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German glamazon Heidi Klum—(“As you know in fashion: one day you are in; the next, you are out.”) whose deliciously chilly Teutonic parting shot to each exiting contestant is an auf Wiedersehen followed by a double air kiss—is a perfect host. Her fellow judges nicely round out the mix: designer Michael Kors, former Elle editor-at-large Nina Garcia, and a guest judge along the lines of Victoria Beckham. Kors’s sense of humor mitigates the sting of his criticism (“Hel-LO! Slutty, slutty, slutty!”), while Garcia, unfairly labeled as too tough, brings an intelligent, high-fashion perspective to the proceedings (“Don’t bore me”).

Oh, how do I love thee, Project Runway? Let me count the ways. The heart of the show is witty, cultured Tim Gunn, former chair of fashion design at Parsons (and now chief creative officer of Liz Claiborne). One of the highlights is his visit to the workroom to inspect the designs-in-progress. He frowns in concentration, one hand on his chin. “Talk to me,” he’ll say after a long silence, and the contestant ramblingly explains his or her vision. If he’s pleased, he says “Carry on.” Less skilled contestants get a diplomatic “I’m concerned.”

Much has been made of Gunn’s extensive vocabulary and liberal use of words such as “constructivist” and “egregious” and “amorphous.” “Why is there so much consternation and Sturm und Drang?” he’ll ask a blank-faced designer. Gunn’s eloquence helps to tamp down that sheepish self-loathing that reality television can elicit—the same tawdry shame that waits at the grease-soaked bottom of a McDonald’s bag after a binge.

I’m desperate to be Tim Gunn’s friend, and fantasize about meeting him at the Neue Galerie uptown for Viennese coffees at Café Sabarsky before taking a stroll in Central Park, where we discuss art, literature, life. Alternatively, he might summon me to an elegant little pre-opera supper at his apartment before we attend a performance of La Gioconda together at the Met, where we discreetly squeeze each other’s arms during onstage moments of high emotion.

There are many other soothing constants that I look forward to each week, like the pitiless tradition of tossing out an extraneous model during the first few minutes of the show (they also compete for a spread in Elle magazine) just to whet the audience’s bloodlust. Auf wiedersehen, Tatiana!

I love the endless, brazen product placement, as Gunn says straightfacedly, You-have-an-hour-to-send-models-to-the-TRESemmé-hair-salon-and-the-L’Oéal-Paris-makeup-room-and-please-borrow-generously-from-the-Bluefly.com-accessory-wall. I adore the way the most minor setback is blown to Titanic proportions (Tim to season five contestant Keith: “Your model, Runa, had to drop out.” Cue dramatic music and a tight closeup of a white-faced Keith, blind with shock as he struggles to absorb this telegram delivered straight…from…Hell).

And who can resist the brash, flamboyant, high-octane contestants, with their killer competitiveness, their unvarnished ambition? If a designer is praised by the judges during the fashion-show segment, the camera will gleefully cut to another designer who is grimacing with disgust and naked hostility. I rejoice in the genuine anger and indignation the contestants display when they are eliminated, leaving with the requisite, defiant “you haven’t heard the last of me” quote. They do everything but shake their fists at the camera. Frankly, I’m shocked that no one has tried to burn Parsons down. Never, ever will they admit to an inferior creation that actually deserved to be cut.

So many gaudy, glitzy, eccentric fabulons! Campy costume designer Chris March, passive-aggressive schemer Wendy Pepper, spacey artist Elisa Jimenez (who used her own saliva to measure her clothing), glamorous, poised Austin Scarlett (yes, his real name) with his cravats and perfectly arched eyebrows. Inevitably, there is a bemused straight guy thrown into the group who holds himself slightly apart from his more unabashedly gay competitors. (Kevin