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You know Frank—he's been writing about menswear, sales, television, new shops, the recession, Lisa Loeb, the Golden Girls and getting blasted for Racked and Racked New York for over a year. Well, we think it's time you got to know him and his quirky-irreverent views on life and fashion (which—as far as he's concerned—are essentially the same thing) even better with his brand new column: Love, Frank. Taking the form of an open letter and always signed with love, Frank will rant about whatever style-related conundrum he encounters in a given week. So buckle your two-toned leather Moschino belts, folks, it's going to be ? Something.
Dear the A-List,
Omigod, have you seen yourself? You're disgusting! Your cast basically consists of the worst people in the whole entire world (as well as photographer Mike Ruiz whom we actually really like). These guys—these gays—make the worst of the Real Housewives seem like functioning, professional adults.
Let's see—there's Rodiney, a semi-English-speaking semi-model who moved to New York after dating his second boyfriend ever Reichen for about seven minutes. There's Reichen who is, like, some accomplished army dude/published author/reality TV whore who now thinks he has the vocal abilities to carry a (gay) musical—until producers tore up his contract.
There's Ryan who, at 30, is practically the granny of the group because his tremendously wealthy, 38-year-old banker husband made an honest man and "business" owner out of him (it's a salon and whenever sassy bearded-lady assistant TJ gets a call about an appointment they're swamped but, yes, there's a free chair tomorrow afternoon). Ryan thinks having a personal designer on call to fashion him overall-jumpsuits and slinky party tops is A-list. And he's historically pretty psyched on attention—remember this infuriating New York Times trend piece on home aquariums with $5000 monthly maintenance costs? Hi, Ryan! Anyway, said banker husband (Desmond) has the sense to take absolutely no interest in the show—he's walked across camera maybe twice.
There's Austin—an over-the-hill (22) and morbidly-obese (in an incredibly fit but without defined abs sort of way (still, you would not believe the fat jokes)) former model who apparently had a fling with Marc Jacobs and was a real big deal except we've never heard of him and he doesn't look familiar. He's toxic and plotting and immature and wears Express and is an absolute drunk and is trying really hard to steal Reichen away from Rodiney by insulting Reichen's "manhood" and making the duo's weekend Palm Springs fling (Palm Flings) sound like a very long engagement.
And yet, Austin's evils pale in comparison to everything we are too stunned to even be able to hate about Derek. Derek is 26. He is in model management. He uses the word "fierce" without irony. He throws impromptu drag parties and makes his awkward female assistant shave his legs and publicly compliment him on his being the most convincing woman in the room (he wasn't). He orders champagnes at business meetings. He employs a matchmaker to find him wealthy men to hopefully marry so he can make his already fabulous lifestyle even more fabulous. He brags about being on every VIP list in the City but somehow he (and the rest of the cast) mainly hang out in conspicuously empty restaurants, bars and clubs. He's a humongous drama queen; he picks fights; he compulsively spray tans; he wears Versace. Oh, and if you work in retail you're not marriage material.
Vapid, social-climbing, hideous, evil—yeah, you name it. The show is a disaster. It's despicable. Every minute of the show sets the gay rights movement back years. Logo—you should be ashamed of yourself.
In conclusion: Omigod we can not wait for tonight's episode!
· Love, Frank [RNA]