You really never know what—or who—is going to turn up in Duffy Square in midtown Manhattan these days. On my way home from work late this afternoon, I noticed that crowd staring at a stage set up for the TV show, Project Runway.
I began to rummage foggily through memories of past issues of Entertainment Weekly. Was this the show with Tyra Banks or Heidi Klum? I couldn’t remember. I did hope it was Heidi’s show rather than Tyra’s. (The one time I happened to be channel-surfing and caught Tyra passing judgment on young ladies, she appeared so severe, so cold to the losing contestants as to instantaneously, all by herself, plunge the world into a new ice age. It must be Heidi’s show they were promoting here, I decided.)
When I got home and looked up the show’s Web site, I saw that I was indeed correct, though the site referred to Lincoln Center rather than Duffy Square. While still in Duffy Square, I caught no glimpse of the blond former supermodel, nor any sign of any designers (not that I would know what a designer looked like). Not only that, but there was no trace of any aspiring model ready to strut and pout her hour upon the stage and then being heard no more.
The one person seemingly begging for attention in the vicinity of the square was a somewhat squat woman in shorts, with a guitar that she did not strum well at all, along with a cascade of hair that strategically concealed, Lady Godiva-like, portions of her torso. This must be The Naked Cowgirl, who, capitalizing on the blaze of publicity for The Naked Cowboy, had dared to appear at the Crossroads of the World.
Whatever the woman’s entertainment aspirations, she did not appear remotely ready for Project Runway, let alone any form of prime time.