We should probably just be content with the fact that Jay Manuel is not as orange as a cheddar omelet, nor clad in enough pleather to render costuming The Matrix IV: Mo’ Matrix, Mo’ Problems nigh on impossible.

But you guys know by now that we’re never truly content, right?


Wicked leopard moccasins, Jay, but no matter how hard you try, the post-party won’t get moved to the heyday of Studio 54 — the design for the flux capacitor got lost forever when Dr. Emmett Brown disappeared on that flying Wild West-era train with Mary Steenburgen in tow. [Oh, God, we wish we could erase that movie from our minds, but every so often it burps itself back up in our brains like chunky, rancid mind vomit.]

Maybe in these flared, leisure-suited times of distress, we can turn to Tyra Banks for a sweet dose of sanity — don’t know if you’ve heard, but apparently she’s deemed herself the voice of a few generations of women, so I personally am dying to hear what it is that we’re all trying to say. Take it away, Tyra.


Huh. Apparently, our generation is trying to convey that  today’s variety of satin bathrobe/kimono hybrids need only a hearty dose of 1980s Demi Moore in order to be party-ready.

Thank God we have Tyra to show us the way.