Hello, this is Joshua David Stein. I am back briefly to talk about the fifth season of Bravo's Project Runway whose second episode aired last night. After the results of the next four elimination challenges were leaked on Wikipedia, I began to dread Wednesday's episode. As a pitiably cableless fuck and a people person I, like many others, spend my Wednesdays in the company of fellow Runway followers. We huddle around the television, wringing outrage and joy from the illumined rectangle like it was a hearth and we but cold laborers. But with spoilers in the ether, I feared perhaps one of my friends would feel compelled to announce the loser prematurely. I was in a bind. It would be insulting to preemptively warn against spoiling. What kind of animal would even consider it? It's like walking down the street with a friend, seeing an old man with shiny shoes and bits of stubble where he missed while shaving, and sternly warning your companion, "Hey man, I don't know if you were going to do it but don't kick that guy in the dick." Would you really want to be friends with someone for whom that warning is necessary? On the other hand, the stakes are pretty high. Not only could this episode's dramatic tension be lost, but the thread for the next three episodes would be cut short too. This season five isn't strong enough to endure that. So I watched and ate Indian food in dread. We watched models being interviewed. They had nothing to say. We wondered whether that cute designer from Portland named Leann Marshall is related to Cat Power aka Chan Marshall. She isn't. We saw Stella of the Junkie Lean create a horrible asymmetrical dress that looks like it came from Hot Topic. We watched Blayne say he loved Stella's leather face. We found it funny how she says "leather" the way Billy Joel says "fire" (and "danger") in The Stranger. We soaked up our Chicken Tikka Masala with naan, All the while, eying nervously the cable box like it was an atomic clock. Twenty minutes until the end. Ten. Five. Until the contestants were on the runway and it was clear either Chan Marshall's unsister was going home or the good looking but bland Wesley. Twenty seconds left. Heidi's face filled the screen, an expanse of Germanic skin and brilliant teeth. The elimination music started. We heaved a sigh of relief. And then... From out of the corner, a voice: "I read that Wesley is going home...." WHAT. THE. FUCK. whatthefuckwhatthefuckwhatthefuck. Beetlejuice! Yes. It happened. I had stepped out of the prison gate and was struck down by a speeding truck. What is this urge to tell? "It's not like those five seconds were going to make a difference," the spoiler said. In his mind, he had euthanized the episode—arguably a good call. He had done it for his own pride but he also killed it for the rest of us. I left that house fuming, full of ਚਿਕਨ ਟਿੱਕਾ ਮਸਾਲਾ and rage. As a coda, I'm talking to Richard Lawson now on Adium. He tells me the spoiler said Suede was headed home. Not Wesley. Suede won sooooooo.....I don't know. I'm still filled with anger whether the spoiler's spoil was a joke or a lie or mangled truth, the effect was the same. He kicked the old man in the nuts. It might not have been murder but it certainly was manslaughter.