'Bred Crumbs

Chew as Directed

I'm a little distrustful of chewing gum packaged like medicine. Take two Eclipse every six hours while symptoms persist.

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Fashion or Else

When Bravo announced two new gay-"friendly" series, Queer Eye for the Straight Guy and Boy Meets Boy, their appalling premises had me ready to rant. But I backed off in the name of fairness: how can one hate what one hasn't seen?

I have now seen Queer Eye for the Straight Guy.

I am now free to loathe it.

The premise is that each week, five gay guys make over a straight man's hair, clothes, house, life. Because, you see, gay men automatically have better taste than straights. But it's not this stereotype reinforcement that infuriates me. The real battleground here is not gay vs. straight, but fashionista vs. normal person. And my patience was an early casualty.

The first episode begins with the annoyingly branded "Fab Five" barging into the home of our victim, an artist preposterously named Butch, to mock everything he owns. His very tiny apartment looks like someone actually lives there, which is a great offense to the invading fashists. Butch points out that his home is all about "utility," about not having the time, obsession, or mental disorder to make it immaculate, but the Fav Five are not here to be reasonable. They are here to dictate, and off we go.

The wrecking crew, by the way, is pretty unremarkable but for two: Kyan, the hair stylist, who's distractingly attractive, and Carson, the "wit," whose wisecrack batting average is not nearly as high as he thinks. And lest we forget the gay/straight premise of the show, thank goodness, Carson is there to remind us about every fifteen seconds. If Carson were part of my life, he would be a Small Dose Person, meaning that if I had to spend more than five minutes a week with him, I would need Butch's punching bag.

After commercials, there are brief snippets from interviews with Butch's "friends," if friends is defined as "people who want to tear you apart on national TV." This segment is a subtle reminder of a dark force lurking in the background of the series. Forget gay-straight: this concept is waist-deep in Controlling Girlfriend.

Back to our story: at the stylist's, Kyan cuts Butch's long red hair and de-cheeks his beard, revealing him to be the love child of Mark McGwire and Tate Donovan. Kyan goes on and on about how he can now see that Butch is a nice, good-looking guy, but I could see that in his original state. Shallow much, Kyan?

There's also a stop at an overpriced clothier and an art gallery or something – frankly, my attention wandered at this point – before Butch returns to his pad, which has been completely rearranged, repainted and anally organized (e.g., a special tilting storage drawer just for his sneakers). And yes, the place looks kind of cool and even livable, as it should if experts spend lots of money on it. By the way, the transformation supposedly takes place in less than a day. You may chortle now.

Then comes the biggest shock of the show: it's an hour long. Cable is building a tradition of taking what would be dandy little half-hour treats – your While You Were Outs, your Monster Garages – and padding them out double. Do these extra thirty minutes make me look fat? No, they make you look very, very thin.

Next, Carson dresses up Butch, in the process thoroughly destroying the conceit that Gays Know Better. First he puts Butch in a tuxedo shirt, the second-ugliest shirt known to man*, paired with some of Butch's old splattered-upon painter's pants, with the waistband rolled over for some reason. The primary accomplishment of this wretched ensemble is to diminish the horror when Butch is next fitted into a dot-pattern Western shirt.

Unfashionable me. Look upon me, Designers, and tremble.

In the end Butch shows up at his art-gallery opening, the excuse for this whole exercise, looking pretty good, but that's in part because when he finally dresses himself for the evening, he ignores some of the taste-minders' commandments, insisting on maintaining some of his own personality and preferences. (Trading Spaces would not stand for this sort of behavior.)

The opening's a hit, Butch is proud of himself, the Fab Five are gloating, and best of all, I have now done my duty and tried Queer Eye, and now I never have to see these guys again. Until, inevitably, they show up at my house, where my untucked T-shirts, randomly selected bedsheets, unstowed clothes, and complete absence of hair gel would disgust them silly. Really, it's fun to think about what a wad I would get their pansy panties in.

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* The prize-winner? Aloha.

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Customer Service Tip #382

If you are a clerk in an optometrist's office, and a customer walks up and says, "I'm here to pick up my glasses," the correct response is cheerfully answering, "Certainly. Your name please?" as opposed to, say, staring blankly at the customer while rubbing your neck.

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