July 2006 Archives

There are lots of ways for an actor to battle persistent gay rumors, should he choose to do so: showing up at a variety of locales with beautiful, busty women;  going on Stern to talk about how much he LOVES banging the ladies; floating the rumor that he's allegedly sleeping with his co-star; and, finally, Hayden Christensen's more subtle approach -- appearing in public in something no self-respecting homosexual would ever, ever wear:

We suspect his People Magazine cover will read, "Yes, I Have No Taste."

There's something about Kim Stewart's short dress/long shirt, cap-haphazardly-plonked-on- potentially-unwashed-hair, and mildly inappropriate shoes combo that reeks of the Walk of Shame, this Walk apparently occurring after a particularly crazy outing that ended in the utter destruction of her jeans,  possibly at the fiery hands of a rogue tiki torch, or the malodorous trauma of getting vomited on:

Not that that's ever happened to us.

Witness Sophia Hyatt. Google tells me that she is a "British Pakistani celebrity," and a "sexy Indian hottie." I am not exactly sure WHY she is a celebrity in the UK, but she is very pretty.

It may take you by surprise, however, to discover that I am not crazy about her outfit:

One of my basic rules of thumb is that, whatever you wear, you should make sure that it a) fits and b) covers your bits.  And I mean that in the most fundamental way: this is not a screed against halter tops or mini-skirts or even (for once) shorts. I just mean that a mantilla is not a gown, and no one really wants to see your panties. This dress does not look alluring, nor does it make our Sexy Indian Hottie look like a mysterious flamenco dancer, or even like a contender for a role in Zorro 3: Zeta-Jones Doesn't Do Straight To Video.  It makes her look like she forgot part of her outfit. 

In fact, it reminds me of something I once read on the subject of etiquette, which was that rules for social behavior don't exist to control people, but rather to make everyone feel comfortable.  I think we've all been in a situation where, say, you're eating a cheeseburger at Hamburger Habit and the sun is shining and the birds are singing and the boy you like called you and your skinny jeans fit and all is right in the world. And you look at the table across from you, and a woman is sitting there in too tight low-rise jeans and SERIOUSLY? You can see her entire butt and thong. And I guarantee you what happens next: every girl at your table reaches back to make sure that her own derriere hasn't made a break for it, everyone then quietly wonders if she can't feel the draft, and then everyone can't stop looking at her thong, but not in a hot way. In, like, a "should I TELL her that her thong is hanging out, or is she doing that on purpose?" kind of way. And then she leaves and everyone is relived.

So save us some social angst, ladies who like to flash your panties on purpose, and cut it out. Because of you, none of us know whether or not the girl at Hamburger Habit is thonging it up on purpose or not, and therefore, we are unable to decide if it would be sisterly to hand her a sweater to tie around her waist, or if that would insult her. And all we really wanted was a cheeseburger.

The Office is one of my favorite shows, and Mindy Kaling -- like everyone else -- is great on it. But I wonder if being on a show that rarely seems to shoot you from further away than three-quarters distance starts to get to you. Maybe you wear slippers every day at work with your costume, because you know nobody will see them, and you might as well be comfortable. And as somebody who's tortured her feet many a time in the name of wearing cute shoes that nobody actually cares about except me... well, I can respect that.

Except for when you start forgetting that life itself doesn't play out in a series of mid-shots.

From the knees up, she looks adorable, all set for a divine NBC-Universal booze cruise of clenched-teeth joy, where every toast to their wonderful fall schedule comes with paranoia from Jeff Zucker that people will figure out they've swapped the costly champagne and top-shelf liquor with well booze and sparkling cider.

But her shoes are pure "local theater revival of Xanadu." They look like she stapled wallpaper scraps to her ankles.

Come to think of it, though, a Xanadu revival is a pretty spectacular idea. There are not enough Xanadu tribues these days. Maybe next season on The Office, Michael can arrange an office production of it figuring that he'll get cast as the romantic lead. But of course when Dwight gets in there as the director, he puts, say, Kevin and Angela in the Michael Beck and Olivia Newton-John roller-skating lovebird roles, ousts Michael from the Gene Kelly part at the last minute because he found actual Michael Beck working at 20/20 Video and got him to come guest-star, and then forces all the other men in the office to dress up as the other muses during the opening number. And as the men all stand around in their dresses and bizarre, geometric, occasionally phallic hairstyles awaiting their time on stage, the whole thing falls apart because Dwight flies into a jealous snit when Kevin and Angela rehearse the roller-disco dance of love. Phyllis ends up in the part when they eventually perform at the local nursing home. And Michael forces Dwight to add a scene where he performs an intepretive dance solo while burning Mindy Kaling's brown boots of shame.

Okay, so the plan needs work. But the basic principles -- up with Xanadu, down with wallpaper shoes -- are still solid.

Back in the day, I had a cute little terry cloth romper like the one Jessica Simpson is wearing here on TRL:

Mine was blue, and I wore it every summer when my best friend Cheri and I went to her parents' time share in Laguna.  Usually I wore it over my bathing suit, which was a neon pink and black striped one piece, accessorized by giant pink buttons. I did not wear it with giant wedges, but rather with flip flops, because it's hard to run through sand in wedges. It was 1982, and I was seven years old.

I hope the reappearance of the romper means that other items I rocked back in second grade are going to come back, like Osh Kosh B'Gosh overalls or  suspenders modeled on those Mork from Ork wore on Mork and Mindy. Because if nothing else, it'll give us tons of material here at GFY.

"... Yeah, boss? I have Kim Cattrall here, trying to leave the store... No, no, she's not shoplifting anything, I have her receipts in my hand. But the issue is that she's wearing an orange newsboy cap. ... No, it doesn't really match her dress. ... Hmm, I'd say it's like a soft white, with polka dots and some odd formations that look like palm-tree tops, or like clumps of those shavings from a Magna Doodle... I liked Magna Doodle, too, sir, but in my opinion, Etch-A-Sketch was the more satisfying user experience... Oh, well, sure, obviously, but Lite Brite isn't really the same type of thing as Etch-A-Sketch, so that's really an apples-to-oranges comparison. ... Anyway, sir, the problem is, she's wearing this orange hat and she's trying to go out into the wild that way, and it is pretty ridiculous, for sure...  Yeah, we're on the cameras, take a look. ... Heh, the lead shavings do sort of look like back hair... Should I allow her to leave? ... No, that's true, Samantha Jones probably wouldn't want her memory tarnished in this manner... Okay, thanks, boss -- where should we stash her? Stockroom 5? Great. I'm on break in 2 minutes so I'll lock her up then."

Oh my God!

Elisha Cuthbert clearly has The Dreaded Shrinks, as so artfully chronicled in The Twits, my favorite Roald Dahl book. (It's very, very mean.)  According to Dahl, when you have the shrinks, "your head SHRINKS into your neck...and your neck SHRINKS into your body...and your body SHRINKS into your legs...and your legs SHRINK into your feet. And in the end there's nothing left except a pair of shoes and a bundle of old clothes."

I mean, that explains why everything she's wearing looks so big on her, right?

There's so much I like about Bryce Dallas Howard. For one thing, I covet her red hair.  (I love red hair and have longed for it since that week in 1986 when Fergie married Prince Andrew, and I just also happened to be reading Anne of Green Gables. This perhaps explains part of why I am so inexplicably in love with Lindsay Lohan.)  I appreciate the fact that she's unconventionally attractive. I think that, after two plus years of looking for photos  celebrities,  I've become much more appreciative of an actress who still looks like herself, rather than someone who's been created in the BriteSmileHairExtensionsMysticTan Labs.

But there is something here that's just not right:

That color is usually nice on someone with her coloring, and I think that holds true, but there's just something about this that's very Mother of the Bride. It's so square -- both, you know, geometrically, and also in the sense of being overly staid. BDH has a lovely figure, but like a lot of us, I think she would benefit from something a little more structured, and the obi-esque waist bit makes her, I think, look a little more rectangular than she actually is. It also looks like it's attached with Velcro: there's something about the edge of the belt-thing that makes me want to grab it and rip it open. Not to, like, nudify her, but just because it looks like it would rip open in a satisfying, Velcro-y way.

Call me crazy (cue: "YOU'RE CRAZY, HO!"), but I don't think that's what she was going for.

Parminder Nagra is gorgeous.

Which is why I wish heartily that she hadn't gone and upholstered herself:

Her body looks tense, as if she's uncomfortable or uneasy in this confusing crosshatched fabric-store nightmare. I suspect it's because no one expects the Spanish Inquisition -- you have to maintain constant vigilence when you're dressed as something resembling a Comfy Chair, because you risk being dragged unexpectedly into their brand of comfortable torture. From there it's a short slide down to poking some old woman with the soft cushions and wondering, "How did this become my life?"

It's a cautionary tale, really. Upholstery: Don't let it happen to you.

My fascination with Keira Knightley's odd fashion choices continues apace -- and no, in this case, I'm not referring to the greasy-haired accessory on camera-left.

It's one thing to cut open the closed end of a pillowcase, belt it, and call it a summer minidress, but it's quite another level of fug creativity altogether when you find a way for the belt itself to double as a bra, then stroll out of the house with cute shoes and a hot red clutch as if you didn't have the entire stability of your outfit riding on one potentially shifty piece of leather.

I almost want to pat her on the back. In the global sport that fashion lunacy has become, this is almost certainly a medalworthy performance in the Fuglympics. It puts the "bra" in "bravo."

Somehow, this is starting to feel like Pick On The Under-18s Week here at GFY HQ, which is not really our intent -- it's just unfortunate timing that one kid started wearing pirate costumes around town the same week that the lovely young Miley Cyrus, spawn of The Achy-Breaky Mullet King himself, got talked into a semi-disastrous shirt.

I could have swallowed this, were it not for the lace shower cap that appears to have been lazily stapled to her top. That thing ruins Miley's getup on a few levels:

1) Up close it looks like an As Seen On TV! napkin invention -- The Lapkin, or something -- that attaches to your clothes so that whenever you sit, it falls perfectly into your lap, thereby a) removing the pesky need to remember to unfold the one on the table, and b) preventing untimely accidents wherein your serviette slides indelicately off of your lap, and to fetch it you're forced to lean down and reach so far away that you accidentally tip out of the chair, coming crashing to the ground in front of your sister's boyfriend, whom you've just met for the first time that night, and who is considering proposing provided that the potential in-laws aren't deranged, fanged hill folk with an equilibrium problem (not that I would know ANYTHING about that kind of incident);

2) From far away...

... she looks like she's sporting the biggest, most skydiving-conducive pair of granny panties ever sewn.

Oh, Miley. You have such a nice smile, and we're rooting for you, we really are. Just maybe think about cutting back on the hoo-ha next time.

I know it seems like a long time ago that anyone really cared what Ethan Embry was doing, and maybe you think that you never cared. But, without knowing it, you probably did. There was that fleeting moment in 1998 where people swooned for his lovesick-geek turn in Can't Hardly Wait, and women and gay boys alike developed sweetly nagging crushes on the gangly saucer-eyed kid with a slight lisp; then he snagged a TV pilot, and he was as close to a household name as he ever got.

But then that pilot turned into Freakylinks, and ... well, you know how that went; now you not only don't care about him, but you didn't remember why he was "famous" until I mentioned it just there.

Still, he's back out and about again. For whatever reason. And it's intriguing. Because take a look at Ethan Embry a few years ago:

More Luke Perry than Luke Wilson, right?

Well, if you'd told this kid that in 2006 he would have puffed up and turned into Paul Giamatti, I suspect he'd have taken off the stupid fedora he always seemed to be wearing and punched you right in the face with a girlish yawp.

For here he is now:

Okay, just kidding, that is Paul Giamatti. But the resemblance between Giamatti -- Hollywood's resident shlub artist -- and present-day Embry is uncanny.

Right? I can't imagine this is where Embry intended to go -- no disrespect to Paul Giamatti, who is a talented actor even if you find the bitter sad-sacks he plays to be intolerably self-pitying, but I don't think that many people are kept awake at night wondering, "How can I be more scrubbly? How can my voice reverberate with nasal contempt for myself and for life? HOW? THERE MUST BE A WAY!" And I should also point out that in Hollywood, at the moment, there appears to be room for only one Paul Giamatti.

So, Ethan, you might want to rethink a little.

It's almost impossible to have missed the photo of Carson Daly that's been going around, wherein he looks aged and skeletal; indeed, unless you live under a rock, or your first name begins with "S" and rhymes with "fury booze," you've probably already been suitably alarmed by it.

Still, we couldn't resist.

Good for Carson for getting himself in shape at a relatively normal speed, but this photo makes me think he's crossed the line into obsession and become a hungry, wan shell. Remember on Seinfeld when Kramer sunbathed in butter, and the smell of crispy flesh piqued Newman's salivary glands such that he started seeing Kramer's head atop the body of a golden-roasted turkey, and became ravenous? That look in Newman's eye has been born again in Carson's. Something is not quite right with the way he's sucking on his lips, as if willing himself not to lick them out of bloodlust for the delicious, meaty, protein-laden photographer who is snapping the shot.

"You've already had your solid for the day, Carson," he is chanting to himself, right hand twitching toward the yellow rubber Live Strong bracelet that acts as his talisman. "Don't even THINK about how he would taste with a pot of lobster bearnaise, and a loaded baked potato... some buttered green beans... hot rolls... Oh, yummy, this man is MINE -- wait, NO! Shake it off, soldier! STAY ALIVE! A Zone bar WILL find you!"

Kate Hudson is a pretty girl with nice legs. But I do prefer it when they aren't poking out the business end of an overly elaborate lampshade.

By now, we pretty much get it that she's Goldie Hawn's daughter. Visual reminders no longer required, Kate, so go ahead and leave this shapeless, spangled, striped shift in Goldie's old Laugh-In closet, where it belongs.

P.S. I know he's not in the photo, but PLEASE, cut your son's hair. He's a cutie, but now that he's sporting waist-length golden tresses, I NEVER see a picture of him without instinctively thinking, "What a sweet little girl." Seriously, if you want it rocker-spawn shaggy, fine. But this isn't rakish, raffish Owen Wilson messy-longish hair -- your son is practically Ava Phillippe, Jr, but with an anatomical surprise. Can't you give him a wee trim?

... Of the HAIR, people. A trim of the HAIR. My lord. But seriously. Is it a religious thing? Does that prohibit, oh, I don't know, some sort of pony-tail holder, even? Perhaps a hat?

Dear Johnny Mr. Depp (sorry, my Mom made me cross that out):

Hi dude Mr. Dude! My name is Matthew Underwood, and I just want to say that I am a huge fan of yours! You are, like, THE swashbuckling inspiration to my generation, man! And the eyeliner... it's totally changed my life, dude, because my eyes are all fierce now and the actresses in town are jealous and yet also can't help staring at them because I TOTALLY smolder now.

Did I mention I am a huge fan? God, I'm so nervous! I bet I mentioned that already. But you can totally see for yourself from this photo that was taken at the Monster House premiere -- I went in costume as a pirate! Isn't that wicked? Pirates of the Caribbean was so meaningful to my life that I just could NOT show up to this movie premiere without making it obvious to everyone what I would RATHER be watching. I'm not even in Monster House! I just showed up to make that statement!

Anyway, I'm writing because... well, I think I could learn a lot from you. We're totally alike, you and I. See, you did 21 Jump Street, which was about youth crime, and I am on Zoey 101, which is that show with Jamie-Lynn Spears where my all-boys prep school is starting to admit girls now and my character thinks that is a crime. See? The same. We're both crime-fighters. And, seriously, look -- I am like your CLONE up in that Jack Sparrow stuff! I'm getting goosebumps! My mom was totally mad at me for wearing that out in public -- something about looking foolish, looking like I didn't know what event I was going to, I don't know; she doesn't GET ME -- and she was yelling at me, all, "Well, if you love Johnny Depp so much, then maybe HE can raise you!"

So, you know. If you wanted to... I mean, adoption is totally safe and popular. And that way I can be EVEN CLOSER to modeling my career after my one and only idol! Or maybe, if you can't get the French paperwork in order or something, you could just arrange it so in one movie, Jack Sparrow finds this really scrappy young boy and decides to be his father-figure (oh, God, and George Michael has that song... this is GIVING ME CHILLS, Mr. Johnny, I KNOW you can feel it too), and then we can be on a film set together while you give me the gift of your method and we'll sit around trying to understand girls and drinking beers. I'm not legal, but parents can totally get away with giving their kids beer, I think... I'm just saying. But I really think it would be good for me -- I mean, I don't want to get sucked into that Spears vortex, and I'm at a very impressionable age, so the sooner we hang out the better, and maybe I won't EVER brandish that second finger-gun. I don't WANT to be That Guy, Johnny. Help me.

Okay! So get back to me with the details! I love you -- your work, I mean; I won't love you in THAT way until you're OFFICIALLY my dad.

Peace, dude -- I mean it, write back soon!

Matthew

Behold! The species Parisis Hiltonis, in her natural habitat -- out back, where the garbage cans are.  Shush, let's watch and see what she does:

[Photo courtesy of X17.]

Oh, that's sweet, isn't it? It's so rare that we get to witness this kind of display of affection between the Parisis Hiltonis and her cousin, the ferret. Usually, the two are engaging in some kind of feral wrestling, vying for genetic superiority, and/or mates. Clearly, the Parisis Hiltonis has stunned the ferret into submission by hypnotizing him with the pattern on her dress, and then delivered a sort of predator-to-predator death blow by subjecting him to that hat. But all in the name of love. It truly warms the heart, doesn't it?

URGENTLY WANTED: One make-up professional or even random stranger for assistance in application of bronzer and/or foundation to former figure-skating Olympic medalist and star of top-notch productions The Cutting Edge 2: Going for the Gold, and TV's Master of Champions, Celebrity Charades, Ice Wars 10: North America Vs. The World, and The Wizard of Oz on Ice. Applicants should display skill in blending, skin-tone-matching, and troubleshooting discrepancies between face and body color; applicants must carry at least three compact mirrors on his/her person as well as a variety of sponges and blotting papers, and perhaps a large paper bag for true emergencies. Skill in delivering polite negative feedback required, and adeptness with handcuffs or soft restraints a plus.

From the files of Ned Sofanegra, WHEE! Online gossip columnist:

"While on a hot-n-sticky road trip to the steamim' hot Big Snapple, I saw scrumptious-bumtious Beyonce on the streets and couldn't resist stoppin' to tawk it up with the deelish Dreamgirl. Such a slurpy delight!

'Your hair reminds me of Whitney Houston in the early 90s,' sez I. 'So tell me, would you rather have sex with Whitney then, or Whitney now?'

Miz Thang just looked at me like I was kee-razy, and not in the "love" sense she crooned about a few summers back. Me, I think even slim-trim sex-aaaay Beyoncealicious would snap skinny Whit like a twig! But I pressed on -- gotta gobble up the diva dish and lick the plate clean!

'So sorry to see a dog tried to eat your crotch -- thank God he only got away with half the dress!' I cooed at my fave bootied beauty. 'Which makes me wonder, which animal would you want to be mauled by: Paris Hilton's ferret, George Clooney's pet pig, or Colin Farrell?'

This is when her bodyguards, big burly hunks of chunky funk, hustled Lady B and her boots of shame inside. No answer today. Which do you think? Me, I'd take option C, but sumthin' tells me that La Knowles knows her bread's buttered down near option Z, if you get my rappin' drift."

Nobody told Nikki Cox that when you buy a Victoria's Secret body-shaper, you're meant to wear it under something.

Poor William H Macy. Can't you just read his mind?

WILLIAM H MACY: Save me. Someone save me.

BAI LING: I am soooooo comfortable here with William H Macy. I feel so safe.  I feel so in love. I feel like I am wrapped in a giant ball of safe love. Love safe. Sove! Lafe!

WILLIAM H MACY: I fear I am about to start laughing inappropriately. The way you do at a funeral. Who wears a bikini top with a matching skirt, anyway? Although this isn't bikini material. I don't think. I don't know. Felicity always wears a sensible one-piece...dress or swim suit, come to think of it. Oh my god, is she touching my butt?

BAI LING: Bai Ling Macy. Mr and Mrs William H Ling-Macy. Bai and Bill Macy-Ling.  Ooh! Ooh! Personality Number Nine will LOVE being Bai Macy-Ling. That sounds like a new cut of panties!

WILLIAM H MACY: Felicity. I am so sorry. This means nothing. This crazy woman just attacked me.  What was I supposed to do? I'm scared of her. She's preternaturally strong.

BAI LING: I am so glad I decided to take this totally adorable polka dotty dress and make it into something that shows my middle section part! Look at Billiam H. Ling Macy-Ling rubbing my tummy!

WILLIAM H MACY: I am trying really hard not to touch any exposed skin.

BAI LING: I can't wait until he leaves that lady who was the man-lady in that movie thing.

WILLIAM H MACY: How long am I supposed to stand here?

Quite some time ago, we noted that it takes a very special person to pull off gold hot pants.  And you'd think that Amber Valletta would be special enough. I mean, she is a model. Who amongst us is qualified to rock the hot pants if not a leggy supermodel?

Apparently, the answer to that burning question is "no one." Check it out:

I mean, her legs are great. But she still looks like she forgot to change out of the bottom half of her majorette uniform and might whip out a set of flaming batons at any moment. As for the shirt, my first reaction is, "Nice bandages, Bride of the Mummy." But when I really look at it, I think it could actually be quite chic - if it were not paired with shorts last worn during the filming  of 42nd Street's "We're in the Money" number. In fact, the shoes -- which are cute on their own -- are a bit tap-dancy. Maybe this get-up is merely Amber Valletta's attempt to refashion herself as the Ruby Keeler of the 21st century. I guess if she starts doing fan kicks, we'll know for sure.

Brooke Burke routinely looks insane on Rock Star: Supernova, so it should be no surprise that she appeared at an event honoring the CBS ratings lowlight dressed in what amounts to a very fancy scarf.

While I must give a point to Ms. Burke for flattering her chest, she loses approximately 100,000 points not only for simply donning that shiny mess of hootenanny fringe more suitable to a square-dancing event at which she is the emcee, but also -- and this will come as no surprise to longtime readers -- for wearing it OVER JEANS. Aside from being unflattering both to her and to the poor jeans (potentially the real victims here), it's an interesting left turn into Frumpville for a woman who spent most of Rock Star: INXS wearing short, short skirts on stage above a frenzied audience that could evaluate her fertility with a simple upward glance.

But at least Burke doesn't reek of effort, like so many of the largely untalented singers on this year's installment.

By the way, if you are not watching, good, and do not start; the painful performances are only worsened by the preening of Dave Navarro -- "You took a classic Johnny Cash song and did that to it? [Long pause for effect] It was AWESOOOOOME" -- and sexually invasive village idiot Tommy Lee, whose feedback to one girl consisted solely of, "I just want to know if you're wearing panties."

Anyway: The whole exercise is an uncomfortable parade of people trying desperately to prove they're edgy, growly, horny, charismatic, and totally original. Almost all of them seem extravagantly costumed based on their most grandiose fantasies of what rock-star persona should be, and 90 percent of them drip with the sweat of exertion.

Take, for example, the maroon-haired Dilana at the same event Burke attended.

So many questions.

How do Blu Cantrell and Oksana Baiul know each other? Did they meet when Oksana decided she wanted to do a figure-skating salute to the joys of getting back at an unfaithful partner, titled Hit Em Up Style: On Ice? Is Blu going to start designing figure-skating costumes involving potentially illegal amounts of mesh? Are they starring in a buddy show for the The CW about a sassy troubled ice skater (think The Cutting Edge!) and a sassy, one-hit-wonder pop star, who run a private detective agency out of the apartment they share, called Skating on Thin Ice,  but which will be referred to in promos as Thin Ice? And finally, what's with the snood?

Considering how she served up all of herself on a leopard-print platter at an Oscar post-party two years ago -- and then again last year -- it is no insignificant feat of sanity that got Stephanie Seymour out of her house and to the My Super Ex-Girlfriend premiere in a normal-looking outfit.

She looks lovely: clean and fresh for summer, youthful but not like she's clinging desperately to the last wisps of her halcyon days, fit and glowing, tastefully accessorized. And most importantly, she is not asking me to watch various pieces of fabric blaze their unforgiving trail through her derriere's most secret crevices. So, in the truest sense, everybody wins here.

Remember that Mike Myers character on Saturday Night Live who was a hyper-energetic kid stuffed into a child-leash? They had him chained to a jungle gym, and he would constantly try and run away and get snapped back by the harness.

Apparently that character has something in common with Ellen Pompeo.

Why else would she be wearing that glittering web of a prison strapped indelicately to her torso? As far as I know she's not some kind of intergalactic monarch who rules Planet Sag, which was my other potential explanation for this getup -- seriously, that is a very futuristic-looking breast-drooper she's got there. It might actually be a perfect hybrid of Heidi Klum and Emma Thompson's Golden Globes outfits. But two wrongs don't make a right, Ellen.

Unless the harness is chaining you to a McDonald's, in which case, that's very good news and please pick me up a Big Mac when you yet yanked back there for a life-affirming Quarter-Pounder with Cheese.

Poor Tilda. She appears to have learned the hard way that -- for sinister reasons known only to the seedy underbelly of the T.P. industry -- you really, really do not want to squeeze the Charmin.

Finola Hughes hosts the Style Network show, How Do I Look?.

But I can't imagine she really wants to hear the answer to that.

PS: Our apologies for the lack of updates today.  We hear that Courtney Peldon, furious with her lack of coverage here lately, launched a violent denial of service attack on Typepad,* rendering us -- and a lot of other people -- unable to post.** We're sorry about that, and we'll see what we can do to avoid this sort of tragedy in the future.

* Not really. (Courtney is obviously a lover, not a fighter, and we think if push came to shove, if she chose to shut us down, her weapon of choice would be Crispin Glover, not the Power of the Internet.)

** But we really couldn't access Typepad all day. Promise. We tried! We weren't -- as we KNOW YOU WERE THINKING -- passed out in a coma from all the Twinkies and gimlets. Not this time.

Here at GFY HQ, we'd gotten a few emails over the past month regarding Sarah Jessica Parker on the cover of Good Housekeeping. There was a lot of,  "SERIOUSLY. She looks TERRIBLE," and "No, for real. Someone at GH HATES her." And it wasn't that we didn't believe you, because we did, but the true horriblosity of the cover can not be truly appreciated until you see it in person. I mean, here it is:

It's not good, but it's not like she looks like death refried or anything.

OR SO YOU THINK. Because last weekend, Heather and I went down to the newsstand to pick up our usual selection of periodicals (you know: Soap Opera Digest, Lucky, Entertainment Weekly, Juggs, Vogue -- the usual), and we stumbled across this very magazine and OH MY DEARS. It is much worse than you can tell from the scan. So very much worse. For one thing, the picture appears to be totally out of focus. So that's not good. For another, the person responsible for SJP's make-up has clearly been harboring a terrible grudge against her dating back to Square Pegs, because she looks O-L-D old. Old, and weird, and just not attractive (and, for the record, although I know a lot of people think Sarah Jessica isn't good-looking, I disagree. She's not CONVENTIONALLY good-looking, but she's interesting looking, and she makes it work. I admire her for not making her face look like everyone else in town, and I actually think that's helped tremendously when it comes to her career longevity. She's unusual and original, and there's something to be said for that. Anyway.).  And as for wardrobe, that pink washes her out, and the cut of the dress does nothing for her great body.  She just looks ROTTEN.

I can't imagine there was a great, thrilled fanfare in the Parker-Broderick manse when this arrived in the mail, either. Instead, I'm imagining that someone may have referenced the Sex and the City episode where Carrie is under the impression she's going to be on the cover of New York Magazine's "Single and Fabulous!" issue, when, in fact, she is the hung-over, makeup-less cover of an expose titled, "Single and Fabulous?".  I suspect someone may have made a bad Bad Housekeeping pun.

Which I appreciate, actually, because now I don't have to do it.

In the beginning, there was the "Busey or Nolte?" game. And it was good.

Alas, though, the divergent ravages of time and plastic surgery have rendered these two comrades in misbehavior rather distinguishable indeed. So much so that the game was going to be rechristened, "Rogers or Nolte?" on account of Nick's brewing affection for craggy skin and white facial hair.

Alas, and now also alack, Scalpel Fever hit Kenny Rogers hard, and right where Nick Nolte was starting to live; the new plasticized Gambler -- displaying a marked inability to follow his own advice (you should have folded, Kenny) -- bears very little resemblance to the old one, and thereby there is almost no confusing him and Nolte. Everybody is leaving Nick Nolte behind.

Everybody, except for one man. And so I present to you: Claus or Nolte?

Bear in mind now that it is July, and the esteemed Mr. Claus is probably enjoying one last spate of relaxation on his South Florida houseboat -- mosquito netting, air thick with moisture, daily flash floods; what's not to love? -- before heading up north to carbo-load for the winter. So this one is a true poser. Think long and hard.

It's somewhat ironic that this girl's fuzzy yarmulke-gone-wrong is crusading for peace, given that it and the rest of her outfit are stirring great unrest within me.

The outfit might have been yanked straight from Cher Horowitz's wardrobe, with one key difference: Nobody in Clueless would have been caught dead in knee-length tights and storm-trooper boots, much less the beribboned sweatbands she is using to keep her wrists warm. The whole thing is very Lolita of the Valley, suitable for that heady combination of shopping, sinning, and Tae-Bo that we all strive to include in our lives.

By cutting contestant Guadalupe Vidal relatively early in the show, it would appear Project Runway's panel of judges got things terribly, terribly right.

I mean... would you trust this woman to design your clothes?

Okay, not you, Bai Ling. We know you would love her. In fact, we believe Lupe is your loopy soulmate, and we fully expect you to hire her when Personality #7 -- "graudeur-deluded businesswoman" -- decides it's to try her hand at an eponymous clothing line. We would very much like to be at the meeting in which you pitch out this outfit to the Girl Scouts of America as a potential new uniform, contending that it mixes tradition (Pigtails! A beanie!) with that magical sense of drunken reveling the organization currently,tragically lacks. And once you put up the pie chart illustrating just how many more cookies this outfit will help sell in certain parts of town, I'm sure it'll be a done deal.

But everybody else? Run.

Well, I hope you've all said good-bye to your loved ones and put your affairs in order, because I am pretty sure this is a sign of the end:

The ancient readings do say:

When the first of the womenfolk afflicted by the accursed man-wand of Federline appearth in public having donned a faux-bodysuit atop otherwise acceptable she-wear, know that the time hath come to yoke thy oxen and harness thy goat, for this is but the first of the signs of the end time.  The second sign shall be witnessed when the second of the womenfolk afflicted by the accursed man-wand of the Federline walks the streets of Malibu in bare feet, a pathetic expression on her face, as she is chased by men bearing cameras. The third and final sign of the end time occurs when the sun shines upon the face of the alleged offspring of Maverick, Lord of Xenu and Joey of the Potters and this is witnessed by  persons not in the  employ of  the Lord of Xenu. Then blood shall rain from the sky, the waves of the oceans shall run backwards, and Kimberly Stewart shall assume her true wolfen form as the world dies, just in time for the Emmys.

So, that seems pretty clear to me.  Unearth the canned goods and find the key to the fallout shelter!

Having just marveled at the ruffled fuggery of Ms. Barton, it would seem like overkill to feature her again; however, being as it's a Friday and that's the day of the week on which we're most likely to be gripped by invincible good spirits, we've decided to show you the other side of the Barton coin. The side that doesn't dress like she goes around chipping chewing gum off the sidewalk so she doesn't have to pay for her own.

Full disclosure: This dress isn't my absolute favorite thing, as the floaty pieces of tulle look a little bit like the birds taped the garment together in a mad rush to get Cinderella ball-ready, and didn't really think about whether that would hold all night. It looks a little unfinished.

However, she looks gorgeous. The color should probably wash her out, but instead, she's wearing that gown and not letting it wear her. Somehow your eye is drawn less to the bizarre contours of the dress and more to her lovely skin and striking eyes. Her makeup is flawless -- youthful and understated, yet unobtrusively dramatic in the right places. And Mischa has managed to find a strapless gown that neither hoists The Girls up into her neck, nor leaves them dribbling helplessly toward her navel. It flatters them, it accentuates the curve of her waist... all in all, it's a nice glimpse at Mischa Barton the way we prefer to see her, and it reminds me that I often forget how very pretty she is because I'm blinded by whatever crazy ensemble she's sporting. This, however, is classy, elegant, and adult.

Now if only she had a nice, regularly showered guy squiring her around town.

Baby steps.

Oh, MARY-KATE. There's so much about you that's making me happy. Your healthy skin! Your body weight! The fact that your clothes don't look like you dragged them out of the dumpster behind the local No Tell Motel!

But then...there's the small issue about the hair:

I...just don't know what to say. It's a headband. Of hair. On your forehead. This is Dynasty's Claudia Blaisdel jogging around the grounds of Denver's Asylum for the Criminally Insane + the sassy ladies of the Manson family x Jesus. And that is one potent, confused, seriously irreligious cocktail.

Oh, Chaka. I feel for you.

1. It's summer. It's hot outside. That is not the time to dress as a grieving sofa.

2. Why is your skirt made of chain mail?

3. And why isn't it made of thicker chain mail? I think I spy with my little eye something beginning with "c" and ending in "amel toe," and it's all thanks to your joyless tights.

4. Sweet fancy pants, I'm sweating just looking at you -- how are you not splayed out on the red carpet in a sweaty, delirious state of heatstroke?

5. Somewhere, the gay Musketeer is sobbing, because his boots have been stolen.

Sometimes, Mischa Barton is so very Value Village.

And I would be fine with that, in theory, because everybody appreciates finding a prime deal on something cute. But, that shirt would not be a good bargain at any price, possessed as it is of an embarrassing childishness that can only be pulled off by a very young girl in a nightgown or a very old Great Aunt who is playing bingo at her nursing home; for another thing, she probably did not unearth it on the discount rack at a local resale store, but in fact dropped a cool $150 on that ruffled fabric-blend fugtrocity, simply because some smart store owner figured that if you slap a hefty price tag on something, a celebrity will immediately decide it's Very Important and buy ten of them in different colors.

At least the hairy rocker boyfriend does look like he cost about $2.

Say what you will about Elisha Cuthbert (and in my experience, you're going to say one of two things: 1)  "Man, she is SO HOT" or 2) "I really wanted that mountain lion to eat her on 24."), but you've got to admit she's got a nice body.

Not that you can tell in this:

If you're doing the Baggy Thing, fine, but this particular Baggy Thing is way too long. It hits at the exact worst length for her body, a length we here at GFY HQ call by its technical fashion term: "stumpy." But, more alarmingly, seriously, what's she hiding under there? A hardcover copy of the Oxford English Dictionary? A pony keg? Or is it, in a shocking cliffhanger reminiscent of 24 indeed, the the mountain lion itself?

I'm a bit upset with whoever foisted the Pussycat Dolls upon us. As a burlesque act, I'm fine with them, but I didn't need a creepy made-to-order pop group version. I've already had a place in my heart for a pre-fab girl band, and it was the Spice Girls, and the boring, pointless Dolls songs and their unmemorable members can't quite compete with Sporty, Scary, Ginger, Baby, Posh, and "zig-a-zig-ahhhhhhh" in my book.

I mean, look at them. Not only are they trying really hard to be edgy and exotic, but half of them are just deeply discounted version of other people:

Girl On The Left looks like a distant cousin of Hilary Duff as reimagined by Anne Rice. Second from the left, we have a facial knockoff of Posh Spice (but dressed like Sienna Miller) from the years when she actually ate food that required chewing. Third from the left, we have a copycat Carrie Underwood in an S&M figure-skating costume. And second from the right, it's Christina Milian by way of Jennifer Beals circa Flashdance, when she wore that "shirt" that consisted merely of a backless, sleeveless tuxedo-style bib and random disconnected cuffs floating around her wrists.

The other two just look like drag queens. Old drag queens. I can't help it; that's just what they say to me. I look at the photo and think, "Wow, that must have been some rough road." They just don't work for me as completely as Spice did. Their music is selling like hotcakes (I imagine a lot of cheerleading squads are choreographing to "Don't 'Cha") and while it makes my ears bleed, I accept that's not the case for other people; however, I wonder how long they can last if nobody starts aspiring to their image. I can't see girls buying a doily bustier just because Anonymous Lead Singer Lady is wearing one, nor cutting off their collars and throwing the rest of the shirt away as an homage to Ms. Strangely Beals up there. But a lot of people tried to copy Sporty's garb, Posh's prim couture, and Ginger's sassy punk style. We also bought into their personalities. The Spice Girls made it work, made it original, made it marketable; the Pussycat Dolls are just sort of... there. It's all so average. Half-hearted. Who are those people up there, and why do I care if she's got real big brains but he's looking at her [BLEEEEP]?

Maybe they just need identities. Idiotic cat-themed identities that simple minds like me can use to identify one from the other in some kind of meaningful way. Like... oh, I don't know, Alley Cat, or, in the case of one or two, Tom Cat, if you get my drift (no relation to the Scientological marvel). I'm not sure if it would help, but maybe I could start to care, or even digest them better, if they broke themselves down into easily digestible pieces -- you know, succumb to the brilliance of a well-oiled, manipulative marketing machine instead of just trotting around as an indistinguishable, sort of shoddy, and oddly-dressed whole. (I mean... "Burlesque-themed" is one thing, but seriously, For Whom The Beals Tolls up there looks like she completed her outfit with construction paper.)

I am thrilled, though, that somebody finally cracked the quandary of how to keep one's feet cool while they're packed into black boots. Clearly, we just needed to cut out the toes. Peekaboo boots! It's so simple! Thank you, Undead Cat.

You know that poster from IKEA that hangs in the home or office of at least one person that you know -- the one that's a grid made of squares filled with different swirls, in varying hues?

Tara Reid took it a step further and turned it into a shirt:

I guess if you're basically a walking target, you might as well be a bit literal about it. And honestly, in many ways this is probably an improvement over most of what's in her wardrobe, excepting the fact that you can see right through the shirt, her shoes pick right up on that transparent theme by being complete plastic disasters, and it's likely she borrowed Tom Cruise's Flowbie to do her hair because she heard it gives bitchin' layers. And, she should go to her colorist.

But other than that, I suppose this could be worse.

A hearty Go Fug Yourself congrats to Zooey Deschanel!

Dress? Cute! Shoes? Cute! Bag? Cute! Pony-tails? We'll allow it. Nude fish-nets with a black frock instead of black tights with a flowery cocktail gown? A huge step in the right direction. Play on, Miss Deschanel. Play on.

And is it wrong that I just squealed with delight when I read on the IMDb that you're playing Liza Minnelli in the new Halston bio-pic? For some reason, I can really see that. Although if it leads to an unfortunate period in which you traipse around town in Giant Liza Spider Lashes, I reserve the right to refug you at once.

Sure, we were born on mighty Canada Day, but until that's considered a North America-wide holiday, we have to settle for only July 4 being a federally approved day off. But, we'll take it, because any day that's essentially dedicated to scarfing barbecue and booze is our kind of holiday.

This stance on food, among other things, is where we apparently differ from Keira Knightley.

The British actress chose to celebrate the eve of her country's no-doubt-deliberate parting of the ways with its lumbering colony by firmly asserting her independence from nutrition.

The last few days have been eventful: on Saturday, Go Fug Yourself turned two (prepare for us to become very difficult indeed, with a great deal of foot-stomping, unprovoked wailing and constant queries along the lines of, "but WHY?"), and then this morning, Lil' Kim was at last released from prison.

Look! She came right over to bring us flowers for our birthday! Thank you, Lil' Kim! And if we may be so bold? We are delighted that you and your tremendous cleavage are back out and about.  In fact,  if you don't immediately start running all over town in, say,  a pleather catsuit with artful cut-outs over the boobs, we will probably fling ourselves on the floor and have a tantrum.

We had hoped Kelly Clarkson's days of ridiculous and unflattering concert wear were long behind her. After all, she is adorable, talented, by all accounts very unaffected by fame and in fact rather delightful, and she seems like she'd be such a fun girl to go grab a beer with and talk about boys and clothes.

She is also -- from the one time I saw her in town, when she walked past me -- is very normal-sized, and that is refreshing in an industry that miscasts "normal" as some kind of brave statement, and rewards the size-0 waifs whose only solids are taken in via the nostril in powder form.

So I cannot for the LIFE of me figure out what sadistic asshead keeps putting our beloved K.Cla in skanky disasters that make her look 20 pounds heavier than her lovely figure actually is:

Here we have a person who's adored by millions of young girls, and for all the right reasons, unlike so many empty, talentless, overtanned disasters. She has not attempted to starve herself into oblivion. She's actually a good role model. And therefore, while I'm happy that she evidently feels confident on-stage in anything her stylist throws at her, I do wish people would actually try and FLATTER HER BODY, please.

She also doesn't seem especially suited to the new edict that only singers who wear cargo pants and/or dress like punk strippers can earn street cred. [Remember how nobody cared about Assica Simpson until she dyed her hair brown and started wearing too many necklaces, baggy pants, and Converse?] I feel like such image makeovers might be required when you're trying to trick people into believing your client can sing, but Kelly actually can. Now, if she wants to be a cargo chick, so be it, but my point remains: Can we please put away the shirts that make her look like a walking pear?

Lisa Edelstein's top half is costumed as a 16-year old girl dressed for Daddy's summer garden party, where she's expected to make nice with the boy her parents want her to date and eventually marry: Wolcott Townsend III, a pubescent oil patch who will own The Hamptons when he inherits his father's holdings, and whom she once caught rummaging in her underwear drawer when she was 12 and he was 15.

Curiously, her bottom half is done up the way that same girl is when she ditches cheerleading practice for an after-school shop course, so that she can trap herself under a chassis with the school's dark, dangerous Skeet Ulrich type; he treats her with utter contempt, picks his teeth with a switchblade, has flunked three grades, and once went to the sanitarium for a week after knifing every inflated ball in the athletic department's supply locker. She is completely in love with him, of course.