I changed my side bar. I decided that with the election over and Obama in transition mode, that the Bush countdown could go. I read the Newsweek post-election edition cover to cover. I know that the next four years are going to be rough because of what was done to us over the last eight, but I want to look ahead to our bright future.

I had an interesting conversation the other day. A woman I work with told me that she’d been at a time share pitch and the presenter asked “how many of you fought for your country?” And she knew (it being just before Veterans’ Day) that the intent was to find out how many veterans of the armed forces were in the audience. But my friend, she thought of what she does day in and day out, and what her political stance is, and she decided, hell… She fights for her country every day. So she raised her hand as her husband poked her in the ribs and said “you’ve never served in the military.” But, she said, I vote. And I write letters. And I talk about issues. And I make sure people at the end of life have the right sort of support and care. I think that means I’m fighting for this country.

I told her that I agreed. She does. I do. All of us who refused to stand by quietly during this last administration, as it teetered to fascism and stripped away our rights and tore up the constitution, all of us were members of the resistance. Freedom fighters. So yeah, let’s roll up our sleeves and get to work.

Or, you know, spin, spin, spin. A few weeks ago, Star and I made a road trip to the Palm Beaches, where I purchased a used spinning wheel. In case you wonder, yes, spinning wheels are still produced. This isn’t an antique, merely a gently used Ashford Traditional. I brought it home, and have been teaching myself to spin. Why? Why not. Actually, I wanted to spin the tzitzit for the Rose Garden tallis. Didn’t happen.

But here we have, in the golden light of my studio, my first handspun yarn.

It’s lumpy and uneven, but I love it. The roving (the stuff you feed into the wheel) came from The Yarn Wench (over there on the right in my links). That’s it on the far left in the picture, that fluffy stuff. On the far right, we have the single, or the first stuff I spun. In the middle, that’s called 2 ply, and it’s what happens when you take two singles and twist them together. It’s real yarn. Maybe even enough to knit the edge on a hat.

I haz a new addiction. Perfect for South Florida. I love my spinning wheel. I love the whir and the meditative state I can reach. Well, the theoretical meditative state I can reach. At the moment it’s more like the level of frustration I can reach. But I see it in the not too far distance.

GAH!!! I put cute little cedar balls in my sweater box. So today, I’m wearing something that smells to me like cedar cat litter. I mean, it only smells like cedar. But for some reason, that smell reminds me not of my mummy’s cedar chest, but of that organic cat litter that my cats would never use. Why this is now hard-wired into my brain, only my brain knows.

In other news, one of the folks in my neighborhood who had sported a yard sign for McCain/Palin is now sporting a hand-made sign. Black background, red letters that read: God Bless America. I thought you were supposed to keep the pointy hats and sheets in the back closet, and not on the front lawn? Maybe it isn’t racist. Maybe it’s just a sore loser who thinks that we’ve gone to the dark side? Oh. Dark. Racist. Uh, maybe it’s just a sore loser who thinks that the country has gone to the infidels? Which would be bigotry based on religion? Whatever. Bigotry is bigotry, whatever triggers the hatred and fear. Color. Religion. Politics. Country of origin. 

My niece was bat mitzvah’d two weeks ago, and when she and her mom started planning this, they asked me to make her tallit. I was sooooo thrilled to do it. The Niece studies dance. She’s a member of her school’s troupe. She wanted pink. Not necessarily ballet pink, but pink. The Niece is a red head (Gorgeous red. Coppery red. With a pony tail as thick as my wrist.) She’s also tiny, and with skin like porcelain. So this was an easy call: she needed a tallit that was like English roses in the rain. I had some shrimpy-pink dupioni with an all-over embroidery of vines and flowers in old silver. And I had a length of moss-colored velvet that I wanted to use for her bag. She loved both swatches. Easy. All I had to do was put it together.

So I added some dark olive dupioni to the pile, and an embroidered sheer ribbon in soft mossy slash seafoam green that had beads, and another sequined ribbon. I had the smallest scrap of a green and orange Chinese brocade, so I tossed that on the pile of fabric, too. Some different threads in greens and pinks. Digging further into my fabric stash, I found a very Ralph Lauren sort of green/pink/apricot dupioni plaid. All I had to do was put it all together. Easy.

Off to the fabric store to see if I could find a pattern for the tallit bag, because the dozen or so patterns I have and have used just weren’t right. Found a pattern that allowed for patchwork and various fabric combinations. It even had a pocket and a zipper. So I bought a few zippers, in pinks and greens and some more embroidery threads. Easy. I had a couple of months. No worries. Just had to put it all together.

Did I mention that I’d only used velvet once before? That was for RJ’s tallit bag and it was a heavy, rust colored cotton velvet. Yummy. This green was nylon? Rayon? Something shiny and soft. No problems. I started with the tallit, and put together the stripe. I had to keep pulling back, and editing myself, because my first instinct is always that more is better and if a little bit of glitz is good, great heaping piles of it is better. One by one, the extra ribbons and embroideries got taken away. I finally ended with just the dark olive with the plaid layered over it, then the sheer ribbon over the plaid.

I laid the stripe to one side and started on the bag. And fought with it, tooth and nail for the next six weeks.

I machine basted. I pinned everything with great, long quilting pins, every inch. The fabric shifted when I sewed. I ripped it all out and tried hand basting, and the quilting pins. The fabric shifted when I sewed. I ripped it all out and tried a walking foot. But first, I had adventures in my sewing room wherein it took me hours to tear my studio apart and find the foot and others where the tension on my machine needed hours of tweaking to get the stitches to hold firm.I found the foot and… the fabric shifted when I sewed. I ripped it all out and tried hand sewing. The fabric shifted when I sewed. I ripped it all out and tried any number of combinations of all of the above. The fabric shifted when I sewed. I ripped it all out and then all of my hair out. I drank. I smoked cigarettes. I thought about it some more. I tried a steam-set bonding tape. It flattened the velvet and didn’t hold the fabric together when I tried to sew it.  But then I discovered that the zipper and the gusset just wouldn’t set in correctly. I bought shorter zippers and re-drafted the pattern. Repeat most of the steps above regarding hair pulling, drinking and smoking. I had to go to a funeral, and lost work days. I cried on a stranger on the train whom I know to be a sewer. She suggested tissue paper between the layers. It worked.

I tied the knots on the tzittzit at midnight on the Thursday before the Saturday service. It was perfect. My niece was perfect. Happy endings all around.

Those wonderful folks at MoveOn.org are handing out free Shepard Fairey stickers to commemorate the great events of Tuesday. I ordered mine. Go ahead and order yours. The numbers are flying by faster than the digits on a gas pump filling up a Hummer.

Sometimes, you just need puppies.

And doesn’t the air smell fresh? Isn’t the sky blue and clear? Isn’t it a glorious day in our America? You know the one: the non-fear-mongering, non-hate-mongering, color-blind and intelligent America? The only thing that has taken some of the shine out of my eyes this morning is that my state (which voted blue for the first time since Johnson) also chose to legislate hatred and bigotry under the guise of “marriage protection”. Self-righteous zealots.

Last night as we were toasting the end of our national nightmare known as the Bush presidency, MJ said: “they left us a burning, sinking hulk of a ship of state, but damn it, it’s OUR ship now.” And we drank to that. The scene outside of the White House was a shock to me. Was that a spontaneous demonstration? Was it only my imagination that had the crowd illuminated by burning torches, and were there really buckets of hot tar, barrels of feathers and a large rail? Star (who is in HR) asked if it would be possible for Bush to take an early retirement? Could he join the DROP? (deferred retirement option program).

We all sat and watched as John McCain gave a gracious and seemingly genuine concession speech. And then we all agreed that the man who delivered that was not the same man who had run the dirtiest, slimiest campaign in modern civilization. The John McCain who conceded was the John McCain who ran in 2000 and was destroyed by that same slime-slinging. That man was one that all of us die-hard Yellow Dog Democrats agreed, we could have lived with and respected had he won against the Shrub. But he didn’t and then he sold his soul to the evil overlords in an attempt to get to the White House.

We all watched and speculated as to why Palin was only shown from behind. And then we saw her from the front: squinchy little puss face. I wonder what she was thinking, since she had gone on record with her belief that the election was in the hands of God, whose will would be revealed and that she knew that it was the will of God that she and Johnny Maverick would steer us all to the Rapture. Was she wrestling with her God? Was she considering that maybe a shotgun wedding would not be in Bristol’s future, after all? Was she just peeved that Johnny wasn’t letting her speak, which she clearly was expecting? And what was that murderous look on the face of the First Dude? Was he thinking about what a waste of time it was to be wearing that fancy suit, when he could just be in a flannel shirt and jeans back in the family chopper shooting wolves? Or was he considering the possibilities of a hunting trip with Dick Cheney?

Finally it was our generation’s moment of Camelot, and Barack Obama came out to thank his supporters, and his machine and his people. Who are his people? All of us Americans, whether the bitter and failed right wants to be or not. All that gloating back in 2000 that we whiney liberals should just suck it up, that’s coming back to bite their collective asses, non? Our president-elect called on us all to do the right thing, to accept that this will be a hard fight to bring America back to glory. He told us that we will all be required to sacrifice. And all of us in my living room nodded and said yes, yes we will.

It was a moment or ten of brilliant and impassioned oratory, delivered by a man who can think and reason. My campaign button (Return complete sentences to the White House) seemed even more fitting. What a wonderful speech. What a wonderful contrast to the inarticulate chimp and his demonic overlord that we’ve suffered under for the past eight years.

I repeat: Is this not a beautiful day? How soon can we start with the war crimes trials? 

Well, it’s a hukilau at the Casita de Zapatos. We have a full house: MJ & RJ, Star & the Number 3 Surrogate Daughter, and Yogi & BooBoo (the RLA and I are a given). The first howl of delight fantastic came not five minutes ago with the announcement that Florida Governor Charlie Christ had to return to Tallahassee on “urgent legal business” and could not stay with Twitchy McCancer Jowls and the FemBot Veep at their victory dance. Schnort. And now, Ohio has been called for Obama and Florida is tipping bluer and bluer. Bwahhahahahahaha. And now New Mexico, that boil on the ass of the high desert has also been called for Senator Obama. We’re looking at 200 electoral votes and it isn’t even 10.

ETA: it’s 10, and Iowa just went into the Obama column. Whee. Florida is still too close to call, but it’s still wobbling like it’s gonna tip to blue. North Carolina is now showing blue on MSMNBC’s map. And Arizona is too close to call.

ETA: It’s 11:04 and the talking heads at Fox are giving Obama 297 electoral votes, and slitting their wrists. Here at the Casita, I’m cracking the champagne. America, let’s light up a cigarette, and talk about how good it was.

This is it. This is my last pre-election post. The fate of the free world is in the hands of the American voting public, and the machinations of the Machievellian Republican party. I’m terrified that this election will be stolen, like the last two. My boss, the political wonk, assures me that this won’t happen. He’s predicting an electoral college vote of 350 for Obama. I’m predicting civil war if he loses.

Here’s the stump speech that Bruce Springsteen’s been giving for Barack Obama. I can’t say it better.

BRUCE SPRINGSTEEN’S COMMENTS FROM THE STAGE AT CLEVELAND’S VOTE FOR CHANGE RALLY
November 2, 2008

Hello Cleveland

It’s great to be here today among friends. I’d like to thank Senator Obama and his folks for inviting me. I’ve been here many times since 1973, but never on a day as glorious as this one. We are at the crossroads.

I’ve spent 35 years writing about America and its people. What does it mean to be an American? What are our duties, our responsibilities, our reasonable expectations when we live in a free society? I saw myself less as a partisan for any particular political party, than as an advocate for a set of ideas. Economic and social justice, America as a positive influence around the world. Truth, transparency and integrity in government. The right of every American to a job, a living wage, to be educated in a decent school, to a life filled with the dignity of work, promise, and the sanctity of home. These are the things that make a life, that build and define a society. These are the things we think of on the deepest level, when we refer to our freedoms. Today those freedoms have been damaged, and curtailed by eight years of a thoughtless, reckless, and morally adrift administration.

I spent most of my life as a musician measuring the distance between the American dream and American reality. For many Americans who are today losing their jobs, their homes, seeing their retirement funds disappear, who have no health care, or who have been abandoned in our inner cities, the distance between that dream and their reality has never been greater or more painful. I believe Senator Obama has taken the measure of that distance in his own life and work. I believe he understands in his heart the cost of that distance in blood and suffering in the lives of everyday Americans. I believe as president he would work to bring that dream back to life, and into the lives of many of our fellow Americans, who have justifiably lost faith in its meaning.

In my job, I travel around the world, and occasionally play in big stadiums, just like Senator Obama. I continue to find everywhere I go that America remains a repository for people’s hopes and desires. That despite the terrible erosion of our standing around the world, for many we remain a house of dreams. One thousand George Bushes and one thousand Dick Cheneys will never be able to tear that house down. That is something only we can do, and we’re not going to let that happen.

This administration will be leaving office, dumping in our laps the national tragedies of Katrina, Iraq, and our financial crisis. Our house of dreams has been abused, looted, and left in a terrible state of disrepair. It needs defending against those who would sell it down the river for power, influence or a quick buck. It needs strong arms, hearts and minds. It needs someone with Senator Obama’s understanding, temperateness, deliberativeness, maturity, pragmatism, toughness and faith. But most of all it needs us. You and me. All a nation has that keeps it from coming apart is the social contract between its’ citizens. Whatever grace God has deemed to impart to us resides in our connections with one another, in honoring the life, the hopes, the dreams, of the man or woman up the street, or across town. That’s where we make our small claim upon heaven. In recent years that contract has been shredded and as we look around today, it is shredding before our eyes. But today we are at the crossroads.

I’m honored to be here on the same stage as Senator Obama. From the beginning, there has been something in Senator Obama that has called upon our better angels, I suspect, because he has had a life where he has so often had to call upon his. We’re going to need all the angels we can get on the hard road ahead. Senator Obama helped us rebuild our house big enough for the dreams of all our citizens. For how well we accomplish this task will tell us what it means to be an American in the new century, what’s at stake, and what it means to live in a free society. So I don’t know about you, but I want my country back, I want my dream back, I want my America back. Now is the time to stand together with Barack Obama and Joe Biden and the millions of Americans that are hungry for a new day, roll up our sleeves and come on up for the rising.

Tonight, we’ll be watching and praying and drinking at the Casita de Zapatas. I’m too afraid to ice the champagne, so it’ll be vodka, at least for a while. Come on, America. Do the right thing.

Well? You folks in the states with early voting, have you done it? Are you going to? Let’s fill those ballot boxes, people. It’s just too important. For all of us.

And if you think this entry is a little short, here’s an op-ed from The Guardian UK, pulling no punches on how the rest of the world sees American politics these days.

I’m blogging while watching Barack Obama’s infomercial. So let’s start with the rant from The Skipper:

And ... one more thing, re mcSame’s whining about how, when he’s president, no one is going to delay a World Series game for an infomercial.

Rather than just ignoring his whine as more of the irrelevant verbal diarrhea we associate with this pitiable, befuddled, hapless, grumpy old man, it is really stunning.  What he’s saying is this:  The fact that millions of people have lost their jobs isn’t important.  The fact that millions of people have lost/are losing their homes isn’t important.  The fact that every family with ANY retirement savings has seen those savings decline by at least 40% isn’t important. The fact that we haven’t gotten bin Laden after 7 years isn’t important. The fact that we’re bogged down in Afghanistan with things slipping away isn’t important. The fact that the whole world hates us isn’t important. The fact that we are held hostage to imported oil isn’t important. The fact that our infrastructure is literally falling into the Mississippi River isn’t important. The fact our schools aren’t getting the job done isn’t important.  The fact that our budget is entirely out of whack isn’t important. Because if those things (and much more) WERE important, then they certainly would be worth a half-hour of prime time TV time for thoughtful examination, regardless of who was speaking (Obama, Bill Clinton, Ralph Nader, John McCain, Sarah Palin, George W Bush, Ross Perot, T Boone Pickens, Stephen Harper, Bud Selig, Bill Maher, Christopher Buckley, Paris Hilton, Nicolas Sarkozy, Look-into-his-soul Putin, etc.). But, in mcSame’s world of entitlement for corrupt, adulteress, drunken, low-achieving war heroes, BASEBALL is more important than any serious discussion of the issues.  He knows what’s best and will fix it.  So you just sit in front of the TV, mindlessly watching the rain in Philadelphia and drink Cindy’s beers, and don’t trouble your tiny little brain.  Thank you very much.  You betcha.

Aaaand, another love song for Sarah Palin:

But wait, there’s more. Over at Flamingo Musings, RJ shares an idea for the run up to the election: wear blue, especially if you live in a “red” state. It’s subtle, it’s clever and it sends a message. Maybe not one that everyone can get without explanation, but a message none the less.

Finally, let’s go over to Rolling Stone, and see what those guys are saying about Maverick McCain and the scary FemBot Veep.

Back from the void, the original actors reprise their roles in one of the more annoying (or more amusing) ads of the past decade.

I’m going to kill myself or my boss. Or maybe just hurl… a brick through the always-on CNN television in his office, or my breakfast. If I have to listen to that high-pitched mosquito-like drone of John McCain and his verbal tic of “my friends” for one more fucking minute the odds are good that it may go down in this order: hurl breakfast, brick through the tv and boss through his window.

I voted yesterday morning. I am so disgusted by the McCain/Palin campaign, the depths to which it has sunk: the Anti-American states vs the Pro-American states… the them vs us, the fear-mongering. The nerve of that twitchy little Hitler, to bring up the specter of nukes and to imply that he had been tested during the Cuban Missile Crisis (1962?) because he’d been a fighter pilot off the coast of Cuba. Well, correct me if I’m wrong, but as a fighter pilot, he was just sitting there waiting for the orders that would have come from the Commander in Chief, President Kennedy. John F. Kennedy and his brother Robert were the ones being tested in that instance. And for him to claim that this somehow makes him, Twitchy McCancer Jowls ready to lead? Hah.

You want to talk tested in a time of crisis? Let’s look at his record on the USS Forrester.

One such case involves McCain’s experience in the devastating fire and explosions that killed 134 sailors on the aircraft carrier USS Forrestal during the Vietnam War three months before he was shot down over North Vietnam. McCain has made claims about this accident that differ dramatically from parts of the official Navy report and accounts of reliable eyewitnesses…

...Whatever the circumstances of the fire’s origins, McCain did not stay on deck to help fight the blaze as the men around him did. With the firefighting crew virtually wiped out, men untrained in fighting fires had to pick up the fire hoses, rescue the wounded or frantically throw bombs and even planes over the ship’s side to prevent further tragedy. McCain left them behind and went down to the hangar-bay level, where he briefly helped crew members heave some bombs overboard. After that, he went to the pilot’s ready room and watched the fire on a television monitor hooked to a camera trained on the deck.

McCain has never been asked to explain why he claims that the Zuni rocket struck his plane. If a bomb or bombs subsequently fell from McCain’s plane as he has said, it seems to strongly suggests pilot error, and if a bomb or bombs did not fall from his plane, it suggests rash disregard for important facts in his accounts of the accident.

There is plenty more about this story that raises questions about McCain’s truthfulness and judgment. In the first hours after the fire, he apparently did not claim to have been injured. New York Times reporter R.W. Apple, who helicoptered out to the ship the day after the tragedy and sought out McCain as the “son and grandson of two noted admirals,” never mentioned him being wounded, although he reported on him more than on any other crew member. This would be an odd omission on Apple’s part if McCain indeed had been wounded, given that service wounds are usually highlighted in such reports during wartime.

Read the whole report here. Try not to scream with indignation and rage.

And I can’t let this go without a swipe at the other half of the ticket. Lifted from Mr. Fish

Open on the girls, because there are no boys. Korto is sad for Jerell, but oh, well, at least she’s showing and that’s what matters the most to her. We quickly flit to the Blowfly work room. Tim’s proud of everyone. They have to edit their collections down to only 10 looks. But not now. Now we’re going to cast models.

A rapid recap of model casting: Korto needs big hair. Leanne is particularly fond of some random little girl who looks like an alien. Kenley is advising Leanne as to who she should cast. Leanne wants Kenley to mind her own beeswax.

Back to the Blowfly room for Tim’s walkabout and the editing of the collections. He begins with our Little Miss Can’t Be Wrong, and asks again about the ropes. Kenley isn’t using a quarter-inch cord, people, she’s using an inch thick black hawser. Every where. Wrapped around necks, binding on necklines, accents between materials. It is pretty horsey. Kenley tells Tim that she’s going to put Topogigio in the feather wedding dress as her final look. Tim reminds her that the judges already saw it. She replies that they saw it and LOVED it. Tim asks if that’s really what she got from their critiques, and she lunges for his throat. “Yah, what? You think that they called me a knock-off? They’ve done that ,like, four times and it’s in-SULT-ing. I’m sick of it.” Then she interviews that it’s just too damn bad that that know-nothing Tim Gunn didn’t like her ropes, because she does and she’s keeping them and that’s that. Period. As Tim walks away from her, the façade falls for the briefest of moments and we see him arch an eyebrow and roll his eyes. It’s reality show gold. No, it’s reality show platinum.

Korto tells Tim that because Heidi said she wouldn’t be caught dead in either the wedding dress or the bridesmaid’s dress, she’s going to toss both of them and make two new dresses in the next two days.

Leanne still has work.

Collier Strong and the hair/make up consultations. Korto wants nature. Kenley wants a cherry red lip and her models to look like porcelain dolls. Leanne wants clean and modern.

Model fitting. Kenley disses Leanne’s color sense. Yeah, I know. Leanne disses Kenley’s hand-painted fabric, and calls it Holly Hobby and like someone’s kid painted it. It’s amateurish. Leanne has a point.

One day to show and the models get their test hair and make up. Kenley talks trash about Korto. Tuh-Tuh-Tuh-Tia comes in for her fitting with her pocket puppy and the little thing takes a poop right near Leanne’s work station. Tia cleans it up while still wearing her gown. Leanne has a nervous breakdown, and nothing happens to the dress. Kenley gets ugly about the little tiny dog and demands that it not go near her or her work. Honey, doggies have a sense about people. I don’t think it would willingly go within thirty feet of you.

Day of Show (finally)

We see the tents at dawn. Kenley takes a stroll down the runway and cries about how proud her parents are going to be and how her tugboat driving daddy will think this whole thing is “rad as hell”. Hmmph. Kenely is then seen being rude to her staff of assistants. Imagine that. Kenley then trumpets on about how beautiful her work is, and how amazing her models are and how she is fer sure gonna win.

And we’re off. Heidi comes out to announce the fabulous guest judge, and it’s J.Lo… who has called in sick (or indifferent) at the last minute, so the guest judge will be…Tim Gunn. We get another moment of reality show gold as the cameras cut to backstage where Kenley has a moment of realization that she’s spent the past twelve weeks being an utterly disrespectful twat, and that maybe she should have had a better attitude. Brilliant.

Kenley’s show is first, and she is using some weird industrial drone for music that makes it impossible for her models to walk with any rhythm or beat. The ropes are horsey and the colors clash. Also, although I haven’t seen anyone else say this, that first look with the too-short in front, oddly long in back skirt with the tent-striped underside reminds me of Jeffrey-the-Pinheaded-Shmoo’s work. Most of her work is not to my taste, but I do love the pale shirt-waist dress with the mandarin collar, full skirt and single line of badly painted flowers. We see Kenley’s family and it appears that she has a twin sister and her mother looks like Amy Sedaris when she’s in her Candy From Strangers make up. Woof.

Korto comes out, cries a little and asks “Don’t I look hott?” And she does. Her show is beautifully styled, with the models wearing fake Japanese-inspired buns and holding little fans. The colors are vivid, and the integration of her large-scale beadwork into the dresses is innovative and exciting. Bianca (the stank ho from some season or another of ANTM) is looking fine and works the hell out of the microscopic green dress she’s presenting. Dani (Winner of some season or another of ANTM) is looking even better and is wearing an amazing evening dress, whose strap is the beadwork.

Leanne’s collection is last, and it is the most cohesive of them all. She is working with a tight palate of colors: ivory, tea, aqua. The line is a complete collection of separates that don’t necessarily look like separates, but she has skirts, shorts, pants, tops, evening wear and cocktail dresses. Her inspiration (waves) is obvious as the flaps and noodles move on the runway. It really is amazing work. The wedding dress is maybe the most beautiful thing to come out of PR since Laura’s grey evening gown with the chartreuse beading. She has chosen a watery-sounding techno for her music.

After the Show

We see Fern Malis complimenting Kenley. Oh, NOES! Korto is voted fan favorite and gets the big check. Oh, GOOD.

At Parsons the judges fill a little airtime with empty chatter about this being the year of the women and how every one of them had their own point of view and blahblahblah.

Michael Kors tells Kenley that he liked her collection. He calls it charming, not a word usually associated with Kenley. Tim says that her workmanship was good. NinaGarcia says that the flowered dress looks like Balenciaga. Kenley says that she heard that a lot today, but that she wouldn’t know because she NEVER looks at anyone elses work.

Korto is complimented for letting her heritage show without resorting to clichés. NinaGarcia says that she made it look effortless and cohesive. They rave about the long green gown. Tim tells her that her short (and one of her last minute additions) taupe dress looked “sublime” on the runway.

Leanne’s workmanship earns a “divine” from Michael. NinaGarcia raves over the fact that Leanne put everything into the show: shorts, gowns, etc. Then we get the criticism of the look. Michael says that he’s afraid that she’s going to be known as Petals Marshall (great porn name,BTW). NinaGarcia frets over what a show of 40 pieces would look like.

The designers each say why they should win. The only notable reason is that Leanne’s collection was at least 50% sustainable (green) fabrics. We get one more round of judges chatter: Tim says that Kenley needs to take a fashion history class. Korto makes complicated look deceptively easy. Is Leanne a one-note designer? Korto understands women of all sizes and shapes and can dress/design for them all. The fan poll comes in for Leanne for the win, a landslide at 50%.

Heidi announces that they have decided. Kenley, you have a great future, but not here. You’re out. Kenley leaves with a display of the same class she showed throughout: It’s bullshit. I should have won. I’m not a copycat, I’m a true artist.

Leanne wins, and Korto cries. Chin up, Korto. You won fan favorite, and you have probably already gotten at least half a dozen offers from high-end designers.

And another season comes to an end. Will there be another? Will it be on Bravo? Stay tuned.

A special tip of the wingtips to my GirlCousin, who sent me this one. Turn it up and sing along. I agree with everything, except I think the RLA and I are bound for New Zealand if this election goes to the McPalin ticket.