June 2006 Archives

So I, of course, once knew the song stylings of Gavin Degraw mostly thanks to the efforts of STAR 98.7 -- the radio station in Los Angeles that plays a mixture of 80s music, moderately hip "adult contemporary"  numbers, and the most inoffensive selections of current rock and pop. I don't know what station this called is where you live, but it's the one you feel safe listening to in the car with your mother, the one that played that Third Eye Blind song every hour on the hour back when you (and by "you," I mean me) were in college, although they bleeped out the reference to crystal meth. (Admittedly, at the time, you REALLY LIKED that song.) I assume they are also the radio station most confounded by Nelly Furtado's makeover. "Nelly Furtado has a new song! Excellent! Our listeners loved that time she was like a bird. Wait! It's called...'Promiscuous Girl'? Um. Huh. Do we....are we...can we....? This is curious indeed."

ANYWAY. STAR played a lot of that Gavin Degraw song. You know the one. "I DON'T WANNA be anything other than what I've been trying to be LATELY." That one.  That one that's also the theme song for One Tree Hill (which, if I watched, I would be very embarassed about, while also being excited to find out who drowns and who's knocked up after a season finale in which three people are trapped in a limo under water and four women are potentially pregnant. Four!).  Apparently, what's he's trying to be lately is DERANGED:

That. Is a mess. You know someone half-tucked that shirt on purpose, not realizing that the half-tuck is not attactive, but rather an awkward way for a guy to tell the entire world that he really wants to seem casual, but he also really wants you to check out his awesome ribbon belt. I'm not even going to talk about the hat. I suspect Degraw is The Guy Who Wears a Hat, because he thinks it makes him look all interesting and retro and nonchalant, when really it just makes us wonder if he's losing his hair. Here's a suggestion, kid:  try to find a stylist who is not going to make you look like you might be a little tiny bit drunk.

Aww -- it was very sweet of Anne Hathaway to do her own sartorial homage to Aaron Spelling.

... That is what this is, right? Because why else would a person wear a cropped vest with one of her father's shirts? Surely not because it looks good, so I have no choice but to assume Anne is having a deliberate and touching Brenda Walsh moment.

We've written before about the trevails of trampy style twins Jodie Marsh and Jordan, Britain's leading misguided exhibitionists of the moment who, although not actually related, sport virtually identical plastic breasts, overdone faces, cheap hair extensions, and embarrassing clothes. The caliber of camp in England is high, and these two are senior-level counselors.

And in an effort to keep you abreast -- ahem -- of their continued exploits, we present to you a photo of Jodie Marsh's latest and greatest ensemble, which she wore to the UK premiere of Lindsay Lohan's already-forgotten "romantic" "comedy" Just My Luck.

Of course, out of respect for those of you who are at work, and do not wish to be assaulted in this manner without warning, we're installing one of those "after the jump" thingamies for cases like this. So you'll have to click to relish the fug.

I don't know what it is about this outfit that bothers me. It's really not that offensive, actually.

Except the dress looks like a nightgown, and the shoes are heinous, and, admittedly, I've never really liked the classic LV logo bag because it's so LOOK AT MY LOUIS VUITTON, but I really don't like it paired with a white nightgown, because she looks as though she's being hustled out of a burning building in the middle of the night, and she only had the time to grab her purse and throw on the random pair of shoes next to the front door before racing to safety. If you're going to wear a nightgown-esque number, why weigh it down with all these heavy accessories? Load it her up with little light, insubstantial shoes and a smaller bag, and she'll look ready for summer, instead of ready for Rescue Me.

From afar, when it was a thumbnail-sized photo, I thought Summer Glau's dress was actually a scene from a child's cartoon -- Thomas the Tank Engine, perhaps. And that was weird enough. But then, I saw it this size, and realized it's actually just a completely mystifying and terrible tableau of somebody's surrealist Fisher Price nightmares.

What is that thing on the left? Is it the crumpled body of a person who has been left for dead? Is it... no, wait, now all I can see is the crumpled body of a person who's been left for dead. This thing is like a fashion Rorschach test. So unfortunately, it probably says very strange things indeed about my psyche if all I can make out is the form of a corpse, but at least I can take comfort in the fact that it says worse things about her psyche that she wore this thing out of the house in the first place.

If Siegfried and Roy locked Maria von Trapp in their living room and refused to release her until she'd found a way to design the most flamboyant yet impractically unflambuoyant swimwear possible, this outfit would be the result.

Poor Paris Bennett. Bitter that she lost American Idol and was thusly denied a glorious "I'm going to DISNEYLAND!" moment, she defiantly toddled over to the Warner Bros. studio store, determined to make lemonade out of the bruising canary-colored fruit life had lobbed at her.

But life would have the last laugh, as the lemonade proved tainted. With The Crazy.

If you had a time machine -- like, say, a DeLorean outfitted with the latest in flux capacitors -- and you had paid me a little visit back in, oh, 2003 to tell me that: a) Peter Brady -- yes, of The Brady Bunch -- was going to reappear on our radar as some kind of celebrity-like person, and, b) that he would end up marrying that girl who just won that new modeling show Tyra Banks is doing, I would have asked you why the hell you were wasting my time with these clearly ridiculous lies, when you could be telling me if I was going to get to meet and/or marry George Clooney within the next three years. And, yet, here we are:

Peter Brady is all, "Check it OUT! I married a MERMAID! Suck on THAT, Greg!"

India.Arie looked so elegant at the Grammys. I loved her dress -- it was understated but still glamorous and eye-catching.

But at the BET Awards... well, she was less "eye-catching" than "tormenter of the ocular cavity":

This is a bit aggressive for me. I'm not sure what she's camouflaging herself from -- we're not fighting any more World Wars in the poppy-strewn battlefields of Ypres, at least not at the moment, so the "In Flanders Field" theme seems a bit unnecessary.

Life after Melrose Place must be rough. It's got to be hard to be colorful -- surely everything in life seems so hopelessly devoid of hue when compared with that rich, lusty universe. Especially because a day without Michael Mancini and all his smug, gleeful treachery is like a football team without tight pants: rather less glorious, and indeed, faintly alarming.

But some people do still try. Marcia Cross, for one, is making a game stab. Kelly Rutherford, on the other hand, seems to have blah-ed herself into oblivion.

Now, I understand the perils of fair skin, being pale as Casper myself. But the way some people counterbalance that is with sporting, say, an actual hair color, or some eyebrow tint, or even a spot of makeup. They also tend not to wear colors that make them look consumptive.

As far as the dress itself looking fresh from Gymboree's summer line, well, that's just sad and wrong no matter how dreary and wan you look.

Oh, Kelly. It didn't have to be like this. And it's not like you haven't worked at all... what's the deal, here? Is it just that nothing seems worth it any more? Because I'm sure we could find you a reason to spruce it up a little. Gay Matt found it on ABC. Jack Wagner found it on daytime TV (and by ironing out more than a few things on his face, methinks). Lisa Rinna managed to extract some meaning from her life after Melrose by being dragged around on a reality program in what amounts to sequined netting. Which, hey, one girl's costly psychological trauma is another girl's pig-in-shit fantasy. Props to her. So what can we do for you?

I think step one is a dye job (or if she's pregnant, some organic dye a la Britney, or a wig; surely she could ask Marcia about wigs) and some lip gloss.

I really hate doing this to Lynda Carter. After all, she IS Wonder Woman. And no one -- no one! -- loved Wonder Woman more than I did. Under-roos? Check. Bathing suit? Check.  Hours of twirling in the aforementioned swimsuit in the backyard, in hopes of transforming into Wonder Woman? Check. A tragically misguided decision to tie the cat up with my Lasso of Truth (in reality: twine) so as to interrogate her? Check.  An equally misguided crush on Lyle Waggoner? Check. The desire to move to Paradise Island, where Wonder Woman's mother lived, because I liked the togas all the ladies wore? Check. A change of plans when I realized that there were no men on Paradise Island, and I would have to leave Lyle behind? Check.  However:

Without the sleeves, this outfit would have been understated, sophisticated, flattering.  The sleeves, however, make her look as though she flew to this premiere under her own power.

Which she obviously didn't need to do. Everyone knows Wonder Woman has an invisible plane.

Victoria Rowell always looks so utterly happy, even when she looks insane, that it's really rather endearing. Of course, it can't erase the insanity of running around like a 1980s-era jazzercize instructor who borrowed Grandma's shoes and Grandpa's hat for a party, nor can it deter people (like the gaggle of ladies in the background here) from looking at her like she accidentally left all her marbles on the Chinese Checkers board. It also won't prevent the inevitable spilling of something red -- wine, sauce -- down her front at some point during the night. But still... endearing.

In addition to her uncanny sense of occasion when it comes to wedding attire, Alexis Morell Carrington Colby Dexter Rowan knows exactly what to wear when:

1) Preparing to choke out a bitch:

The answer is a gold lame ball gown with some sort of cape/stole attachment, and of course the bitch whose hair is getting pulled out of her head is one Ms. Heather Locklear, whose present-day arch-enemy Denise Richards is at home right now grabbing a pen and taking notes.

2) Being the aforementioned bitch who is getting choked out:

Nobody sparkles during a near-death experience quite like Joan Collins -- you get the sense that her Alexis always dressed to make sure that if she were suddenly killed, she would look perfect in her coffin.

3) Shooting skeet out on the range while your arch-enemy is out riding her horse, so that she might fall and miscarry the baby that she and her husband -- your ex and one true love -- so desperately want.

The shawl! The kilt! The kicky tam o'shanter! The surly gay son -- no, wait, he's not gay; his tenderness merely transcends gender... no, wait, yes he is gay... no, wait, he owns the Denver Broncos... ah, but he's in love with the quarterback!

4) Tearing into a chicken wing as if it is the head of your recently reappeared child, who has rather rudely tried to frame you for certain shenanigans involving the attempted slow murder of your stepson via decorating his walls with toxic lead paint.

Only Alexis would wear white -- and a hat -- while eating finger-food.

5) Preparing to hurl a drink at your mouthy former husband and on-off lover, with whom you are bound to be on again because you cannot resist the snug fit of his trousers and the fact that he once had the audacity to try taking you to the cleaners and to bed in the same day:

Pink-bow pearl earrings, of course -- the perfect complement to the Pepto-pink bridesmaid dress you are wearing. And apparently, the earrings do work to increase accuracy:

Well played, Alexis. As ever, well played.

And, because it cannot be said enough: Bravo, Mr. Spelling. We know there are more shows than just these campy few -- who doesn't hold a soft spot for The Love Boat? And Charlie's Angels! -- but you gave us more catfights, snappy comebacks, wedding-day massacres in made-up countries, tragic explosions, accidental drownings, bouts of amnesia, disturbing Blake and Krystal dead-fishes-kissing love scenes, homoerotic man-wrestling on rooftops, and mountings of Dr. Michael Mancini than we could've ever dreamed in a million years.

And if that hag Tori -- who is nothing without you on just about every level -- really didn't fly back to see you when you were recovering from your stroke, and really was strolling along the streets of Toronto with her oily husband while you were on your deathbed (come on -- making up over the phone? Please, I don't buy it), then we hope you cut her out of your glorious will. Give it all to Randy and Candy. Their names rhyme, anyway, so it's obviously for the best.

There comes a moment in each girl's life when she thinks to herself: "My incredibly wealthy fiance -- the arch rival of my former husband, with whom I may still be in love -- has just wound up in the hospital, thanks to my overly vigorous love-making.  I better go marry him now, so I can inherit all his money, and his company, and therefore ruin the lives of everyone who has ever wronged me. But he's only semi-conscious, and he's sleeping in an oxygen tent. What can I possibly wear so that he can properly see me, his glorious bride?"

As always, Alexis Carrington (almost Colby, as soon as she gets to the hospital) has the answer:

A MEMO FROM THE DESK OF DR. KIMBERLY SHAW:

If your hair looks like this:

It's perfectly acceptable to wear a wig.

DAVID: I really, really like my outfit. I am a hip-hop legend in the making.

BRENDA: I am SO bored with it taking three hours to unzip my pants. GOD, it's no WONDER Dylan dumped me for that bitch.

BRANDON: Calm down, Bren. We all have high-rise pants. The whole world is suffering. Andrea and I are going to do an editorial about it for The Blaze.

BRENDA: Can it, BRANDON. Aren't you supposed to be at the Peach Pit?

DAVID: No, I mean, look at me. I really think I'm going to take the music world by storm -- George Michael would totally wear this. Why hasn't Donna had sex with me?

BRENDA: Because you're dressed like the village idiot who ran off to join a marching-band circus.

BRANDON: Easy, Bren. Remember, you're wearing a vest.

BRENDA: Thanks, BRANDON. You know, I hardly think wearing tight jeans stuffed with a bowling ball gives you the right to talk about other people's clothing.

BRANDON: Chill, Bren. [Insert name of Girlfriend Of The Week here] likes them that way. And Mrs. Teasley lets me get Steve out of trouble more often when I'm dressing left.

DAVID: ... Oh God, you're right. These pants are terrible. They look like something Scott would wear, if he hadn't accidentally shot himself with his father's gun while trying to impress me.

BRENDA: David, I don't want to talk about death. You are so INSENSITIVE to the fact that sometimes, I get really scared. I got held at GUNPOINT. And Dylan's father blew up.

BRANDON: Don't worry, Bren. David's not going to blow up.

BRENDA: I don't CARE if David blows up, BRANDON. GOD. You never LISTEN to me. I'm just SAYING that...

DAVID: Will you guys stop pretending I don't exist? Donna's never going to let me inside her spandex pants. She is so precious to me. But... would it be weird if I asked out Kelly again? I know she's my stepsister and all, but I DID see her naked. She is also so precious to me. Am I precious to her?

BRENDA: David, Kelly is a total slut. She'll fall in love with anything that dangles.

BRANDON: Relax, Bren. Nat told me never to...

BRENDA: Stop lecturing me, BRANDON. We can't all get a Zen high off the fumes of our hair gel.

BRANDON: Look, I think we all need to just take a deep breath.

BRENDA: It's just so hard sometimes. All my life I've wanted to be treated like an adult, but I've suddenly realized... being an adult comes with so much responsibility, and maybe I'm just not ready. Maybe I just want to be Daddy's little girl sometimes.

DAVID: Uh, Brenda? I think you picked the wrong time to spit out the moral of the week.

BRENDA: Well, at least I'm not a VIRGIN, David. At least I'm LEARNING THINGS. At least I finally got my HAIR right.

BRANDON: Dial it down, Bren. It's not David's fault that he drew the short straw and got stuck with Donna. Let's just be cool, okay? Come on -- we should go find a homeless person to bring home for the holidays.

We have learned so many things from 90210. Brandon Walsh taught us not to have a gambling addiction,  drink and drive, or date a bigot.  Kelly Taylor taught us that the polite date rapist at least brings a blanket along.  And Brenda Walsh -- well, she taught us the most of all.

For example, the importance of properly grooming ones bangs:

The power of a judgmental glare:

And finally, that it takes a very special sort of girl to pull off a necktie:

And that girl is Brenda Walsh.

She looks so happy here.  Like a kicky, relaxed Paula Poundstone fan. Of course, at any moment,  she could fly into a righteous, judgmental rage, call you a whore, announce that she never wants to see you again, and stomp off, but that's the glorious magic of Brenda Walsh. She can do whatever she wants. Up to and including menswear.

Regular readers here at Go Fug Yourself are well aware that Heather and I are devoted, longtime worshippers at the altar of  Aaron Spelling.  Long have we wished for an All Spelling All the Time network -- just think of it! 90210 followed by Melrose Place followed by Models, Inc followed by Dynasty followed by yet another episode of 90210! Paradise! We really would never leave the house! And when we weren't mentally scheduling this delicious programming, we were dreaming of creating a new hour-long nighttime drama starring Heather Locklear, Joan Collins, and Shannen Doherty, each scheming to bring the other to her (satin-clad) knees!

So it was with great sadness that we learned that the man who taught us  never to fake a French accent in France,  how to best manipulate your boss into killing himself so you can steal his job, and the power of a well-placed fur turban has finally taken leave of this mortal coil and gone to the great Spelling mansion in the sky, where we presume the bowling alley is staffed entirely by vixens and the wrapping paper room is full of caviar.  And therefore, today, in honor of our hero of delicious, trashy goodness, Go Fug Yourself is dedicated to the sartorial triumphs and missteps of the men and women who stomped their way through the various works of Mr Spelling with such delightful, dramatic elan. *  We rip off our wig to you, sir.

* except 7th Heaven. We hate that show.

Welcome to episode two of the new hit series Nelly Furtado and the Pantaloons of Terror:

Same awful taste and blood-flow prevention, new woeful color.

Even Adam Sandler and Kate Beckinsale seemed alarmed while she performed on their shared TRL episode.

Adam: Dude, this chick is craaaaaazy.

Kate: Do you think her hair is prettier than mine?

Adam: I think she is from hell.

Kate: That outfit makes her knees look bloated. THAT is why the only liquid I eat is lemon juice.

Adam: You scare me.

Kate: I'm famished. Got any Tic-Tacs?

Adam: I have no idea why I am here.

Kate: Or, God, I'm so hungry I could even be really decadent and have a sugar-free Life-Saver.

Adam: I'm sure I could rustle up a cracker.

Kate: What? What kind of shit is that? A CRACKER? I'm supposed to eat starches now?

Adam: Seriously, I have no idea what I'm doing here.

Kate: What are you trying to do, fatten me up on the eve of my big movie release? BOLLOCKS TO YOU.

Adam: The rapping genie girl is starting to look better and better to me.

Sienna Miller, in New York City:

There once was a young English lassie

Who occasionally tried to look classy

But even her basic black

Brought a measure of tack.

The poor girl only ever looked assy.

Neat trick, promoting your movie about a more-or-less alien superhero by inviting an actual alien to the festivities.

Apparently they don't have carbohydrates on her home planet. (Nor any good colorists.) We have much to teach her.

Adam Brody, still occasionally charming on The O.C. even though the show itself has slid into an abyss of suck, is -- according to IMDb -- currently filming a movie called Smiley Face in which he plays a character named "Steve the Dealer."

I can only hope, then, that the following is actually Method Skeeze:

Still, it's concerning. One's upper lip is not for pubic fuzz. He looks dirty and sweaty and as if he smells faintly of feet. It's such a shame, too, because he and Rachel Bilson make such an awfully cute couple.

So, whether it's contractually obligated skeeze or not, let's all just hope that this passes soon -- that he speed-acts the hell out of Steve the Dealer and then goes home, showers, and takes a Mach-3 to that outcropping.

Dear Justin,

I just heard a rumor that you finally broke up with that scrawy cracked-out ho and I just wanted to tell you that everything I told Matt Lauer about how my marriage is awesome and stuff is a total lie.  Call me! 

I made a picture of what it would be like if we got back together! Look:

Seriously, don't we look happy together? It will totally be just like this, too!

So call me! Or you can email me! It's the same email I always had. Or you can IM me if you want! IM is good! I'm still SweetCheetoKisses on AIM! Or just come by the house! Come by whenever you want! My mom will TOTALLY let you in.

Okay! I'm really excited! This is going to be great!

Bye!

Love!

Britney

PS: Seriously, don't we look happy together? I can't wait!

PPS: Wear that hat!

Many happy returns to Kristen Bell of Veronica Mars, who, despite her birthday being in mid-July, apparently turned 82 last night at the Superman Returns premiere:

Now, most grandmothers wear that kind of smock either while shuffling around the house making some kind of pork-chop-and-prunes special recipe, or out to the hairdresser with white slacks and natural pantyhose poking out of clear plastic open-toed sandals. Props, then, to Granny Bell for showing a little leg as her tentlike Palm Beach couture billows around her.

But, psst, Kristen! Don't be late for bridge! Marge is bringing her famous date-topped Jell-o salad!

I love the look on Ethan Embry's girfriend's face here:

She's clearly thinking,  "I can't believe I let him out of the house in this outfit. The Miami Vice tee is one thing, but the hat? Why didn't I throw it out the car window when I had the chance? And the cigar?  The cigar AND the hat? Well, this is what I get for marrying an actor. All the mugging for the camera. It never ends. But he was so cute in That Thing You Do!  I couldn't turn that down.  But the hat collection has got to go. I'm burning it tomorrow. He'll thank me later."

Dear Diary,

"Well, hello, sailor!"

Hee! I think that is the coolest pickup line EVAH! And I decided that I should dress like a sailor so that somebody would come up and say it to me and I could reply, "Sailor? I hardly know the dude." HAHA! People don't think I'm the smart one but I am, and it's good that I'm writing this diary so that when I die -- or at least when I survive some sort of tragedy, like that time I went into that horrible Goodwill store because that bitch Nicole told me they'd sell me new tires for my car -- I can write my life story and use snatches (hee! I know, Diary, but don't laugh, 'cuz it totally is a real word) of my journals to make people who hate me start crying about how much I was misunderstood.

I'm also really sensitive, though. The Simpsons totally made me sad the other day (I started watching when ManParis and I were dating and he never wanted to leave the house. He got me hooked). Anyway, Dorky Kid's father got dumped by his wife, and so he did what everyone does and recorded an album. And, like, he sang his big song and it was all, "Take my hand with your glooooove of loooooove!" Isn't that totally rad poetry? And the little dude was, like, bumming out. I told my assistant to call him and get his address so I could send him my single, and maybe invite him to a party to make him feel better (but, accidentally leave him off the list, because the invitation is enough and I don't want him there really). But apparently she couldn't find him listed in the book.

So, as a way of reaching out to the dude, I decided to dig out this wicked awesome white glove from my mother's closet -- she uses it to make the maids cry; seriously, some people are so lazy about dusting the inside of the dumpster -- and wear it so that he knows that, like, in his honor I will totally borrow somebody's feeling and squeeze it with my love-glove. And I did, because I always do, but -- don't tell the little blue-haired guy -- the glove was kind of annoying after a while. I had cut it in half, and it kept falling off in people's drinks, and in the toilet, and down a few people's pants. Seriously, that is the last time that I let Nicky convince me I can't wear fingerless gloves because it's Opposite Day. [I think she was lying about that anyway, since it's not on my calendar until August.]

I have a confession to make, though, Diary: I'm not really sure about the shoes. They remind me of mustard, which I refuse to eat, because Stabby Nachos told me it comes from squeezing people's mustache clippings and I do NOT think PETA would be very happy about THAT, and they hate me enough already. Truthfully, Nicky made me wear the shoes because she's doing some stupid Tweety Bird collection for one of those stores, and I secretly think that is lame, but I don't have the heart to tell her that -- at least not until there are enough other people around to overhear it, because otherwise, she won't stop and I'll have to put up with her on Project Runway again when they won't even return my CALLS, those bitches.

Anyway, good night, sweet diary! I have to go wash the love-glove before Mom sees the stains on it. I might just plant it in the maid's purse -- is that wrong? She totally looked at me meanly the other day when I told her to separate out the latex in my garbage from all the recyclables (I LOVE the Earth, dude). So she sort of deserves what she gets, I think, right? Right!

High-five with my love-glove,

P

Look, there's no denying that Nicole Richie NEEDED a stylist. Remember this?

Damn, she was a hot mess. (Although, in retrospect, her fleshly little bod is cute. She should have held on to some of that. ) The hair? No. The....knee sock things? No. The...everything? NO. No. No. No, no, no.

And then the stylist entered. And at first, it was all sweetness and light in the Kingdom of Richie.  She toned up and cleaned up, and yes, she cleaned up good:

Adorable. Great color, great accessories, great change for the better. Well done, Nicole! Well done, Stylist Whose Name We Didn't Know At The Time.

And then. Then things took, as we all know, a turn for the worse. Nicole got skinnier and skinnier and tanner and tanner. Her hair started to fall out. Her sunglasses ate her face. Her bag was the size of a Geo Metro. And we all learned the name of Nicole's stylist: Rachel Zoe. And for a while, Rachel Zoe was THE SHIT.  All the starlets began to look Zoe-fied. Lindsay Lohan dropped weight like a kid with a tape worm. Mischa Barton could barely carry her ginourmous satchels. Everywhere you looked, everyone looked exactly the same.

And then the plot grew more sinister yet. Behold Nicole Richie in a photo taken just last night:

Behold Rachel Zoe:

It's like deja vu all over again.

Now, don't get me wrong: Nicole is almost always beautifully dressed. She suits Zoe's aesthetic more than anyone else, and I don't know if that's just serendipitous, or if Zoe and Nicole just work together nicely. But there is a limit. And I feel like the moment you wake up and look in the mirror and realize that you look EXACTLY LIKE YOUR STYLIST is the moment you decide not to rely on that stylist quite so much.

Not to mention the fact that Rachel Zoe is allegedly only 33 years old.  Look at that face. Can you think of a better advertisement for the faithful application of sunscreen and the occasional consumption of saturated fat than her deep-fried ass? Break out the Coppertone once in a while, kid, or you're going to end up as leathery as the Chloe bags you pressed on every under 25 in town last season.

Sigh. And Hilary Duff had been doing so well lately, too:

Although her shoes are making me twitch a little, Haylie looks quite nice.

Hilary, however, looks like she just finished a marathon of the 90210 episodes in which Brenda and Donna spend the summer in Paris, and while David is back home warbling "You Are So Precious To Me" at some new girl in high-rise ankle-baring pants, Donna learns to smoke and briefly takes up modeling with a lascivious French manager. And with Dylan and Kelly back home cuddling on the beach to Sophie B. Hawkins tunes and Brandon busying himself by dating a bigot, Brenda runs around judging Donna and then faking a bad French accent, because she met Reeeeeeek (Dean Cain) and wants him to think she is an exotic Parisienne depsite the fact that they are IN FRANCE and NONE of the other French people speaking English sound like Brenda does.

And while I completely advocate spending time with that slate of episodes ("Not all black people have rhythm, and not all Jewish people have money," Brandon haughtily sniffs at Brooke The Bigot, after she has implied that Andrea Zuckerman sounds like she ought to be loaded; "You remind me of George Michael," New Girl purrs at a squeaky, convulsive and inordinately baggy David Silver, who oozes hapless virginity), I do not advocate crafting a personal style from them.

I mean... a spandex off-the-shoulder minidress? A newsboy? Leggings that tuck into her shoes, yearning to live the dream of being stirrup pants? I think not, Hil. As beautiful as it was, 90210 is a moment in time. Let it be.

And, to Aaron Spelling, who reportedly had a stroke last weekend: We hope our dream of an all-Spelling, all-the-time network is soon fulfilled, because sir, you have made some genius television.  (We'll ignore 7th Heaven, Aaron -- we know you didn't mean to inflict that nightmare on us, or for so long.) You have a lot to be proud of, especially if it's true that you disapprove of Tori's new tattoo mannequin, and we hope flights of angels that look like Joan Collins sing you back to good health.

Every so often, I like to hop into my little wayback machine and revisit a timeless movie: Ferris Bueller's Day Off, The Breakfast Club, Breakin' II: Electric Boogaloo... and, of course, that tart little time capsule of a high-school rom-com Drive Me Crazy, starring Adrian Grenier as the outcast that Melissa Joan Hart turns into the next big popular stud.

This movie is fun because, at the time, Adrian Grenier was unfamous, and MJH was a veteran of two incredibly long-titled series, Clarissa Explains It All and Sabrina, The Teenage Witch. Fast-forward to the present day, though, and Adrian Grenier is a newly minted huge star because of his role on Entourage as a newly minted huge star, and Melissa Joan Hart is clinging to her last delicate tendrils of fame by prancing around in what amounts to a shiny tarp:

She needn't look so pleased with herself -- a tatty red vinyl corset dress is not a commendable achievement. Even if you've shed your pregnancy weight, it doesn't mandate making the world feel so close to Wonder Woman's prom that we're practically puking spiked punch on her plastic skirt.

What she needs is a little helping hand from Adrian. Might I suggest a role on Entourage? We could find out that Johnny Drama once guest-starred in a very special episode of Sabrina, and Vince pulls some strings to get those two crazy kids to rekindle that unique on-screen magic for a big-screen reimagining of Who's The Boss? It has special-guest-star Emmy™ written all over it.

I used to think Kate Beckinsale was SO beautiful. Like when she was in Much Ado About Nothing, all English-looking and fresh-faced and lovely? So pretty.  But then things went sort of pear-shaped with her: there was that story about her peeing into her director's Thermos because she was angry with him, and there were rumors that she was very difficult to work with (which is to be expected, I suppose, if you turn to urine to solve your differences), and, of course, there's the whole Underworld II thing to contend with. So the bloom is off the rose, so to speak.

Much as the shirt is off the girl, I guess.

Leaving aside the fact that this shirt might actually work for evening -- which it could, with clever undergarmenting --  I am perplexed by all the ties and ribbons and bows that are happening here. I can't figure out which tie attaches to which piece of clothing. Is she wearing two shirts? Or is this a complex series of scarves? Or are these like very short, very posh cargo shorts? 

Speaking of Posh, Ms Beckinsale looks more like her every day, with the long long hair and the drawn face and the big, big glasses. Don't get me wrong: despite  her semi-regular appearances in this space, I rather love Posh.  Having just devoured her first (!) autobiography, Learning to Fly, I've decided that I really want Posh and Becks to make it. But Kate Beckinsale is no Posh Spice, and considering the bludgeoning Posh gets from the press, I don't know why she would want to be. 

Oh, wait. I think I  just answered my own question: "the press."

Sigh. Look who they've got their Hanes on now:

I'm unclear why tank tops are the hot new layering tools under low-cut cocktail dresses. It makes a handy bib, I suppose.

Pants are great. You all know I love and respect pants.

And you, hideous pantaloons, are no pants:

I mean, come on -- what is this? Other than the fact that her terrible new song wantonly pillages the innocence from my delicate ears, there is no logical reason that she should join the legions of doomed fools who are using the word "buccaneer" as their style guide. Especially not when the outfit squeezes her thighs so tight that her knees bulge like overstuffed sausages. Say it, live it, breathe it: Pants yes, 'loons no.

Also, aside from all those practical reasons Nelly Furtado should not have worn this when she pimped her album on So You Think You Can Dance (she does; she can't), there is this very important point: Don't the knee tourniquets annoy her? I get irritated enough when a stray hair decides to take a suicide leap out of my head and lands on my arm. That thing gets swatted away faster than if it were a mosquito noshing on an A-positive appetizer. So if I were strutting around on stage trying misguidedly to rap, and I kept feeling those cloth strips banging against my legs, you'd soon see me writhing on the ground in a lather as I clawed the offending bastards off of the outfit.

In closing, I'd like to bring it home with some wise words from legendary play-by-play man Keith Jackson, something Ms. F echoed with the title of her first album: "Whoa, Nelly."

I believe Kanary Diamond is a singer of some sort -- Google wasn't very forthcoming with information -- but, judging from her ensemble here, I believe she may in actual fact be a singing PIRATE:

Ahoy!

Periodically, as their busy spa and Spider Club schedules allow, celebrity experts will join us to answer your questions about how to fug up your life as thoroughly as they do theirs. This week's expert has a doctorate in warbling with a specific focus on atonal droning, and has returned to school to study the latest advances in human cloning and how they can be applied to hair weaves.

Dear Aunt Fugly,

So I have a problem with my sister. That stupid bitch is totally stealing my life. It's like totally Single White Female over here, for real. Okay, like, you probably need some background on this. Like, when we were younger, I was totally the blonde pretty popular one. Everyone liked me. I had a great relationship with a really cute guy and I had a really interesting job and everyone thought I was totally fun and hot and stuff. And it's not like my sister was all like working in the gutter or something while this was happening. She was totally cute in like a really ugly kind of punk rock kind of way. Anyway, so things seemed like they were going really well for me, and my Dad even was like, "You are going to be the BIGGEST STAR IN THE WORLD" and it was AWESOME and then everything went really bad all of a sudden, Aunt Fugly. Like, really bad. Like, I kind of accidentally slept with some other people and my husband found out and even though he wanted to work it out, I decided to divorce him and THAT was a bad idea because he seems really happy now and I can't seem to meet anyone who treats me as nice as he did and also, I sort of can't stop eating Pizza Bites. But so I am having a really hard time, right? Like, I totally can't find a man AND I'm getting kind of fatter than I used to be and all the people who used to like me think I am totally lame now, even though I am acting EXACTLY THE SAME, and, like, this is the time when I need the support of my FAMILY, RIGHT? But instead of helping me find a new husband or something, my stupid sister goes out and gets MY OLD BLONDE HAIR and MY PRETTY POUTY LIPS and MY OLD HOT BODY and then she even goes and gets a NOSE JOB and now she's WAY BETTER LOOKING than me and all she ever says is that she just "wants to be happy" and I "made my bed" and I should "let her live her own life" and BLAH BLAH BLAH. Can't she see that right now what I really need is for her to be UGLY so I can FEEL BETTER ABOUT MYSELF? I really don't think that's too much to ask. How can I make her see my point of view?

Sincerely,

So Maybe I Shouldn't Have Hooked Up With That Jackass

Dear Haylie Duff,

Don't try to hide from me. It's you, right? It has to be you. I mean, okay, so Hilary copied you by going brunette instead of blonde, and she was always more famous than you, and I wouldn't know your dad if he wrote a song about himself and sold it to me for my next album (although that wouldn't happen -- I am a singer/songwriter, you know) and of course you were never married... but you are, like, the only person it COULD be. And, I want you to know that I TOTALLY feel all of your pain. I am a deep, deeply feeling person-- hello? I dated Ryan Cabrera, who is so totally into it and heartfelt, he is practically a fallopian tube! So pain is something that I can totally, like, get.

It sucks that Hilary dieted off all her baby fat so she could look as narrow-faced and toothy as you do -- it does, really. Because, wow, skinny drag-queen was totally your look, and it's really unfair that now she's rocking it harder than you do. I mean, I hope that doesn't hurt your feelings. I'm just being real.

But you know what I think, Haylie? I think the joke is on Hilary. Well, I mean, right now the joke is on you, because you are being cloned and she is kind of more popular, but in the long-term the joke will be on her.... well, probably on BOTH of you, but that just means that you won't be alone in getting laughed at, right? Which is good.

Seriously, any girl that is so uncomfortable in herself that she has to resort to surgery and hair dye and emaciation and LIES in order to look herself in the face and keep from strangling her goddamn sister in her big-nosed orange-skinned sleep... well, that girl is not a role model for young women. And I am an expert on that, because I talked to Marie Claire, and Marie Claire is totally the sensitive, thinking starlet's publication. At least, it is when you cannot get into People because you didn't give birth, get stuck in a well, cry with Matt Lauer, or give birth while stuck in a well crying with Matt Lauer, and when you can't get into Good Housekeeping because you don't think your housekeeper is very good.

So basically, you should sit your sister down and tell her that she is really a tragic figure. Good luck with that! I'm going to go pray on your whole situation, and give thanks that my own sister is so sweet and supportive and loving, and that we embrace our differences, and are two very, very distinct talents.

Kisses, and BE STRONG,

Meeeee

Dear Aunt Fugly,

I have a problem for you. I'm dating a man whose parents are really, really conservative. I am not: my hair is purple right now, and I have my nose, my navel, both eyebrows, and both nipples pierced. My boyfriend doesn't have any problem with the way I look, and it's never been a problem in my life (I am an executive at American Apparel, and I think they PREFER me to look sort of edgy). I love looking like this. For the first time in my life, I feel like my outsides match my insides, and I'm really happy. And my boyfriend and I are getting pretty serious. I think we might even get married.

I bet you can see where this is going: I'm flying out to Connecticut with him to meet his family, and I don't know what to do about the piercings and the hair. Should I take them all out and dress down to make his parents happy? I do want them to like me, because they have a good relationship with my boyfriend. But if the boyfriend and I get married, does that mean I have to take out all my piercings and dye my hair everything we visit my in-laws? I don't want to do that. Wouldn't it be smarter to sort of just hit them with me as I am right off the bat? I honestly don't know. What should I do, Aunt Fugly?

Help Me,

Edgy Bride-to-Be

Dear EBB,

That is tough. Piercings and funky hair and stuff are totally perfect for those times when you want to say, "I am not not edgy," and then sometimes sweeter hair and less eyeliner and your sister's clothes are better for when you want to say, "I am not not not edgy." And, like, there's two sides to every story. See what I mean? You do.

But, you could take a page from the Duff sisters up there and make your sister look exactly like a preppy version of you, and send her off to meet the family. Or just ask your boyfriend what look he wants you to have, and then just do whatever he says. That way, everybody wins! Except you sometimes, but don't be selfish -- life is bigger than you.

I think I know what this is really about: You hate working at American Apparel, and you can't figure out why their stuff doesn't cost, like, $2 like at Forever 21, and anyway, WHO buys any of those mad ugly jersey dresses that they're selling?

Actually, my sister might. Which ... you know, maybe they are kind of cute! I'll take ten, in a variety of colors, okay? You can use your employee discount. Thanks!

Dear Aunt Fugly,

What should a nice girl wear to cut a bitch? If it helps, the bitch in question USED to be my best friend, before she started DATING MY HUSBAND. Neither of our divorces are final yet, and she's involved in a messy custody battle, so I really don't see how she has time to run all over Europe with MY HUSBAND, but APPARENTLY SHE DOES. I thought I would be able to just let this go and be the adult in this situation, but I really, really just want to choke her out. The question is: What does one wear in that instance? In my experience, whenever I've had to do something slightly nefarious -- for work, always, in the past -- I've worn a very, very short skirt and very high shoes, and let my roots grow out a bit. But that was a long time ago. What does a righteous bitch wear in 2006?

Yours,

She Never Should Have Messed With Me; I Once Forced A Man To Commit Suicide So I Could Steal His Job

Dear SNSHMWM;IOFAMTCSSICSHJ,

You might want to call Star Jones. She's a smart lady lawyer, I hear, and I think she may have cut more than one bitch on more than one occasion; she also can probably get you some bangin' Payless shoes so that you don't get blood on the ones that actually cost you money.

But I also think you should remember that violence is not the answer. The way mature people handle their disputes is not through rage or revenge, dear letter-writer -- after all, wasn't it Jesus Christ himself who told us, "Karma is a bitch"? No, the best way to purge yourself of negativity is writing very, very pointed songs with extremely thinly veiled references to the people who made you vengeful.

EVERYONE is doing it, dude. It's true. Check it: Lindsay Lohan hates the paparazzi ("Rumors"), I didn't steal her boyfriend ("I Didn't Steal Your Boyfriend"), Britney broke Justin's heart with her vagina ("Cry Me A River"), Britney pines for Justin during every waking moment and half her unconscious ones as well ("Everytime"), my sister screwed around on Nick and it didn't bother him that much because he hated her by then with the white-hot fire of a thousand STDs but he was able to channel his imagined grief into a song that did well on iTunes for about three days ("Insert Name Of Song Here" -- my Dad wouldn't let me look it up or else I don't get my allowance), the Hanson brothers have a tragic addiction to food ("MMM-Bop"), and Fergie is not a man but could still potentially be a hermaphrodite ("My Humps").

So my point is, start a recording career. And also maybe call Star Jones. She is scary and might even cut the bitch for you for free.

XOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXO,

Ash

Okay. So I know I wasn't going to talk about her anymore. I needed to move on, remember? I needed to find a new starlet to love despite the fact that everyone else hates her, despite the fact that she can't dress herself, despite the fact that I really don't get along with her mother. I needed to find another actress I hate to love.  Maybe Kiki Dunst? Sure, she can't dress herself, but she DOES seem like she might be amusing to hang out with.  I think she'd probably be willing to spend a Saturday tagging along with you on your boring errands, making rude cracks about all your most heinous ex-boyfriends and eating an entire bag of Salt and Vinegar potato chips in the car. That's an important skill. And her mother owns a spa, so, hey: free waxing!  But when it comes right down to it, it's been hard to move on, people. When Brandon Davis launched The Firecrotch Diatribe,  I almost cracked.  No one talks about my girl like that, even if she IS running around town in a garbage bag and pleather pedal-pushers.

But now, I have to break my silence:

Look, I don't know what Lindsay's doing when she goes out. Is she drinking? I surely don't know. Is she dabbling in something more illicit? I certainly have no idea.  However, it does seem to me that if she DOESN'T want people SUSPECTING that she's doing anything other than dancing, drinking Diet Coke, and dating several men who live in Europe, she needs to not dress like this. Because, seriously? Drugs are pretty much the only rational explanation.

That intoxicating aroma wafting through the air is, we at GFY News Service have confirmed, the smell of desperation emanating from Camp Simpson.

But first: Consider for a moment the last time Jessica Simpson appeared on the cover of Maxim. It was in 2004, she was still pretend-happily married, and her father was still gleefully exploiting her as the sort of sexy blonde angel-next-door.

See? They're working the whole virgin/whore, "You want me, but I'm taken," rumpled princess thing. You almost get the impression Maxim wanted her more naked but she and Joe were able to say, "No, that's not her image, and you need us more than we need you, so go along with it."

But now, what with her being a rumpled princess of a different sort, Jessica is in a different situation. She's being painted more often than not as a selfish little sinner who cuckolded her husband with a series of utter man-whores, she's completely boring, and she's being forced to hawk some humiliating wigs that are so mind-bendingly atricious, even Cher, or Dolly Parton, or hell -- Dame Edna -- would sooner strap roadkill to their heads than wear her pseudo-coifs.

So what happens? Maxim comes knocking, and her knockers knock back:

This cover just reeks of C-list "look at me, look at me!" desperation. It's the sort of blow-up-doll approach to publicity that a person would take when she thinks she's on her way up, not when she's been at the top for a few years based on her sweetheart image, raked in millions, dominated the tabloids, and stirred up a national obsession with her marriage. What makes it more pathetic is that she's still stuck with that disastrous, tacky fright-wig of a mop on her head -- unless she is actually wearing one of the titular creatures from the promised "World's Most Horrifying Pets" story, in which case, that's savvy art-directing.

As such, the whole package is less "portrait of an untouchable fantasy" than "chick with the nice rack who works at Dairy Queen and won an online cover-girl contest." How Team Simpson let this happen is beyond me -- it's almost like admitting defeat -- but perhaps there's some truth to the idea that Ashlee gets the royal treatment now and, until she can redeem herself with a movie and/or a respectable romance, Jessica is relegated to clawing her way through any old publication that will tell her she's still got it.

So what's next, Jessie? FHM? Jugs? Wicked-Hot Chicks Monthly?

What is wrong with this picture?

a) The dress itself is shapeless, too big, and needs either to be shorter or longer;

b) The shapeless, too big, wrong-lengthed dress being paired with that deadly white tank-top underneath, which not only completely does not belong but gives the whole disastrous affair a horribly juvenile "romper" feel;

c) The dress -- shapeless, dumpy, bad hemline, etc. -- and the repellant tank top have been paired with a ridiculous belt, slung carelessly around the widest part of her body so that the dowdy frock billows around it, minimizing her bust and maximizing her hips;

d) Dress, tank, belt -- see abovementioned -- and the Carnival Cruise shoes;

e) Dress, tank, belt, icky shoes, and the strange piece of telephone wire wrapped around her torso, which I can only assume is a very thin purse string, but without the bag on display in the picture it just looks like she is in costume as a Verizon "why bother with dial-up?" DSL commercial.

f) There is no F, unless you are referring to the letter grade I am giving this little ensemble.

Deep down, buried beneath our hard, enraged, belt-hating exteriors, we have hearts of gold. We're softer than a golden retriever puppy. More agreeable than an heiress in a crack den.

So when MuchMusic.com asked us to participate in their ramp-up to the Much Music Video Music Awards by fugging a few people who showed up last year, we couldn't refuse.

After all, we are very fond of Canada. We know many great Canadians. We have a couple Canadian readers. We are very sorry that Alanis Morrissette and Ryan Reynolds fulfilled our private predictions that they would never get married because they were engaged for too long, and that is a sure sign in Hollywood of cold feet. And despite the fact that one of us went to high school with someone who plays for the Carolina Hurricanes, we are rooting for Edmonton to continue its comeback in the Stanley Cup (last night's overtime win on a short-handed goal? Unbelievable) so that Canada can sit atop the NHL again the way we feel it should.

Ergo, in a sense, we're fugging for Canada; we're sharing it here because, basically, these four blurbs amount to some bonus fug for the day. So here you go, guys -- this fug's for you.

Long-time readers of this site are well aware of the many sartorial issues suffered by the otherwise adorable Raven Symone (or, as I persist in calling her, Olivia From The Cosby Show, as if "Olivia" were her first name, and  "From The Cosby Show" her last). She had, at one point, the unfortunate habit of wearing items that she seemed to have lifted from Bobby Trendy's ragbag, and her eyebrows were like crazy quarter moons.  But things seem to be improving. Her brows? Look great! Her shoes? Are hot! There's just one thing:

The pleather. We're going to have to do something about that.

Oh, Zooey, you mad, tights-loving tights-lover.

You know, this outfit isn't that bad.  Or it wouldn't be -- in fact, it would even approach adorable -- if:

a) it were December and not the steaming middle of summer here in Los Angeles

b) she didn't choose to wear it to an outdoor function where literally everyone else is wearing shorts and flip flops.

Look, I am all about tights (in general and when appropriate, namely, not with a summer dress, and not as pants), and I love a smart coat. I even think the dress is cute -- imagine it with heels! (But not black ones, probably, because this outfit needs a splash of color.) But Avoiding the Fug has as much to do with dressing appropriately for an occasion as it does avoiding, you know, hot pants and pleated Mom Jeans. And black coat + black tights + what appear to be ratty flats + a dress layered over what looks like a mock turtleneck  on a sunny, summer day in the middle of June, at a super casual event = not a very good idea. Plus, god, sister, I'm sweating just looking at you. And you know how hard it is to get pit stains out of a mock turtleneck. Take some of those layers off and get with the program!

For me, belts might just be the new leggings. At least with leggings, there is a purpose: to imitate the form and function of pants, without all the confusing zippers and buttons (so hard when you're high!). And a belt can have meaning, when it's required to keep your trousers from thundering down around your ankles, but nobody uses them for that noble end any longer. Now, belts are just there for sport. They're constrictive, and they're meaningless, like wearing a watch without a battery. The rules for owning and operating one in today's celebrity society: Locate a belt that is mismatched with what you're wearing, find the part of your outfit that least benefits from being cinched -- bonus points if it is deeply unflattering to your figure -- and install as directed.

What's most delicious about this photo is that Keira is actually wearing pants that could use a little help staying up over her bony hips. A shame, too, because you know what they say: An idle belt is the devil's workshop. As such, it'll be a sad for Keira Knightley when Satan bursts forth from her abdomen like an Alien re-enactment. But I guess that's what you get, eh? And at least when it happens, it has a shot at destroying the odd Flashdance shirt/ratty quasi-cardigan combo she's trying to rock with the pin-striped pants. She is all about the fugly, needless hoo-ha these days.

Well done, Brown. From a distance the gold decorations on your shirt look like very curious stains indeed, but I'm more fascinated by whatever's happening to your pelvis. [Heh. Your peldonvis. Haha -- see what I did there?]

Sorry. That was ridiculous, Brown, and I know it. It's just... you see, I'm a little giddy. I'm so excited to see you not only back on the red carpet, but completely confusing me to the point where I don't even know what that block of dark cloth even is, that I can't hold back the geekitude.

So tell me, sweet Peldon, is that a skirt? A layering tee that's way too long? A needless and unattractive extension of the brown shirt? A daring way to conceal the presence of an adult diaper? A new advance in cotton chastity belts?

Sigh. This is the family we know and love. Bless you, Brown.

I quite liked The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants. Which makes sense: I love my sisters, I love traveling, and you know how strongly I feel about pants. It had everything. Plus, it was well-acted, I laughed, I cried, and I envied Blake Lively her pretty, pretty spun-gold hair.

I do not, however, envy her wardrobe.

For one thing, her hair needs a good brushing, some roots work, and some anti-frizz, and Blake should never again accept makeup advice from a woman in spandex named Kitten, because Kitten's red lipstick is on her face for a whole different purpose.

Most gravely, though: A girl who starred in a movie about the magic of pants should respect the mighty trouser by pairing it with a shirt that is cute, or at least, that is not this one. The cascade of apples itself, while twee, isn't as off-putting as the enormous shiny belt strapping down her ribs, which not only seems a tad unnecessary -- her ribs aren't going anywhere, at least not until she joins with the rest of Hollywood and gets a few removed -- but also underlines the already somewhat unflattering contours of the shirt itself. Doesn't she look supremely bloated? A touch pregnant, even? And, look, we've all been there -- well, the bloated part, anyway, although there was a woman on I Want To Be A Soap Star who claims she came down with just a very mild and practically nonexistent case of pregnancy; I think I love her -- and we all know that on the days when we're retaining water like it's the best divorce lawyer in town, we should perhaps adjust our wardrobe accordingly.

You know, when Heather or I make cracks about people raiding Joan Collins's wardrobe, we're generally being facetious. However, in this case, I'm pretty sure Tori Spelling ACTUALLY DID raid Joan Collins's wardrobe:

She's got means, she's got motive, and she certainly has opportunity. And I'm pretty sure that this is the satin jumpsuit Alexis Carrington Colby was wearing when she saucily informed Dex Dexter that he was not going to be taking her to the cleaners AND to bed in the same night. Note to Tori Spelling: seriously, there is only one Joan Collins. You, of all people, should know that. Likewise, there is but one Donna Martin. And never the twain shall meet.

Yasmin Le Bon looks a bit like The Widow Deadwood, or perhaps one of the town's sassy spitfire whores, but on the whole I'll take it over her husband Simon's getup any day.

I was always a John Taylor girl anyway, back in the Duran Duran days, but still -- there is no need for Mr. Le Bon to be channeling Chevy Chase in Vacation, when he puts on the hideous white loafers Randy Quaid gave him and goes to the dingy motel bar in search of Christie Brinkley. That ended in watery embarrassment. Between that and the ill-conceived pairing of a tuxedo and tight jeans, he looks like the saddest washed-up gigolo at the party.

And, I mean, Simon, look where Chevy Chase is these days. Or, more accurately, where he isn't. Not sure those are the shoes in which you want to walk a mile, if you get my meaning.

Some outfits we feature here on GFY offend me, as a person. Some of them delight me, as a fan of the surreal. Some just amuse me. This falls into the latter category:

I think I would have enjoyed being present for the brainstorm leading to the creation of this shirt. I imagine it being very much like, "Let's see. What's hot for this season? What's fresh? What's new and interesting? I know: Victoriana! All very prim and buttoned up. All very virginal and chaste. All very Miss Havisham prowling around in her wedding dress. But with a twist. We need a twist! A twist...I KNOW. Miss Havisham....AS A PUSSYCAT DOLL. Yes. YES! I love it. God, I'm good."

HEATHER: I wonder if we should finally do something with that Jessica Simpson dress that everyone's e-mailing us about. It is ugly.

JESSICA: I know. But, ugh. It feels like it's been covered.

HEATHER: Yeah, it's possible everything's already been said about it. Also, I'm still just really sick of her. I can see her beady little eyes through those sunglasses, and I can feel a headache coming on already.

JESSICA: I know. It's like I don't even have the energy to make fun of the dress because she makes me so very tired.

HEATHER: Sweet GOD, though, that this is terrible. It's like if Salvador Dali painted a seascape that he thought existed somewhere in Dante's second ring of hell. It's beyond awful. It's not even flattering.

JESSICA: And the shoes. Usually these people can at least get the shoes right. It hurts me when they don't.

HEATHER: She looks rough. I feel like having no friends and being the big PR loser in her divorce war is kind of turning her into a kooky recluse.

JESSICA: It's about time. I've only been waiting, like, two years for her to retreat into her mansion and draw the shades.

HEATHER: Seriously, where did she get the idea that people in the outside world wanted to be exposed to that pattern? She's the lucky one; she's wearing shades. They protect.

JESSICA: Maybe Ken Paves told her it looked good. And then transferred a bunch of money to a Swiss bank account.

HEATHER: Maybe Adam Levine once told her that he gets horny at surrealist toga parties.

JESSICA: Or maybe Joe told her that if she didn't do something dramatic to get herself back in the public eye, she could be... replaced.

HEATHER: It worked. She is just a step away from Muumuu City in that travesty.

JESSICA: I do wonder if, now that everyone's more interested in  Ashlee's nose and Nick and who he's rebounding with, she'll finally go all Sunset Boulevard on the world.

HEATHER: Haha. "I AM big. It's the tabloids that got small."

JESSICA. Right. With a turban! Oh my God, if she'd worn a turban with that...

HEATHER: Turban's are a washed-up diva's best friend.

So, I think I've figured it out.  BBC What Not To Wear's Trinny is actually giving us all LIVING EXAMPLES of her show's title!

I rather like the color here, but the nipples? And the sash/band? And the nipples? And the mildly alarming shenanigans in the rib cage arena? And seriously, the visible nipples from the host of a show that prides itself on harping on appropriate underwear? Physician, heal thyself.

What Not to Wear, indeed.

Sweet fancy Spears.

When reporter/financial talking-head Maria Bartiromo shows up in something that even Britney would look at and say, "Wow, that's unflattering and unbelievably awful," then something is wildly amiss with the world. It's as if she's just taken a job as the local brothel's patient schoolmarm, swimming in transparent red sin piled upon itself in an effort to look matronly while she teaches the young, impressionable working girls all about math so that they can maximize their nightly take.

And then of course she belted the stupid thing, because all of a sudden it's become apparent that NOBODY realized that old SNL skit with the Gap Girls -- where they suggested cinching things was always the answer -- was a joke. A JOKE, people. Sheesh.

Oh, so that's how Shalom Harlow snuck a guest into the party. Clever girl.

it's amazing to me how quickly I got totally, totally over Desperate Housewives. The show is well-acted all around, and the production values are great, but I can't get past how quickly it devolved into indulging the sort of weakly plotted shenangians you shouldn't be seeing until about the eighth season of a show's run.

In fact, Teri Hatcher's outfit here is actually quite a good visual metaphor for the show's slide into lameitude:

It starts off fun! Fine! New! Shiny! Exciting! Mildly boney, but who isnt? But by the time you get to the bottom of it all, you're exhausted and disgusted by the mess you've found yourself in and you can't believe you wasted all that time on something that's going to end in ill-fitting bedazzeled boots.

Summer is here, and that can only mean one thing: Young ladies spray themselves various shades of orange-brown in an attempt to look sun-kissed, when in reality it's more like "pelted with overripe kumquats."

Exhibit A: Amanda Bynes.

Pretty girl, lovely figure, ridiculous fake tan.

Exhibit B: Jamie-Lynn Sigler.

Pretty girl, lovely figure, ridiculous fake tan. I sense a pattern here. And while I appreciate and advocate not lying in the sun for hours frying skin to a crisp, thus practically issuing a double-dog-dare to skin cancer, I will never understand the temptation to douse oneself in Crayola-false colors like a piece of bare wall getting tagged with graffiti.

Although in Jamie-Lynn's case, some of her atrocious artificial brownness might come from having been doused in syrup by a confused, hungry passer-by who -- thanks to the cut of that dress -- mistook her breasts for pancakes.

Okay, Dina Lohan. It's time. We need to have some words.

First off, I hate what you're wearing. No drop-waisted shift should plunge as far down as your crotch. You look misshapen. I'm sure you figured this was a savvy, alluring technique for getting people to stare at it -- and, mission accomplished, because indeed they are, but only to wonder why you are treating your groin like some kind of marquee spot on your body when you can't even muster any concern for what's happening to the child who shot out of that groin 20 years ago.

Because, Dina, she is f'ed up. MAJORLY f'ed up.

Look at her a month ago:

She has a bit of sparkle -- there's something in her eyes, at least. It's almost impish. I call it "life." It's charming.

Whatever it was, though, seems to have been extinguised of late. Take, for instance, this photo from yesterday:

Check out her dazed quarter-smile and heavy lids, Dina. I wish I could say the other photos were better, but honestly, she's either got this expression of cracked-out bemusement on her face or she's mugging excessively -- there is maybe one photo that's in between, and even there, her eyes aren't quite focused.

And then there's this photo from the day before:

It's not as bad -- but then, she's probably on better behavior, seeing as she spent much of the red-carpet portion of A Prairie Home Companion's premiere standing between Lily Tomlin and Meryl Streep, neither of whom would likely appreciate being the bread in a drooling-starlet sandwich. But you can't ignore that spaceyness in her irises. It's there. They're not connecting.

And day or so before that, here it is again:

Look into her face, Dina. Again, I wish this were just one bad photo, but they're all like this. Do you not see? How are you letting this happen? You're very clearly around her a lot, and you have a reputation for liking to club and schmooze through The Scene almost as much as your child does, so you can't plead ignorance of all the temptations. You know. And, I'm not insisting she's skiing down a mountain of fresh white Colombian snow or anything, but... LOOK AT HER. I'm not kidding, hag. Something's either missing or overmedicated or has been beaten into submission, and not for nothing, she was parading around with Kate Moss recently like they'd been surgically conjoined.

Even if her recent inability to look sober or cognizant in photographs is a bit startling, Dina, it's still not surprising given that for years now we've watched her turn into an undirected party girl. Where have you been? Yeah, I know, your husband, the rage, the jail, blah blah blah, it was all really tragic. I get that. But I don't think a competent mother would have let that deter her from protecting her kids -- actually, wouldn't it have made most moms more protective even under normal, non-Hollywood circumstances? Don't you GET that child actors need a lot of common-sense support so they don't lose their heads and fry their brains? Don't you get that a feud-prone child actor with severe Daddy issues might need even more of that common sense support? And as you watched her go through a heartbreaking public breakup and the subsequent Russian roulette of one-night-stands, did it not occur to you that she might need all the aforementioned help plus a dash of tough love? Have you NEVER watched the E! network? Are you somehow, impossibly, ridiculously confused about what exactly goes into a True Hollywood Story, and how the franchise has sustained itself largely on coked-out men and women who shot to stardom too fast and couldn't cope? Remember the cast of Diff'rent Strokes?

Know what scares me the most, though?

The fact that you have more of them to ignore. I can only hope they don't get sucked into the vortex. How creepy is this photo? Your younger child -- you remember her, right? -- looks sort of tragically amused that Lindsay is squeezing onto her to tightly, perhaps because she's aware that if she leaves, Lindsay and her droopy eyelids will go careening backwards into the brick wall.

So here's the deal, Dina: DEAL WITH THIS STUFF. Don't just sweep it under the rug or line it up the evidence and snort it into obscurity. In the words of what's becoming our GFY mantra, "Sack UP, ho." Stop partying like you're 19 and help your oldest child. If she had any energy left she'd probably be crying out for it. Be her mother, not her playdate.

Oh, FAMKE.

You are so much prettier than this! Remember, on Nip/Tuck, when you were all pretending to be a life coach, swanning around in like really fabulous halter tops and slinky bathing suits and big big glamorous sunglasses and fantastic hats and great slim little suits, all the whilst seducing young boys, including one that was kind of your son, and also trying to conceal the fact that you were kind of a man?

We need more of that here, and less of whatever...this is. Because I can't stop staring at your midsection, and there is no outfit in the world where the message is "STARE AT MY MIDSECTION." Okay, unless we're talking about Britney Spears's wardrobe from 1999-2003.  Which we are not. And probably never will be again, unless it's to bemoan how she'll never fit into it again.

Wow, where am I? Oh, right: more clean classic sexy outfits as inspired by your role as a murderous, glam life coach whose sex change was mildly botched by Alec Baldwin, less weird flowing mid-section-y yadda yadda.

Who knows whether Da Brat's da belt malfunctioned by accident, or whether her trou-dropping on-stage shenanigans were intentional. I suspect the latter -- after all, beginning with her coif, Da Brat is clearly shaping herself in Red Fraggle's image, and everyone knows Red Fraggle doesn't wear pants.

This week's random regurgitation of 1980s styles that didn't even look that good the first time:

Presumably, Ms. Beckinsale is even at the MTV Movie Awards in the first place because she is promoting this summer's Click, and not because she is being recognized for her work in Underworld: Evolution -- an assumption I can make based on the fact that it's difficult even in this town to throw a rock without hitting someone who says, "What? They made a sequel to that cinematic mushroom cloud?"

Unfortunately, Kate herself is not possessed of a remote control that will rewind time -- or even, say, a photo album of her, or anyone else's, youth -- or she certainly wouldn't have paid a nostalgic visit to Mammoth Beltville by way of the intersection of 21 Jumpsuit Street and Billowy Ankle-Pants Avenue. She is a good, solid backbrushing away from being the most popular girl in the senior class of 1987.

The Dangerous Allure of the Fedora, Part The Second:

Justin used to be so cute, in a harmless, loves-his-mama kind of way. But thanks to this crippling case of fedoritis -- and some possible residual effects of the Diaz taint -- he just looks kind of weird and dopey. It could have been different, J.T. It didn't have to go downhill. You could have, oh, I don't know, left the hat on the desk of the 1970s reporter from whom you stole it. Just a thought.

Just last night, I spied Contact starting on one of the movie channels and I thought, "Gosh, I wonder if this movie stinks as badly as it did when I saw it in the theater." So I turned it on, laughed at Matthew McConaughey's floppy hair and marked youth, marveled conversely at Jodie Foster's apparent agelessness, and nodded sagely at the fact that my first impression of the film was correct.

But when I saw her, I also realized this was one of Jena Malone's first movies, and had forgotten that she's a pretty good actress who keeps herself very low-key. I began to wonder what she's up to now.

Apparently, someone up there is listening.

Unfortunately, whatever divine intervention brought this photo to me did not provide with it any answers as to what the dickens Jena Malone is doing in this outfit. Although there are a few obvious suggestions:

1) She is preparing to offer to shine your shoes for a few shillings;

2) She is taking up street-performing, perhaps as a means of resurrecting vaudeville;

3) She's leading the cast of Olivia Twist, an all-girl spin on the Dickens classic with plucky, tap-dancing orphans;

4) She's preparing to play a girl at a Catholic high school who is desperate to spice up her boring polyester uniform jumper, and eventually gets thrown in detention for the skimpy wife-beater and confetti tights she employed.

5) Inspired by the film Pretty In Pink, she is attempting to live her life as a piece of performance art, blending all the main characters' wardrobes into one confusing Duckie-Blaine-Andy superfug hybrid.

Suffice to say that none of these options make optimum use of her talent. It's so sad that the allure of the fedora can lead a girl so far astray.

Donald Faison and Zach Braff approach the red carpet:

DONALD FAISON: Shit, dude.

ZACH BRAFF: Stay calm. Just. Stay. Calm.

DF: Dude! HOW AM I SUPPOSED TO STAY CALM? We're at some awards show! I thought the driver was taking us to Autozone! I'm not even wearing pants!

ZB: There must have been some kind of miscommunication. Just....look like we meant to dress like this. It's MTV. We're....just....laid back! We're laid back.

DF: Have you even looked in a mirror? Do you know how you look right now? Are you and Mandy having a contest to see who can go the longest without showering, or something?

ZB: I know. I know, okay. I thought the driver was dropping us off at Easy Ed's Mini Putt and Mega-Arcade.  But we're here, and we have to act like we did this all on purpose.

DF: My girlfriend is gonna kill me when she sees these pictures. I probably shouldn't even go home tonight. Or ever.

ZB: Okay, we're almost to the photographers. Just...just look fierce, Donald! Just look fierce!

This is where I would consider making a snarky comment like, "Nice slip, Amy Smart." Except I can't in this instance, because it would be a lie. It is not a nice slip, Amy Smart. And yes, I realize you figured you could pretend it was an adorable little sunshine-colored summer sundress, but it's not that, either -- it's just unflattering and kind of hideous. I fear a swift course of antibiotics might be the only solution for that lace fungus that's creeping onto her breast.

And while I'm here, doesn't it seem like nobody believes in happy mediums any more? We went from unhemmed overlong pants to obscenely short skirts, in what feels like an amount of time more tiny than the fabric covering Ms. Smart's bermuda triangle. Ladies of Hollywood, take note: Warm weather is not really an open invitation to, well, issue an open invitation. Are you not in the least bit concerned that the wrong gust of wind or the right long lens might accidentally put the "pap" in "paparazzi"?

I actually think that poor little Assica Simpson -- who, by the way, really does seems to have been gently, professionally anorexified so that when an America that's sick of her philandering sister decides to hug Assica to its collective cushy bosom, we can't secretly giggle about having pinched an inch in the process -- looks very nice with her new nose. I didn't mind her face before, and don't think she needed the rhinoplasty, but she seems happy, so apparently, kiddies, it is true that money will buy you such things. Hooray! Take a mallet to your piggy banks! (Or, a nose, if you want to force that issue instead of politely asking your parents if they have a few thousand dollars in small change.)

However, I'm not sure why Assica is hiding her light under the symbolic bushel of that hat. She's arduously sculpted herself into Jessica's equal -- some might say, as I do, that she out-cutes the depressed and depressing Mrs. Lachey -- and now she's shoving it all under a ridiculous Robin Hood Goes To The Office piece of headgear. There are better ways to kick off summer, Assica. Sigh.

In a super special Friday event, we present the Random Scrolldown Fug:

Good...good...good...pretty...pretty....pretty....SWEET FANCY MOSES ON BUTTERED TOAST.

Someone please explain the footwear here, because I've been looking at it for twenty minutes and I can't figure it out. It looks like black pointy backless flats worn with...pleather spats? No. That's not possible, right? People don't go out shopping for pleather spats. No one has manufactured pleather spats. There can not be a market for pleather motherf-ing spats.

And if there were, would you wear them with an inocuous -- even slightly boring -- black cocktail dress? No. No, you would wear them with some costume-y goth-y cheerleader-y Gwen Stefani-esque thing. I mean, if you ARE going for pleather SPATS, of all things, then you need to wear the SHIT out of them.  Commit to those pleather spats! Make them inarguably spatastic. OWN THEM.

After a loathsome absence from the site since January, we're pleased to invite you to cast your hungry eyes upon one of GFY's all-time favorite benefugtresses: Chloe Sevigny.

Ms. Sevigny's dress is one part nightgown, two parts curtain-that-separates-the-brothel-front-room-from-the-back-den-of-sin, two parts something she stole from Joan Rivers' closet, and zero parts long enough to comfortably and consistently cover her crotch.

This exceptional debacle is quite possibly her way of compensating for the modest, high-waisted and long-hemmed Compound Couture her character favors on Big Love -- on which she is fantastic; Jess has already said that recently, but unfortunately it's so true that it bears repeating. But still, even if Chloe is relishing her reclaimed fashion freedom, she could probably find a way to do it that is not so aggressively frightening. I'm not even sure Joan Rivers would want that, come to think of it, although if she did, a) she is Joan f'ing Rivers, and however you feel about her, you have to admit she can pretty much wear whatever she wants; and b) it would assuredly come with a bottom half of some kind, or perhaps just act as a sort of scarf or wrap, because crotchless groin-length gowns are not how homegirl rolls.

How did this become about Joan Rivers? I'm not sure. She's a force far greater than I. But in sum, thank you, Chloe, for sparing us those stupid white sunglasses, but if you drop anything, for the love of God, bend at the knees and not at the waist.

It would seem that Robert Downey Jr. has discovered a new passion in life: being a walking representation of the haplessly skeevy, hopelessly cheesy video-game character Leisure Suit Larry.

That, or he's attempting The Singing Detective 2: Schmooze Patrol, setting it all in a Reno lounge. In fact, the reason you can't see his left hand: it's covertly cocking a finger gun, and is seconds away from being deployed with oily elan in the direction of the camera as he flicks on the soft light of his bedroom eyes. Kiss, Kiss, Bang, Bang, indeed, eh, Bob?

As we've all learned from soap operas, if you've got a set of twins, there is always a good twin, and a bad -- occasionally even evil -- twin. This is just how it works. And the rule applies doubly when it comes to fashion -- there's the twin who generally looks good, and then the twin that usually ends up looking like an ass. Take Elizabeth and Jessica Wakefield. Jessica Wakefield had the cute striped bikini and flirty skirts and sassy little wedges. Elizabeth Wakefield had pleated pants belted right under her armpits and a pullover with snowflakes all over it and dock shoes. Or Brandon and Brenda Walsh -- which is admittedly a tough call, thanks to the gender difference.  However, despite Brenda's unfortunate tendency toward wearing a man's tie over her bodysuit, Brandon often looked like he was raiding Jim Walsh's closet and his coiffure seemed, at times, to be doing its best impression of a rogue wave, which doesn't work unless you've got Luke Perry's face under there.  So we're giving the Ass Award to Brandon (also because no one rocked the Peach Pit uniform like Brenda As Laverne, and because Brandon was kind of a douchebag). And then, of course, you've got the Olsen twins.  Mary Kate mostly looks like she just rolled out of the back of a dumpster, while Ashley -- we thought -- had mastered the art of looking unusual, but also chic and, you know, clean.

Until now:

Oh, ASH. Where did it all go so terribly wrong? Please tell us this is some kind of Twins Switching Places tomfoolery, or that you and Mary Kate have had your brain switched by Dr Drake Ramoray in order to continue getting complex carbohydrates into M-K's body, or that you've become a Method actress and this outfit is for a role as a crazy, blond old lady. Just don't tell us you think this looks good.