’ve just finished my junior year of college and the long slab of summer lies ahead of me, but it’s weird, right? It’s odd. Suddenly, I’m about to reach this huge milestone—21, senior year of college, the world beyond—and it feels like it’s all happening too soon. I’m a kid. I don’t know how to get a job. I just figured out how people get cake pops to stick together. I can’t provide for myself. I can barely provide a hilarious one-liner response to cute cashiers.

I have friends who are graduating in a few days. I have friends who are engaged, or are in relationships that could blossom into long-term situations. I can see people going into jobs that lead to careers that lead to the rest of their lives. I can see it all, and it’s making me want to break a table. Because my life is one big sexy, messy black hole.

I feel like I’m always referencing my Brit Lit class, but bear with me. we read Gerard Manly Hopkins this week, and his poetry stuck in my brain like a half-remembered song. He writes like I write, adjectival and messy and complicated and complex. It’s a structure compounded words and thoughts, weaving together to create a parts-of-the-whole thing. And that made me flutter. Because here was someone who did what I want to do. Who was a writer and successful (I mean, he died at 45 of typhoid or something, and all of his poems were published posthumously, so I don’t want to do exactly what he did, also he was a priest which is so not my MO, but still) and loved what he did.

I can’t see my future and I can’t see what the next step should be, but I know what I want my narrative to be. I want to be able to get a job where I can be weird and funny and write in my voice. I want a cool life. I want to not find love right away and be able to have one of those twenties where I can have a shit ton of content off being a twentysomething. I want to live somewhere warm. I want to laugh until I cry, and choke on food and cackle-scream. I cackle-scream now, but I want to keep cackle-screaming.

(I had to move inside because I was cold and can’t pull off that “artist suffering for their work” mentality.)

I want all of these things and it’s weird that they’re beginning to be possible. That in a year, maybe less, I’ll have to start making big-boy-out-of-Pampers decisions. What a horrific image. Maybe I can pull a Lisa Rinna and make my money off adult diapers. That must be my rock bottom, but no one says you can’t make bank on the bottom (insert filthy joke here).

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Source: riffsy.com

I don’t want this to turn into one of those fucking annoying feel-good posts, or one of those “Don’t make me adult” travesties. I want to adult. But it feels a little like being a kid at my grandma’s pool club. There was this huge dive—literally massive when you’re six—and one day, I decided to conquer it. Obviously this is a metaphor—pay attention.

I was—am—a total chickenshit, so I don’t know what made me think I could confidently pull this off, but maybe even then, I was trying to self-destruct. I climb up, and I’m eager. I want to be at the top; I want to make the jump. And suddenly, I’m at the top, and the breeze is stronger up here than it was on the ground, and everyone looks tiny, and that water looks like it’s going to hurt an awful lot from this high up. And so I’m torn, because I want to jump, but suddenly I’m thinking about the very concrete logistics. What will I look like as I fall? Should I tuck my arms in? Fling them out? How deep into the water will I go? Should I scream?

Then the lifeguard and my sister hovering on the top of the ladder are letting me know that I’m holding up everyone and I have to jump. I have to disregard all the questions and queries and potential situations. And so I curl my toes over the edge as the diving board wobbles underneath my weight. And almost before my brain can become okay with it, my feet make my decision for me and step off the edge.

The way down is as ungraceful as I feared, and the primitive instinct within me is making me flap my wings but if I’m a bird, I’m Big Bird, and I’m plummeting to the earth with the help of vengeful gravity. And I hit the water like a cannon, and shoot deep into the depths. My palms sear from the impact, but I float upwards without thinking and start swimming.

I’m hoping that life after college will start like that. That my body will move ahead of my over-agonizing mind and my palms will sear from the pain but that I can rely on muscle memory and start swimming towards something, anything.

I just had a really good conversation with a friend—let’s call her Libby—and she basically said that after college you just look at what the next best decision is, and you take it like that. Step. Step. Step. Evaluate. Step. Step. And if that’s not exactly what you meant, Libby, frankly take that up with my lawyers. Creative license. I’ll have my day in court.

I’m on that diving board and the wind is picking up. It’s fucking terrifying, but I’ve seen all my friends jump, so I have to assume that there’s something spectacular in the deep end. At the very least, there’s got to be something spectacular in the fall. And maybe that’s all that we can be promised at this point as soon-to-be functioning people. The fall is fun and shit-scary and your palms with sear with the impact but you’ll start swimming.

That seems like enough metaphors for today. This was fun. This was right.

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Source: Giphy

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pop culture, Rambles, Things I Like

APPARENTLY I’M A HUGE BEYONCÉ FAN, AND I DIDN’T EVEN KNOW

(Written in a campus Starbucks because my lifeline has been voodoo-linked to my Gold Card status)

I’ve been starting every conversation I’ve had this week with, “Have you listened to Lemonade?” It’s a good ice-breaker, and allows me to know who I should shun and who I shouldn’t (shundn’t?). I’m a pop culture whore/anthropologist, so it’s important to me thtat I surround myself with like-minded people. Or rich people. Or people who can explain how planes get off the ground. I get the whole “in flight” thing, but how do they get there?

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Source: Giphy

Anyway, anyway. When a major cultural moment occurs—Adele’s 25, Britney shaving her head, Justin Bieber’s nudism—we as a people need to acknowledge it. I was simply doing my part. I found out about the album dropping almost accidentally on Sunday night (pure luck) and have been listening to it pretty much this entire week (I mean, it’s Wednesday, but nothing sells a story like hyperbole).

My favorites are “Pray You Catch Me,” “Hold Up,” “Daddy Lessons,” “Freedom,” and “Don’t Hurt Yourself.” I’m not mentioning “Formation” because that’s obvious. Anyway. I’ve been thinking about it, and I have poor impulse control, so since I’ve been thinking it, I’ve been bringing it up in conversation. Sue me.

Side bar: I’m pretty sure Beyoncé was wearing Yeezy Season Threezy in her visual album. I think the song was “Don’t Hurt Yourself.” It was definitely when she was screaming that she would “bounce to the next dick.”

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Source: Giphy

I have an in-depth discussion of the visual album with my coworkers. I insist that my classmate finds some way to access Tidal purely so she can listen to the album and we can talk about it. Normal, sane things.

I’m at a meeting for the magazine I work for—City Editor—and I was casually bringing up Lemonade because, remember, culture. Then someone at the table remarked, “Wow, you really like Beyoncé.”

“No I don’t!” I objected. Which is technically true. I like Beyoncé, but do I love Beyoncé? Well…yes. But am I obsessed with her? Am I a diehard fan? Of course not. I appreciate her as a vehicle for discussion, and for what she represents. And also for how sick her vocals are and how bomb her nails are. Seriously, did you see how good her nails were when she was in that bathtub singing…“Pray You Catch Me(?)”?

And then someone pointed out that my sweatshirt, which has a picture of the painting Madame X (one of my all-time favorites), had Beyoncé lyrics over it: “I walk like this cause I can back it up,” from “Ego.” And that my phone’s background was just an endless repetition of the lemon and bee emojis. And that I had brought up Lemonade at least sixteen times within a half hour meeting. And suddenly…my world spun.

Lemonde Background

Source: Danny McCarthy via his phone “Voldemort”

Was I a huge Beyoncé fan? How could I have missed it?

My whole image of myself shattered. I had always thought that I never stanned for anybody, that as a journalist I kept a healthy distance from my pop queens. Sure, I track RuPaul’s Drag Race tags on Tumblr, and my phone backgrounds include a regular rotation of gag-worthy pop culture icons.

But apparently, this entire time, I was harboring a secret love for Beyoncé. My journalistic ethics have been biased this entire time (beyased—omg, I can’t be stopped. I’m addicted). Since I’m now a huge fan, I need to change a few things in my life. Firstly, I’ll get a social media face-lift: everything that can be Beyoncé will be Beyoncé. No more funny Real Housewives testimonials. No more picture of drag queens caught at unflattering angles. No. I will be committed, and I will not waver.

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Source: Giphy

One thing I’m still wondering—am I still allowed to make fun of Kelly Rowland and Michelle Williams? I feel like that’s a definite gray area for us Beyoncé fans.

In other news, I started the week by dry-heaving halfway through my workout. I had just finished doing squats and lunges, and had stopped to talk to my friend Thea. We’re having a conversation about a class that I’m in now that she took last semester. In the middle of discussing the video project, I stop talking and inform that I need to excuse myself because I’m pretty sure “I’m going to vomit.”

I did that fast diarrhea walk to the bathroom—you guys know the one—and promptly started gagging as soon as I was in the bathroom. I didn’t end up throwing up—frankly, a letdown—but after I was sure that my bile would not make an appearance, I shakily rose from my Hidden Tiger Crouching Dragon position, washed my hands, and walked back over to Thea to finish our conversation. I’m nothing if not a professional. I decided to cut that workout short and go home.

That’s been my week so far—Beyoncé and dry-heaving. Not that different from my usual. Except maybe a little more Beyoncé. I feel like I’ve fulfilled my dry-heaving quota for the month. That feels good to get that off my chest. I almost named this post: “DRY-HEAVING TO BEYONCÉ,” but that’s a little niched. Trying to broaden my audience.

Also I realize in my fervent attempt to convince everyone that I’m not a Beyoncé fan, I’ve written a 1000-word article entirely about Beyoncé. The irony is not lost on me. But I am lost. Can I borrow your cell phone to call my mom?

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Life, Rambles

MEMORY CANNIBAL, also known as THE TONYA HARDING STORY

As a writer, you’re constantly handling the balance of how much of your personal life to divulge to your audience. As a comedy person, you’re constantly balancing how much of the painful details to twist into a funny anecdote. So when you’re a comedy writer, you’re basically playing the game of “Which horrific moment of my life can be a funny essay without me completely selling my soul to the Devil, Faustus-style?”

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Source: thatslutinthearmchair.tumblr.com via Giphy. Caveat: I’ve been watching a lot of Happy Endings recently and all of the gifs will come from there. You’re welcome.

I’m not a comedy writer, or a comedy person, or a writer. I’m not even legally a human. But as a professional Ina Garten drag impersonator and someone who operates a blog, I find that more and more, I’m running into that issue. When nothing was happening in my personal life, it was easy to write about it. But as I grow and evolve, and the issues in my life grow and evolve, I am beginning to notice a line in the sand that is harder and harder to cross.

And it’s only until things actually started happening in my life that I realized that the “life” that I was writing about was literally nothing. But now my life is actually starting to roll, and not just in the same sense as the Gloucester Cheese Roll Competition. Because that’s funny.

There is an intense impulse to publish for writers. My journalism professor talks about that impulse all the time, or at least I’m assuming he does, because I spend most of my time in that class reading RuPaul’s Drag Race recaps. But when something happens to me, like that time I fell down the stairs or the time I sat on a plate of quesadillas or any time I make a fool of myself in front of a boy, my first instinct is to share it, Tweet it, or blog it. And that instinct is more than just the desire to share something that happens. It’s the desire to take back control of the situation.

Blogging incapsulates your life, packaging it into palatable, hilarious little morsels. The tale of me getting hurt by the first boy I cared about becomes a funny essay. A bad date becomes fodder for griping. The various aches and pains of existing as a real-life scarecrow—my brand—translates into rubbery antics. Writing takes the sting out of embarrassment and hurt and pain, and turns it into comedy. And on one hand, it’s extremely cathartic. It provides me the distance to process and dissect something, to take myself out of the equation.

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Source: jparx.tumblr.com via Giphy

Recently things have been happening to me. Some are amazing. Some are terrible. And my first instinct has always been to blog about them. But for the wrong reasons. I want to take myself out of these moments, but I’m also afraid to. I’m afraid to talk about the crazy, shitty things that are monumental in my life because then I relinquish control of them. They cease being intimate to me. They become content, public domain. They are no longer mine. And that’s been hard to come to terms with. That some things could easily be sting-less and funny and palatable, but that would mean losing my place in them. It would be accepting them as past and renaming them as something meant to be consumed.

My wanting to blog them is my wanting to stop them from hurting. Things have been rough lately, and that kneejerk reaction to make the bad thing stop is very much in play. But sometimes things have to hurt. I can’t—I shouldn’t—blog my way out of this. I’m trying not to make it into a joke or a punchline or a laugh. I’m trying to give it gravity. It’s really fucking hard, and lousy and frustrating. Because my instinct, as a writer and a former dork and a wannabe cool kid, is to cannibalize, produce and de-sting all the awkard’s and ew’s and damn’s of my life.

I’m a memory cannibal, and that’s not always a bad thing. A lot of amazing things come out of shitty situations, but I’m in this weird position of realizing that if I mean to take this writing thing seriously, there are lines in the sand that I have to respect. One of my favorite writers, Ryan O’Connell, wrote about the same kind of experience. And as he got older, he realized that he couldn’t just write about every drug trip, bad sexual experience, and “Ouch-funny” moment that happened. That knowing the difference is the divide between “writing” and “being a writer.”

So in true self-absorbed writer fashion, I’m writing about writing about something. Maybe one day in the future, when I have enough money to hire a defense lawyer, I’ll tell some of the stories that I’m keeping in the vault. They’ll be good then, and I’ll have distance. And in my tell-all book, Telling It All—The Tonya Harding Story (Just Kidding, It’s Me, Danny), I’ll reference this blog post, and people will go to their antique Macs and pull up the article while sitting in their hover-houses with their pleasure-robots (I hope).

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Humor, Life, Rambles

I’M CHRYSALIS-ING

Do you ever do that thing where you let yourself get as unkempt and scraggly as possible, and then when you finally take care of yourself, you get to treat yourself to a The Princess Diaries movie montage makeup transformation? That’s what I’m doing now.

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Source: hercampus.com. A) How weird is this gif? B) I am more befores and none of the after.

I haven’t shaved since last Wednesday (it’s Sunday). Normally I shave every other day, but I’ve been putting it off because I want to Princess Diaries myself. Also, apparently, despite shaving for five (nearly six) years, I still have no f*cking clue what I’m doing because I’m constantly dealing with razor burn. And lately it’s been particularly bad, so maybe I’m shaving even more wrong?

In addition, I’ve been having a Prison Break-out of acne and I have not been feeling cute.

Side bar: I just Googled Prison Break and saw that Wentworth Miller was in it, and I always, for some reason, thought that he was in that other prison show, Oz, which I always thought was ironic because he’s gay. And Oz…Never mind, I might’ve just hate-crimed myself.

Side bar side bar: Once my mom and I were talking about Wentworth Miller—I’m not sure why/how—and she was all like, “Oh he’s so handsome,” and I told her he was gay, and she just sighed, like she hadn’t been married to my dad for almost thirty years. Also, it was one of the first moments where we actually talked about the gay thing, without skirting around it.

Side bar side bar side bar: Now my parents are convinced I have gaydar. They think that David Muir from ABC is gay and that he’s dating Gio Benitez because someone told my dad and my dad told my mom and then my mom asked me for confirmation. Apparently Gio Benitez just got married to his boyfriend, so I texted my mother to let her know and all she responded with was, “I think he was too young for David Muir,” as if we know anything.

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Source: Danny McCarthy

Side bar side bar side bar fun fact: Gio Benitez and his boyfriend (husband, whatever) met via Instagram, which is the gayest/most millennial thing ever, and this was reported in The New York Times.

Side bar conclusion: I think David Muir is hot.

However, I recently got in a fresh batch of acne medication—you know, sometimes I think my life is boring, and then I write blog posts where I say things like “my mom asked me if David Muir is gay” and “fresh batch of medication” and I know that actually my life is the most interesting ever—and I’ve been giving my skin a break from constant chafing…from shaving, not something weird.

In nature (I almost put that in quotes, like it was contested), the caterpillar goes through the strenuous process of becoming a butterfly by wrapping itself in a cocoon of silk. That cocoon is called the chrysalis, and that’s what I feel like. I feel like I’ve wrapped myself in a cocoon of reddish stubble and acne cream, and I’m patiently baking—I’m mixing metaphors, but who cares—and soon—probably tomorrow—I’ll shave and slap on a fresh coat of aftershave and I’ll emerge from my chrysalis as a sexy, sexy butterfly.

Or I’ll turn out like Heimlich the butterfly from A Bug’s Life and emerge from my chrysalis just as fat and busted as before, but with a pair of ineffectual wings.

Side bar: I chose to call it “chrysalis-ing” as opposed to “caterpillar-ing” or “cocoon-ing” because “chrysalis” is a prettier word.

I was so worried this would be a sparse blog—the subject matter can only go so far—but I should’ve known that my rampant tangents would fill space. My inability to really focus on anything truly serves me well when I’m writing a blog, but shoots me in the kneecaps when I’m trying to write a paper. Technically, you could consider this entire blog post a rampant tangent from the paper that I should be writing. But where is the fun is writing without an impending deadline and a cartload of stress?

Side bar: Do you think anyone in this library suspects that I’ve written an entire blog post about chrysalis-ing, or that I’ve made two Twitter polls in the last two minutes?

BYE.

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pop culture, Review, television

REVIEW—RUPAUL’S DRAG RACE: WIZARD of YES GAWD

Grade: A-/B+

There are certain moments in television history that completely alter the axis of the narrative. At the end of season one of Game of Thrones, Ned Stark—the main character, the moral compass of the show—was beheaded, leaving everyone, both in the audience and on the screen, to rape, pillage, and burn across Westeros and Essos for five seasons. A third of the way through Psycho, the main character Marion Crane was stabbed fatally in the shower by “Mrs. Bates,” leaving in the swirling of her pupil two more hours of me wondering that if me thinking serial killer Norman Bates is hot is weird.

And last night on RuPaul’s Drag Race, we received a similarly jolting shift in both the narrative and the proverbial fabric of the universe.

SPOILER ALERT

My queen, my g0ddess, the light and sharp wit of Season 8 was abruptly and rudely eliminated from the competition that was hers to…well, not win but maybe do a respectable fifth place, a la Katya. Robbie Turner, the ripest peach in Seattle, has been eliminated. RIP.

After Acid Betty’s elimination, which was the equivalent to a shoulder shrug and a faint “Thin the herd” mentality, the queens discussed themselves. Naomi thinks she should wear a turtleneck—I agree. Robbie’s voice has miraculously returned. Thorgy’s “Madonna” reminds me of someone but I can’t think of who. Also Thorgy’s eye-roll to Bob winning the challenge is the single most “Woody Allen Jewish New Yorker” response ever and I live.

Bob is literally screaming about how she’s won two challenges. “Has anyone ever won three, before??” she SCREAMS. Yes, Bobby. Violet Chacki and Ginger Minj from the season right before yours. But I can’t stay mad at Bob because it’s like being mad at an adorable, fat child genius. They’re smarter than you’ll ever be, but they can’t pronounce their “s’s”. Robbie makes a vague threat comparing Bob to Jenga—ready to topple—which only proves that the queen that makes a prophetic comment is destined to be the one to go home.

Side note: You could build a HOUSE in the space between Robbie’s shady reads.

The mini-challenge is READING, with special guest RPDR EW Recapper Marc Snetiker—who can get it. The queens are…funny…but other than Bob—whose “Flipper” read has me giggling—I wasn’t particularly blown away. I actually liked Season 7’s a little more, because you could feel the venom because some of those bitches hated each other. Everyone’s too nice on this season. Bob wins the mini-challenge. Big surprise.

The Maxi Challenge is to create haute couture outfits inspired by characters from The Wizard of Oz for them and their Little Women of Los Angeles partners. When you type it out, it sounds like a fever-dream.

The little women pick their drag queen partners. Some of the women seem like they know who their queen is, others—Tonya—have that “Middle Schooler Trying To Remember The State Capitals When Put On The Spot” moment.

WERK ROOM OBSERVATIONS:

  • Naomi and Jasmine are both hair stylists—and they’re both flawless as hell.
  • Naomi is a bargain bitch: “I could look at fashion magazines from the time Barnes & Noble opens to the time Barnes & Noble closes.”
  • It’s interesting to see people who are also accustomed to reality television on RPDR. Aka the drAMA between Terra and Elena.
  • Bob is wearing leather overalls and I can’t even wear regular overalls without looking like a sausage in a denim condom.
  • “They always give you mustard and honey,” Elena on MasterChef, but I think it can apply to my general life.
  • I like Tonya.
  • Is Ru done with those Pharrell hats? Can I uncross my fingers?
  • I’m interested to see how the queens make over women. Have they done women before? That’s what she said. But no, seriously.
  • It’s smart that Derrick Barry (a professional Britney Spears impersonator) is paired with Terra (a mini-Britney Spears impersonator) because it’s not like the judges have been asking for versatility. He’s getting really good at singing that one-note.
  • KIM CHI TALKING ABOUT INTERPRETATIVE DANCE IS ME WHENEVER I HAVE TO TALK IN CLASS ON MATERIAL I’VE NEVER READ.
  • Somehow Bob was so focused on remaking his outfit and making his partner over that he DOESN’T START ON HIS MAKEUP UNTIL 15 MINUTES BEFORE THE RUNWAY.

Finally it’s time for the runway. Firstly Marc Jacobs is very hot in a “Ken doll in the microwave” kind of way, and I don’t even mean that as a read. Todrick Hall is possibly the only person who can wear a “Transformers Robots In Diguise” meets “St. Patrick’s Day” outfit and have it come off as Wizard of Oz realness.

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Source: LogoTV

Do you think Derrick realizes that she can’t come for Bob when she looks like “Young Judi Dench in a Swimsuit”??

Chi Chi and Ti Ti DeVayne as Dorothy—It’s not bad but it’s not great.

Bob the Drag Queen and Rob the Faux Queen as Glinda the Good Witch—10 points for the name, but -12 points for the fact that your partner looks great and you just have gray SPF on your cheeks and one of Robbie’s thirsty wigs.

Naomi Smalls and Jazzy Jems as the Scarecrow—THIS IS WHAT I’M LOOKING FOR. Haute couture, whimsy, fashion, amazing.

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Source: LogoTV

Derrick Barry and Terra Barry the Tin Man—NOT EVEN THE ‘80s HAD SUCH BAD SHOULDER PADS.

Robbie Turner and Hedda Turner as the Cowardly Lion—Ouch. That’s less “purr”-fect and more “purr”m gone wrong.

Thorgy Thor and Thorgeous as the Citizen of Oz—psychedelic, green, glitter. Yes. Yes. Yes.

Kim Chi and Miso Chi as the Wicked Witch—“Isabella Blow going to a funeral realness” is so indicative of Kim Chi’s actual, real fashion knowledge, and I loved it.

Interpretive dances were weird. Let’s not.

Michelle to Chi Chi: “Do you not contour breasts?”

Me as RuPaul: “You were not breast in show.”

Critique of Derrick—the first time when an accidental Britney reference was good.

Critique of Robbie—tru about the hairline.

Naomi wins because—obviously. She really took last week’s critique well, and that’s the mark of someone who has the potential to win the entire competition.

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Source: LogoTV

Derrick and Robbie are in the bottom two. Robbie took off her wig because WHY. WHY WOULD YOU DO THAT. WHEN HAS A QUEEN EVER TAKEN OFF HER WIG IN A LIP-SYNC AND RUPAUL BE LIKE “Lovely buzzcut. Shantay you stay.” Derrick did well in the lip sync, but I think even the producers are like, “Should we get her off the premises?” and RuPaul’s like “Eh, it’s not worth it. She’ll get it eventually.”

We love you, Robbie. You were Robbed(ie).

Stray Observations:

  • Ru interrupting Michelle is the gif that I need always.
  • NEVER COMPARE CHI CHI TO BENDELADREME. One is hot glued and one is hot DAMN QUEEN.
  • Someone on Tumblr said that this season is 75 percent personality and 25 percent fashion, as compared to the reverse in Season 7. And it’s true. Give me more glamour. I should be gagging at the runway.
  • We see that “Nebraska” promo moment, Derrick, and we’re purposefully ignoring it.
  • Robbie seems like one of the only queens that Ru was genuinely upset to eliminate. I love it.
  • I LOVE YOU ROBBIE.
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