October 2006 Archives

Evidently, Virginia Madsen's Halloween costume this year was, " Orange Julia."  Get it? Orange Julius ... Julia...  See what I did there? ... No? No good? Sigh.

Well, regardless of what I did there, the issue is what Virginia did here.

She has taken the unflattering, boxy thing Candice Bergen wore to the Emmys and soaked it in the biggest vat of industrial-strength tequila sunrise she could find. It's so aggressive that the sea of citrus overpowers her face and washes her out completely. In fact, it took me ages even to notice her afterthought of a head because I was awash in memories of the game Lemonade Stand, and how on the really hot days you'd get a blazing orange sun and know you were in for a major killing. Big money. And yet somehow, paradoxically, the outfit is also a massive whammy. We're through the Press Your Luck looking glass here, people.

Anatomy of a Fug: Part One

[Obligatory bit about Halle Berry's great beauty here.] [Sentence about her ability to look at least marginally hot in even a potato sack here.] [Wry comment re:  fact that one could look marginally hot in a potato sack does not mean it would be a good idea to actually WEAR ONE here].

[Insert photo here:

[Note that you've come back to this photo seven or eight times, and been underwhelmed by it each time, despite the fact that you suspect you're supposed to think it's okay here.] [Wonder to self what exactly is wrong with this look,  as you drink a Diet Coke and flip through the Sky Mall catalog you stole the last time you flew. Wonder if you need a giant glass table with a ceramic sculpted Sumo wrestler as a base. Or maybe a hot dog bun warmer. Do NOT note this interlude on site.] [Suggest that maybe she's just TOO SHINY here.][Think about how the fabric of this dress reminds you of the rad shiny foil wallpaper in your friend Jennifer's guest bathroom in 1988. Don't note this either, in case it makes you sad about how you probably can't buy shiny foil wallpaper anymore, and how you'll never have the guest bathroom of your 7th grade dreams after all. Does this also mean that you will never be Mrs. Kirk Cameron? A fate too tragic to continue to consider.] [Wonder what would happen if Halle caught that really long sleeve in the car door/if she's able to eat a meal without getting sauce all over that really long sleeve/if that really long sleeve would, at least, lend itself to making super dramatic entrances and exits here.] [Consider noting that she looks hot from the clavicle up; reject this as being too nice.] [Pithy ending here, perhaps using the words "disco," "Xanadu," "Olivia Newton John's knickers," or some combination thereof here.] [Call Sky Mall about hot dog bun warmer.]

Hilary Duff has done a nice job remaking herself recently into a more stylish, sleek version of the child star who favored 80 necklaces at once and rarely displayed any evidence of having a neck.

Having given her that credit, though, please allow us to pick a nit.

If she would just please learn to stand up straight and quit the coy shoulder-hunch, perhaps the thought floating through my head right now would be, "She looks lovely in that gown," rather than, "She looks so uncomfortable in that heavy bedspread."

Not realizing Willy Wonka isn't real, Suzanne Somers turned herself into a human Golden Ticket in the hope of luring the reclusive mogul to her chamber of thighmastery:

Unfortunately, in addition to blowing all of $5 on this hideously shiny suit that makes Las Vegas itself look prude and tasteful, Suzanne also ended up looking as if one of Wonka's everlasting gobstoppers exploded on her face. Seriously, this had better be the last time she lets a drunk vagrant do her makeup before an event; it's nice to give the lost a sense of purpose, Suzanne, but unfortunately this just highlights the fact that your last plastic surgery was a bit too severe.

Further adventures in misguided belting, courtesy of Lost's Elizabeth Mitchell:

I stared at this photo for several minutes before coming to the following conclusions:

1) However lovely her legs are, that dress is too short. She looks like she's trying to gain entry into the Hilton clan.

2) The belt makes the black strip of fabric above it look totally misplaced on the dress, awkwardly spaced between the others to the point that it chokes up on her breasts unflatteringly. For a moment I thought it was gaffer tape.

3) Indeed, the random deployment of belts is never appropriate, no matter how terribly trendy it is, because when done incorrectly all you can see is the belt itself. Here, it looms terrifying, like a red-wine stain on your parents' couch: large, ugly, and impossible to pretend doesn't exist or didn't happen.

4) She could play the sister of Ellen Pompeo and Renee Zellweger, should there ever be a movie that requires such a triumverate; however, considering that the last three-sisters flick I can recall was Hanging Up -- an egregious malfunction of cinema involving Meg Ryan, Diane Keaton, and Lisa Kudrow -- let's hope this doesn't come to pass because the precedent is not encouraging.

4) It bears repeating: Careless belting is just another form of self-abuse. Don't let this happen to you.

There is no doubt that Jessica Alba is a pretty, pretty girl.  (We've also heard that she's a crazy bitch, but who are we to judge her for that? In fact, it sort of makes us want to get a beer with her.)  So why does she look like this on the cover of Elle?

There are several possible explanations:

a) She's a huge Janet Jackson fan, and instead of, say, getting a nice military-inspired jacket, or randomly flashing her left boob at nationally televised events, she decided to pay homage to Janet's disastrous W cover.

b) Nina Garcia hates her, and this is her revenge. (Okay, okay, we know that Nina Garcia probably doesn't have the final say on Elle's cover, but don't you love the idea of her sitting in her office -- twirling her highlighted locks like a more feminine version of a handlebar mustache -- and saying, "AT LAST, Alba! Your neck is MINE. MWHAHAHAHAH!" ? And while we're on the subject of Nina Garcia, now that she's pregnant -- contrary to popular belief, we are not entirely cold-hearted and actually love babies, especially fashionable ones, so we're totally pleased for her -- we're worried that she might not have the energy to get around to sneering at everything she'd like to sneer at.  In which case, we're here to offer our sneering services: Call us, Nina.)

c) She got some incredibly bad beauty advice from a hack plastic surgeon, who advised her to get a neck-ectomy, because "shoulders are HOT for fall."

d) She's in full-on Method acting mode for the lead role in a gender-bending version of The Hunchback of Notre Dame, called Hottie Hunchback.

e) Tragically, all of the above.

Oh, Frankie. That's good advice. And I'd like to relax -- really, I would -- but, see, I live in L.A. also, and it's making me tense knowing that a pack of rabid chihuahuas is running around trying to tailor people's pants with their fangs. Mary-Kate-or-Ashley (with the latter's new hair color, who can say without a clear look at the eyebrows?) is putting on a brave face, but I'm not so stoic.

So, former WWE personality Joanie "Chyna" Laurer is kind of a mess to begin with, right? I mean, this is really no good at all:

Like, what's the deal with the skinny brown leather man's belt layered over a high-waisted, white handkerchief hemmed skirt? She looks like a toddler who's just learned to dress herself, except for the enormous boobs.

So that was pretty bad. And then THIS happened, speaking of toddlers (warning: kind of NSFW and definitely Not Safe For Your Retinas)

When it comes to Paris Hilton, I prefer not to think of her actually coming from anyone. As far as I'm concerned, she spontaneously generated on a rainy spring day from a pile of fertilizer rife with dung beetles.

But I suppose there are documents that claim otherwise, and so it is that we've come to refer to Kathy Hilton as Paris's mother. And I'm realizing that if we are forced to admit Paris Hilton is a DNA creation, it does make some genetic sense -- the rotten apple doesn't actually plop in a pile of moldy pulp terribly far from the tree.

The outfit itself doesn't tickle my fancy, particularly, but it's fine. [Except for that crinkled skirt; her poor chauffeur is so fired for not having wrinkle-proof upholstery on his seats.] But the shoes are totally ridiculous. They're quasi-spats; the ankle cuff is totally perplexing -- it's as if she wasn't initially planning to carry a purse, and so needed a creative new way to carry Kleenex on her person for any nostril emergencies that might arise. To which I say, "That's what bras are for, lady."

And there's just so much RIGGING on them. Look, a word to the wise, Kath -- some more Chicken Soup for the Fugging Soul, if you will: If they look like they belong affixed to Paris's Portuguese sex swing, or if indeed that's exactly where you found them, do not remove them from their squallid home; instead, step away from the kegel-pilates apparatus area without touching anything and go bathe your hands in lye just in case.

Okaaaay:

I don't know what is going on here.  I can't tell if this is a costume or not, and if it is a costume, I have no idea what it is a costume OF. (Please excuse the unfortunate structure of that sentence: today is Casual Grammar Friday.) Is this an homage to her role in Eyes Wide Shut? Is she some kind of Hipster Jester, reaching into her pocket for two iPods and a copy of McSweeney's to juggle? Is she half woman, half vampiric elfin sprite? I just wish someone could explain it to me. I just want to understand.

Remember Kim Stolz, the snarky lesbian on America's Next Top Model's fifth "cycle"? Have you ever wondered what she might be up to now? And have you ever thought that grouping an all-female modeling show in "cycles" is a poor, unfortunate, and crudely evocative choice of language?

Well, I'm here to tell you: Yes to the latter, and as for the former, she is going through something of an unfortunate Steven Tyler phase.

Get a hold of yourself now, Kim. This is a slippery slope. Save yourself before the jacket suddenly gets replaced by something shinier. Then you're a mere bender away from finding yourself strolling around shirtless, covered only by a large flapping vest, some tattoos, and some sort of necktie; then, quicker than a Diane Warren key change, you're suddenly staying home nights to stretch your lips out with a complicated assemblage of pulleys and forceps, while counting the pennies in your  Tyra Bank to see if you can afford those horse-teeth implants.

So... be careful, is all I'm saying. I mean, if Tyra and Mr. Jay thought you'd look good as a Kentucky Derby winner, they'd have taken care of it already.

Historically, Kate Moss has managed to avoid our wrath, mostly because she is one of the few people who can pull off pretty much everything she attempts.  Until now:

It's the visible Hanes Her Way panties that have pushed me over the edge.

But what's really alarming about Kate Moss right now is not this sheer taffeta monstrosity, but rather her male accessory.  We haven't mentioned Pete Doherty on here, ever, I don't think, mostly because this site isn't called Go Drug Yourself.  But I have just about had it with these two.

Listen, we've all made bad choices in the romance department. I once dated a man who had no refrigerator because "it was too loud next to [his] head."  But does ANYONE ANYWHERE think Pete Doherty is a good bet romantically?  He has -- and I think I can say this without using the "allegedly" -- drug problems.  His teeth are a mess.  He's often bleeding from the head.  He falls down a lot. He's sweaty. He seems like it would be hard to have a conversation with him between the hours of 4 pm and noon. He's a total f'ing mess, and he's the sort of boy who,  should you be dating him, prompts a lot of concerned conversations with your girlfriends including the words "loose cannon," "kind of greasy," and "your daughter's well-being." He's like the dating equivalent of wearing acid-washed short-shorts to your grandmother's funeral:  totally inappropriate to the point that people begin to wonder if you've had a head injury.

And that's not chic at all.

Chrystee Pharris used to be on Passions. And although at times Passions is the best show on television bar none, we can understand how being on a soap featuring the floating head of Adrian Zmed in a tri-corner hat, a living doll, a monkey-nanny named Precious, the huge unrequited crush of Precious on Luis The Hot Cop (Precious has good taste) that featured numerous fantasy sequences -- including a Dynasty-themed one -- in which Luis and Precious are thwarting their oppressors in order to be together while drinking banana smoothies, tittering faux-clowns who kidnap a pregnant woman and throw her in a basement hole and then taunt her, and mystical talking candles that warn people to remember The Shed (actual, horrified response: "I could NEVER forget THE SHED") could addle your brain and cloud your judgment.

I would mention the mermaid and the Da Vinci Code knockoff story that featured an army of angry lesbians, but that was after Pharris left.

At any rate, though, given all that unusual experience, we should probably look upon the following outfit/contraption with understanding.

Well... probably.

Every so often in a girl's life, she goes out and she stays there too late. We here at GFY like to call that experience "college." And also, "The summer of 2003." But let's focus on the college part.

Harken back to the time you, say, went to a dance or a formal party in a cute dress, stayed out all night, did a few kegstands -- just like God intended -- and crashed out on somebody's couch because you didn't want to drive home, and also, you just sort of accidentally fell asleep on it. Then you woke up the next morning cloaked in the clammy chill of beer sweat, your hair so stringy and greasy from the evening's exertions that you could wring it out and fry a chicken. You had to get home. You had a paper due, maybe, or you just desperately wanted to rinse off in the comfort of your own shower shoes. But, what to do? Put back on the dress you wore last night, screaming to everyone that you're skulking home from an all-night rager? Or try to concoct a semi-plausible alternative -- say, by borrowing a flannel from one of the people who lives where you crashed, keeping the tights and shoes on under it, rolling up your dress and putting it in a shopping bag, and hoping that if you walk with enough assertiveness the whole thing will pass for trendy?

The answer, of course, is both. And neither. Because the thing is, it doesn't really matter what you do -- it's hard to hide a Walk Of Shame. It always emanates from you, to the infinite amusement of everyone who saw you that morning in college staggering back to the dorm with a nonchalant expression on your face, or wobbling through the dining-hall waffle line in boxers and heels.

But what I want to know is, why recreate Walk Of Shame couture as some sort of fashion statement? Why would you want to look like yesterday's Beer Pong tournament?

Unless this actually is a walk of shame, in which case... well played, Mary-Kate. Way to embrace college even if you're not attending it any more. But next time, may I suggest a hat? And perhaps fashioning a skirt out of some dishtowels?

This is  a difficult time for a Fug Girl.  With the resurgence of the fashion of the 80s, plus the fact that Halloween is less than a week away, we have an increasing number of moments where we see a picture like this, and wonder if it's a costume or not:

Give Brittany Daniel a hand:  she is, in fact, attending an 80s costume party thrown by VH1.

But, deep inside, don't we all know that somewhere,  someone is wearing this, and they mean it? And isn't reaching the point in our collective fashion consciousness where leggings under a belted man's shirt topped off with a mini-vest seems like it could potentially be anything other than a costume scarier than anything October 31st could throw at you?

We try to avoid Omarosa Manigault-Stallworth at all costs, lest we catch a nauseating whiff of her malodorous delusions of relevance. Undeniably, she and her ego were great reality-show contestants, but they do not combine to make her an appealing or interesting celebrity. Simply put, we don't care. We've had our fill, it was amusing, the plaster fell on her head in what we like to think was an act of God, and now we want to leave her in the past. And yet, she appears to be trying to draw out her 15 minutes with the use of a carefully manned stopwatch, or perhaps by misinterpreting the old adage as meaning, "Fifteen minutes... of every hour."

Ergo, this single-minded avoidance is probably how we missed out on her ginormous new breast implants, acquired in about March or April, if the photo galleries are to be believed. But if she's going to shove them in our faces, we might as well push back.

Here she is before the inflation:

And here she is after:

When I told Heather I was going to be fugging Ant, she responded, "Those words are English, but I don't know what they mean.  Except the 'fugging' part." The best way I could explain the phenomenon of Ant was to tell her that he started out on Last Comic Standing (as a really annoying contestant), somehow parlayed this into a gig on Celebrity Fit Club (as a much LESS annoying host), and now both does that and also apparently hosted Last Comic Standing 3, which, if I am not mistaken, only aired on the Internet and at like 4 am on basic cable in Uzbekistan. (To his immense credit, it seems, according to our friends at IMDb, that he also appeared in the TV version of Sweet Valley High, and in something deliciously titled It's My Body and I'll Cry If I Want To.) Anyway, short version: He's now like the poor man's Mario Cantone.

He, however, didn't get the memo:

The memo HE got said he was the poor man's JESUS.

Sometimes I think of the celebrity world as a carnival of fug. And then I start to daydream about starting a real Fug Carnival -- we'd hire somebody like Scarlett Johansson to run a roller-coaster ride evocative of her own up and down relationship with clothes; Jessica and Assica Simpson and their incredibly changing body shapes/faces would of course man the Fun House and all its manipulative mirrors; Fergie would run around as the bearded lady; Paris Hilton would be at the kissing booth, where you get a free antibiotic with each slip of the tongue; and we'd force K-Fed and Britney to sit in the dunk tank because that's the only way to guarantee that they get a real bath.

And then, I found this photo that inspired me to add a scary "It's A Fug World After All" ride -- even more terrifying than the original -- wherein you sail through a little waterway (made of vodka) and creepy dolls sing at you from the land on either side, telling you all about what's awful in celebrity fashion.

These are those dolls.

Since Frances Bean seems to be doing a nice job getting taken care of, either by herself, her relatives, or her mother, I feel like it's kosher to say once again that Courtney Love is such an entertaining mess. I mean, there's always something.

Ignoring the fact that her bra appears to be showing, this particular something -- the implementation of an unexpected hair-hook -- is utterly great. Think of it: If at the end of the night her handlers can't pry her out of that confusing gold lame jacket with fur trim, they can just give up and hang her entire body up in the closet. Maybe they've started keeping her in the wardrobe already, and that explains why her makeup seems a bit stale -- they forgot to chip it off last time and are trying to get at least three full uses out of each spackling before attempting to refresh. So economical!

SHARON: You know something, Dennis?

DEMI: It's not Dennis, it's...

SHARON: MIMI. Right, that's what I said. You know what, Mimi? Working with you and Ernesto was just such a REAL experience...

DEMI: It's not Mimi, and it's not Ernesto, it's...

SHARON: EMILY. I knew it. So, Mimi, this guy, Emily, the one right here... THIS is the guy, you know?

EMILIO: Give it up, Demi. She smells like a frat party. I think she was wearing that tie on her head not too long ago.

DEMI: I just wish she'd brushed her hair. And her teeth.

SHARON: I just couldn't be more proud to be in Bruno, you know? It's about time somebody understood him -- such a wonderful actor, such a tragic early death. People with whatever he had? They are the true heroes.

EMILIO: The movie's called Bobby.

SHARON: That's what I said! Bobby! So tragic, the way he died, and then poof, he was in the shower because it was all a dream that Pam had! Society needs this movie right now. We need to understand so that we can heal.

DEMI: That was a TV show... Were you even invited here?

SHARON: I think that Linus Lohan boy was so good in the part, too. He is dreamy, and I think he has a line on some Percocet. I'm single now -- what do you think? Wouldn't we be just deliciously randy together?

EMILIO: Linus wasn't... I mean, Lindsay... I mean, it's not Dallas. I think you did too many kegstands.

SHARON: That should be your next movie, Emily. Miller. The story of a man who created something legendary, who dared to dream of fermented hops and barley. Something we all just want to dive into and stay there, bathing and swimming in a wet coccoon of wheat, you know? It's important. I'll play the keg. You could put Mimi and her son in it. What's his name? Ashton?

DEMI: Well, yes, actually, but he's not my ... you know what? Forget it. That's close enough. Now I need a beer.

"In a WORLD where only a MAN can be President....In a TIME when our NATION needed a leader MORE THAN EVER...In a LOG CABIN in KENTUCKY....A GIRL CHILD was born. A GIRL who would ONE DAY disguise her TRUE IDENTITY to become THE GREATEST LEADER our COUNTRY has EVER KNOWN:

This Christmas,  PENELOPE CRUZ IS ABRAHAM LINCOLN in the greatest gender-bending story you've NEVER HEARD.  Focus Features presents ABE LINCOLN WAS A CHICK. December 25th. In movie theatres EVERYWHERE."

When you think Paris Vogue, what do you think? Class? Elegance? Cutting-edge fashion? Quintessential French chic?

Or underboob?

Sure, maybe the underboob of a chic French model smoking a Gauloise in her underpants and, like, really expensive and avant-garde, de-constructed heels.  Or Vanessa Paradis's underboob, as shot by Johnny Depp with a Polaroid or something. But Paris Hilton's underboob? Honey, show us something we haven't seen before.

This year, for Halloween, Claudia Schiffer is apparently going as a corpse bride.

She looks like she'd be more at home haunting the English moors, walking on marshland, than on the red carpet. Hopefully she's not in costume as the actual Corpse Bride from the movie, or else we have some cleverly rigged maggots on a spring to look forward to here. You know, for maximum authenticity. She was a model, after all -- isn't that what the industry is all about?

The bottom half of Tracy Bingham aptly illustrates the danger of rushing to an event too swiftly after a long afternoon at pro cheerleader camp:

I wonder where she stashed her pom pons.

This shirt/dress -- Shress? Drirt? --  reminds me of the last few times I've been shopping, wandering through the racks trying in vain to figure out whether half of what's hanging there is meant to be a dress or a shirt. This happens a lot lately, and it's frustrating, because 90 percent of the time the answer is, "That's a shirt," and I have to put it down and walk away because it's too long to look flattering with jeans yet too short to be worn as a frock, for fear of wearing it in public and completely losing my mystery.

Sky Nellor has no such qualms, though, apparently figuring that a pair of fishnets ably doubles as a genital cover. Perhaps she needs some girlfriends to shop with her and provide a much-needed reality-check, in the vein of, "Tights are not pants," or, "Who do you think you are? Bebe Neuwirth?" And especially that old classic piece of advice, "If somebody sneezes too strongly, the world will see what your groin looks like when it's squished like sausage meat into its stretchy prison, and that's never pretty, so for the love of God, FIND A BETTER CONTAINER FOR YOUR LADYBITS before you forget yourself and break into a kick-line that splays open the cotton crotch." That one's as old as the hills -- Chicken Soup for the Fugging Soul.

When Intern George isn't rubbing our feet, scrawling "Mr. George Fug Girls" on his Trapper Keeper, or peeling grapes that he then feeds us from a silver platter -- as we lounge on our chaises and swoon, "Dahling, WHITHER the fug today, I shall simply PERISH if Mischa Barton doesn't soon leave the house in a Value Village tee!" -- we sometimes let him answer our mail. And today, we decided to let him print some of his answers. We swear on all things holy (so, on George himself) that these are all VERY real e-mails we've received at GFY HQ, with names removed to protect the somewhat innocent.

E-mail #1

Subject line: (no subject)

u know wat i think? i think that u r just writing about people "dressing bad" cuz u guyz r just jealous jealous cuz they r so much prettier and better than u

Dear Friend,

Let's not spoil this with accusations of insecurity. We both know I'm handsome. Dapper. I'm Dasher, Dancer, Prancer, Vixen, Comet, Cupid, Donner, and Blitzen, all in one, but without the antlers, and sometimes, without the kicky tail. But I need a Rudolph, you sweet scamp. I can make your red nose glow -- care for some Hug Tag?

Yours in reindeer games,

G

E-mail #2

Subject line: Hi

Blogs are for fags. p.s. You suck at the innernet.

Dear Friend,

At first, I admit, I was stung when I read your words. I hate it when we fight; I clutch my pillow in grief and think what a waste of a ready, warm embrace it is, and how you might be there instead. But then I realized I had misread your email! Blogs ARE for FAGs (Fuggers and Georges), and I am having trouble playing near the net on the tennis court. I feel so much better now that I know you weren't lashing out, but that, in fact, you were fixing your penetrating gaze on my soul. Do come here soon so I may squeeze you.

Kisses,

G

E-mail #3

Subject line: Go [REDACTED] Yourself

Honestly do you have anything better to do than follow all the celebrities that you wish you could look one ounce similar to? You sit around your little trailer park and serf the web looking for pictures of celebrities looking bad to make your ugly ass self look better. If you had one atom intelligence you would find something better to do than sit on a corner waiting whoring yourself out for less than my left nut. To whoever made this website… get a [REDACTED] education and go [REDACTED] yourself because you are all pieces of [REDACTED]. Have fun in Hell. Peace up.

Dear Friend,

Did we know each other in another life? In the Middle Ages, when I was the lord of my own fiefdom, we used to love serfing -- finding some young serf girls, cuddling them silly! Were you one of them before being reborn as a man with an incredibly expensive left nut? Tell me if this sounds familiar to you: "Strumpet, discard thy boots and spread thine arms, that I might lay upon them in ultimate snugness." Ring any bells? Or how about the time I rubbed your tiny feet while we supped on mutton, and I told you were were 'vassals' of mankind's most perfect love, and you laughed and laughed because for two shining seconds you thought feudalism was funny? It is, you, isn't it? All that talk of trailer parks was just a test, wasn't it? To see if I'd recognize you? I would never forget someone I've clutched to my chest in the yoke of my loving arms.

You "mead" me who I am today,

G

E-mail #4

Subject line: Your pretty to

NOT

Dear Friend,

I am aglow with the promise of what might transpire here. The stunning simplicity of that one word is so clearly an open plea for the comfort of my embrace. Never have I felt so needed. My purpose remains as clear to me as the first day these manly arms changed a life. Walk to the light, sweet soldier of brevity. Walk to me.

Marinating in masculinity,

G

Repeat offender Blu Cantrall strikes again:

We have extremely tight security here at GFY HQ, for obvious reasons (we don't want Dina Lohan dropping off an envelope full of anthrax, for example. Nor can we have Kevin Federline popping in for tea and scones every day.  And, of course, we have to protect Intern George's privacy). So you probably are unaware that, squeezed in between a giant crate of Hostess Ding-Dongs (for me) and an over-sized barrel of peanut butter (for Heather), below the map on which we track Courtney Peldon's whereabouts, and just to the left of our giant aquarium of exotic, endangered tropical fish, is the GFY MOST WANTED wall. It's how we keep track of who's most in need of our intervention and tough, tough love.  Well, today, Blu Cantrall has finally cracked the top ten.  Check it out:

Continuing my unintentional thread today of oddly rendered clothes... I adore Ginnifer Goodwin -- great actress, great eye makeup -- but I do wish she'd chosen an outfit that wasn't quite so evocative of a curtain.

It could have been cute, if it were ... different. (See what I mean about the eye-makeup, though? She looks fantastic but subtle. So pretty.) I've grown so impatient with this trend of waistlines that have fringe at the top. What's the advantage here, exactly? It's not slimming, particularly, and I imagine that extra flappy fabric gets pretty annoying when, say, the stem of your martini glass gets caught in it and the sweet boozy contents tip out and either down your front or someone else's. It makes the clothes look either unfinished or, yes, like a curtain. I know the latter shares with this dress the purpose of blocking light and/or sightlines, but that's not good enough for me.

So unless we're going to go whole hog and start making use of those flaps -- can they store your ID? Lip gloss? A flask? -- I vote the designers stop doing it. I don't care if they accidentally cut the fabric too long and their solution is to hike it up and make drapery fringe with the extra. I don't care if it's been a long week and they're tired and they no longer know what's going on except that they picked the wrong week to quit sniffing glue. I, and my beloved stemmed liquor vessels, just want them to cease and desist.

This reminds me faintly of the disastrous belt-bra "dress" that Keira Knightley whipped up for herself not so long ago; although this one is not as blatantly ridiculous as Keira's bedsheet couture, this one is more formal and therefore in its own way, just as inexcusable. Because it appears some amount of professional expense (even if it was just at a bridal outlet) seems to have gone toward procuring shiny fabric. So shouldn't look like a gleaming bag two sizes too big got tied off at the chest by a black tourniquet. It really shouldn't.

Now, as regular readers know, we generally utilize this space to make fun of people's outfits. Occasionally, we mix it up, and talk about things we do like (you know, giving credit where credit is due, and also because we like to keep you kids on your toes). This post, however, is sort of in a netherworld of neither of those things, and yet there's something about this picture that I simply could not resist:

Mysteriously, I suddenly would like to see the two of them star in a kicky little rom-com about a pair of bumbling professors who find love solving murders together. I don't know where that reaction could be coming from.

I think it's because I freaking love her in those glasses.  While the outfit is neither here nor there, and I know the glasses are just a jokey accessory,  I seriously think Kiki should consider switching her entire look over to the sexy librarian thing, because she looks cute as a little button. (We're going to try not to address the fact that Jason Schwarzman seriously looks exactlylike my Uncle John, circa 1984. Hair, facial hair, outfit, book in hand -- the works. It's kind of scary, actually.)  There's just something about the glasses that work for her here, and I have to admit, I think she looks really pert and charming. Yes. Yes, you heard me. Yes, I am actually advising fake eyeglasses as an accessory and, no, I am not ashamed. Completely crazy, yes, but not particularly ashamed.  Next week: my surprising argument in favor of fake mustaches.

What we didn't know last week, when we made fun of Minnie Driver's new obsession with all things 80s, was that she was really just priming the pump for her new show, Minnie Driver's Retro Revolution, in which she puts together an ensemble,  using only clothes she finds at the back of her neighbors's closets -- and if you don't think part of the fun of the show comes from watching Minnie Driver break into the apartment next door and rifle through the bedroom, you're wrong! --  and goes out to the hottest clubs in town. Will the doorman remember that she used to be an actress and let her in? Or will her wacky mixed up outfits doom her to an early night? Last week, she hit the town in a millinery salute to Duran Duran. This week? She's Madonna, mixed with a splash of Olivia Newton John, and sprinkled with Flashdance!

She's just about to break into a round of the Cabbage Patch! Set your TiVos!

So this is what it's come to, eh, Josie?

I am seriously displeased.

Actor Joel Berti from Fashion House felt a little ill at ease. He'd only known Morgan Fairchild for a little while, but she told him he had to attend L.A. Fashion Week with her for promotional reasons, and well, when an immaculately groomed woman shows up in a really unexpected skull t-shirt with strange brown spots on it and then orders you to do something, generally you do it.

Especially if this is the same woman who, on the underappreciated soap Paper Dolls, once delivered the line, "Darling, a little word of advice for the future: When a lady has a hot tub in her bedroom, it is NOT Mother Teresa's apartment," while wearing ten pounds of eye shadow on and hair sprayed up to be taller than she was. I mean, that's the stuff of legend right there.

Indeed, with dialogue cred like that, we were almost afraid to mention how out of place and uncharacteristic the t-shirt is on her, especially with the matronly turtleneck underneath it, but then we realized that fuggers fear no divas. Plus, the fact that we actually watched most of the 14 episodes of Paper Dolls might earn us her good favor. Or, as the case may be, her pity -- except not really, because we enjoyed every second of Lloyd Bridges and La Fairchild commingling with the likes of Young Nicollette Sheridan (whose character meets, falls in love with, tries to run away with, and then gets mercy-dumped by John Waite -- yes, the actual John Waite, playing himself), Less-Young Mimi Rogers, and The Mom From Alf, and we're not ashamed to admit it. Much.

All righty, I think I've finally figured Zooey Deschanel out:

She's just f'ing with us! It's like performance art! And today, she's playing a character called Sobby Wigslot,  a young woman with a love of fake hair that's almost powerful enough to break through the terrible fogs of her clinical depression.

It's nice to know I'm not the only person who thinks Sienna Miller's reptilian sci-fi reject gold boots are unattractive.

That, or he just heard her come out of the salon thanking her waxer for the Brazilian. But I prefer to think he's with me on the boots.

Holaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa (yawn) aaaaaaaa.

Dios mio, I'm groggy. I do not know WHY. But I am having such a hard time keeping my eyes open. Mark told me I look muy sexy when I can't lift my eyelids. This was right after he made me play Interview With A Vampire again but I am so BORED with that game, so this time, instead of running away like always, I just let him bite me in the neck so that he would stop BREATHING on me already and let me get back to watching Ugly Betty (which is some show about Salma Hayek's life -- it's sort of funny but Salma doesn't even WEAR glasses so I don't think it's very ACCURATE, which I would never allow because I respect people's stories and that is why I wore all of those spandexy things that Selena used to wear when I did that movie and there were NO GLASSES ANYWHERE and THAT, Salma, is the kind of ARTIST I am).

Anyway, after he bit me I felt so tiiiiired, amores, and I didn't even care anymore whether Salma got her eyebrows waxed any more. Then Mark started telling me how beautiful I am when the blood drains out of my face and that it makes me look like this sexy zombie lady, and then he got all excited and started measuring me and kissing his Home Depot card. He said he was making me a new bed as a surprise. Good. Maybe I can take a NAP on it when it gets here instead of having to fold my arms on my chest so he can see how tall I am when I'm on my back. BORING.

Ayyyy. I'm getting a little bit ... tired of him, you know? Don't get me wrong, he is my skinny toothpick prince of bones, and we spend our days making beautiful music and sunproofing the windows and I am VERY HAPPY. But... well, I was so INTERESTING before. Back when I was wearing sweatbands and pigtails, or making that Ben drink Ultra Slim Fast laced with laxatives so that he didn't look all blown up like a parade float any more. Those were nice times. He may not have showered very much at first but at least he didn't smell like formaldehyde. (That's a mouthwash my Mark uses to take his medicine. He told me it's custom-made, so I can't have any, although after he ate my neck the other night I caught him clapping his hands and squealing that now he could finally put some in the salad dressing. He is WEIRD, mamacitas). I wonder if it's too late for me and Ben. I could take that Farmer thingy he married -- maybe I could just put her in a little cage in the basement.

Nooooooooo (yawn) I don't feel like it. I have no energy, amores. I don't FEEL like grabbing her by the hair and dragging her to the dumpster. I don't WANT to sit there and look at Ben's hair plugs and their dumb Vile Aflac or whatever it is called. Maybe I will go home and break some Alias DVDs. Although Mark might not be awake yet -- he doesn't like to get up before 6 p.m. -- and if I'm there when he gets up I'll have to play a game and I am NOT IN THE MOOD to pretend to run away from "Baron von Nibblehaus" or whatever other stupid nickname he picks out. I will have to hide in my mirrored closet again. He never comes to find me in there. Phew. Good plan.

XXOOZZZzzzzzz,

J

I'm feeling an overwhelming sense of deja vu. I just know I've seen this turtleneck before.

It's coming to me. It's right on the tip of my tongue. This person is someone I'm fond of.  She's made a peanut butter and jelly sandwich for me, and cut it on the diagonal, because it's a holiday.  Michael Jackson plays softly in the background, and I am holding a Rubik's Cube....

I've got it!

The person: My mother

The date: January 1

The event: My family's annual New Year's Day Open House

The year: 1983

The place? A fashion show for mass retailer Kohl's. The magic trick? A peek inside the minds of America's sweetheart couple, Dean McDermott and Tori Spelling.

DEAN MCDERMOTT: I can't believe I'm at a motherf'ing KOHL'S fashion show. I didn't marry HorseyMcBoobjob over there to go to a Kohl's show. 

TORI SPELLING: Dean doesn't seem very happy. 

DEAN: Chanel? Yes. Dior? Yes.  Marc Jacobs? Yes!

TORI:  You'd think he could crack a smile. We're in the front row.

DEAN: Even Target would have been okay. Target is kind of hip.

TORI: We got Phillips head screwdrivers in our gift bags. Dean loves tools.  He's like the king of the tools. I wonder what's wrong.

DEAN: I wouldn't have tattooed her face on my arm if I didn't think I was getting fifty years of classing it up rich and famous-style in return. I mean, I never even got to see the stupid bowling alley in her Dad's house. I really wanted to see that bowling alley.

TORI: And I look surprisingly cute today. This dress is really flattering on me, and the boots are kind of good. But he won't even look at me.

DEAN:  Would it make me look really bad if I leave her when she's pregnant, and right after we found out that she's out of the will? Is that really suspicious?

TORI: Does he look sort of like David Silver, if you squint your eyes? I need to remember to bring that up with Dr Leavenworth at our next session.

DEAN: I wonder if I can get Paris Hilton's number from K Fed.

TORI: I wonder if I can get his attention if I pretend to have a seizure.

When you're at an event called Dressed to Kilt, and it's an ode to Scottish fashion, you're going to see some plaid. That's just the way it is. And that's fine; I have nothing against plaid. In fact, I wore it for three years of senior high, and sometimes I sort of miss the excuse to wear a cute forest-green, navy, and black kilt.

So my problem here isn't that Patricia Arquette is in kind of a kooky plaid dress. Rather, it's that she's barely in it.

Perhaps on someone with less ample assets, the top of the dress would offer plenty of coverage -- or even, a tiny bit more; a wee extra bit of fabric is all it needs. Unfortunately, though, on Patricia, the dress appears to have been yanked up to its ABSOLUTE MAXIMUM height and then superglued in place, because no mere boob tape could withstand an assignment like this. It's great that she has the hourglass; I just wish the dress didn't make it look like the hourglass just now got tipped over and all the sand is still concentrated at the top.

There's got to be a better way to contain those. I mean, check out the close-up.

PETE WENTZ: YEAH! This party is AWESOME!

MICHELLE TRACHTENBERG: I hate everything about this whole night.

PETE: Wicked!

MICHELLE: Oh, stop it. No one who's wearing what could pass for a flower basket on his head is allowed to call anything "wicked."

PETE: Rad!

MICHELLE: Sigh. I suppose this is what I get for maybe-dating a guy who commissioned a grown-up version of his favorite childhood pajamas. Are those multicolored boomboxes? I mean... really? WHY is this happening to me? WHY are you trying to bring musical Underoos for adults into the world?

PETE: Funderoo! Ha ha!

MICHELLE: STOP IT. You know, since you aren't bothering with your big-boy clothes, I don't feel NEARLY as bad about wearing a flesh-colored sack that makes me look like I'm dying of a chronic wasting disease.

PETE: Your sack is WACK! Consumption is BACK! SNAPS!

MICHELLE: I am so tired of you. If I hadn't already smeared my eye makeup, I would do it so I had an excuse to go to the bathroom. And then leave.

Thank the fashion gods that Dylan Lauren has the perfect denim train for every occasion.

It's always thrilling when Old McDonald offers up his farm for a special event. Of course, it'll be a whole lot less exciting for him when the socialites in attendance realize that on that farm he has a cow, and viciously tip it right into the Red Bull bar, resulting in some sort of bizarre insemination yielding caffeinated milk and the conception of a calf that is part-bovine, part Lohan.

So, Minnie  Driver disappeared for the last few years and this is what she chooses to reappear in?

Let's dispense with our usual pleasantries: that hat is dumb.

But I do enjoy the fact that Minnie is posed between two "Duran" logos, making it appear that she's actually attending some kind of Duran Duran conference. In which case, perhaps her dumb hat is actually an homage to this:

Or this:

If this is, in fact, the case, we withdraw our verdict of "dumb," and instead replace it with "awesome."

I love Amber Tamblyn. But if Mischa Barton were the headmistress of a School For Sexagenarian  Hopefuls, the most popular class would be Kristin Bell's "Add 20 Years In 3 Easy Steps," and Amber Tamblyn would be on the Dean's List en route to that coveted valedictorian spot.

Geniunely gorgeous model Natalia Vodianova has taken the dress over pants thing -- which, PLEASE GOD PEOPLE, STOP DOING THIS. It's 2006, for pete's sake -- to horrifying new, er, lengths:

Oh,  god.  What if they're leg warmers? I need to lie down.

Los Angeles, recently:

PARIS: Dude, I'm so happy we're friends again.

NICOLE: Me too.

PARIS: You make me look so tall and healthy.

NICOLE: You make me feel so small and delicate.  And smart. I enjoy that.

PARIS:  I'm just glad we're over that thing that happened.

NICOLE: Me too.  Our friendship is more important.

PARIS:  I know. I mean, bros before hos, right? I seriously never would have hooked up with him if I knew you really liked him.

NICOLE: What?

PARIS: Stabby. If I'd known you were THAT into him, I never would have stolen him from you.

NICOLE: Huh?

PARIS:  STABBY. STABBY NACHOS.

NICOLE: Who is Stabby Nachos?

PARIS: You know, tall? Greek? Your boyfriend?

NICOLE: Stavros Niarchos?

PARIS: That is what I SAID. STABBY NACHOS.

NICOLE:  He's not my boyfriend.

PARIS: He was until I stole him from you.

NICOLE: What?

PARIS: Or was that your sister?

NICOLE: I don't HAVE a sister. YOU have a sister.

PARIS: We both have sisters, dumbass.  We're both the skinny sister!  Woo! Remember?

NICOLE: Paris. I don't have a sister.

PARIS: Um, did they  give you electroshock therapy when you were in that eating disorder thingie? You totally have a sister. You guys were on that TV show forever, like when you were little kids? Remember? You guys are twins, or something.

NICOLE: Paris, that's Mary-Kate Olsen.

PARIS: YOU'RE Mary-Kate Olsen.

NICOLE: NO, I'M NOT.

PARIS:...are you sure?

NICOLE: YEAH.

PARIS: Really? Because I think you're wrong. You look just like her. Do you have your driver's license with you? Because I don't think I believe you.

NICOLE: I'M NOT MARY-KATE OLSEN.

PARIS: Then who the hell are you?

NICOLE: It's NICOLE.

PARIS: Richie?

NICOLE: YEAH.

PARIS: Oh.

NICOLE: YEAH.

PARIS: Um. So, this is awkward.

NICOLE: YEAH.

PARIS: I guess the friends thing is off again, then.

NICOLE: You know what you did.

Back when she was still in the running towards becoming America's Next Top Model, our girl Furonda made a set of Rules for Successful Interaction that included the suggestion, "I am the best person to discuss me with."

Evidently, nobody wants to talk about her. Because if they did, they would -- as Rules-abiding citizens -- have to talk TO her, and surely ANY conversation in her presence would have resulted in an intervention before this outfit saw the light of day.

I think we're going to have to make our own set of rules for Furonda.

1) Ribbons are not an alternative to buttons.

2) If your skirt hangs so low that we can see what you're wearing underneath it, then your skirt is too big.

3) Massive swatches of boob tape and/or white fabric under a translucent piece of black lace are not going to escape our attention; consider wearing real shirts instead.

4) When people look at your outfit and think you're on your way to a lingerie-themed luau, something has gone awry.

4) In general, you are not the best person to dress you with.

God,  Vanessa "Remember Me From Season One of Melrose Place? No, I'm the OTHER Vanessa Williams" Williams is so sad:

She is clearly painfully shy.

It's always such a happy moment in a young girl's life when she's finally allowed off her leash for a few minutes.

MAH BITCHES!

What is UP? Hey HEY! Yeah,  I'm just standing here, doing The Sprinkler in front of Westfield Shopping Town. TESTIFY!

So, yeah, we haven't talked lately and you know, Britney is always saying I'm like a bad communicator and shit but the truth is, yo, I have got my HANDS FULL. First of all, my acting career is off the HOOK.  Check it out: I'm on CSI this week and listen, I fucking rock the house on that show. I'm pretty sure they're going to ask me to have my own CSI. CSI: YOUR ASS. And I'll go all over America investigating HOT ASSES. Yeah, that's what I'm talking about. Holla!

But seriously, I'm pretty sure I'm gonna get my own show now, and then who'll be the breadwinner, baby? That's right: yo soy la breadwinner, bitches. And that'll be the end of  "No, you can't buy a Slurpee machine," and "Who's the person in this relationship who HAS a Grammy?" and "please hold the baby."

So yeah, I've got this whole acting thing happening and I also am doing a lot of shopping, obviously, and I'm been really busy not tying my shoes and buying pants that make me look really stumpy, because MAN does that piss B off, and she's really funny when she's pissed off, because then she starts yelling and sometimes her gum falls on the floor.  Let's see, what else have I been up to? I feel like there's something else. DAMN.  My short term memory is for shit now, dude.

Damn, I am just fooling wit' you. I remember what else is going on in my life: MY CD. Yeah, I know everyone thought my single sucked monkey balls (to quote my wife, like, THANKS FOR BEING SO SUPPORTIVE. Damn. You sang a song about your damn diary once. Jesus.), but that's because it's a concept album, dogs. You just haven't heard THE WHOLE THING. It makes that Timberlake punk look like Lance Bass. YEAH, I SAID IT. TIMBERLAKE'S A GAY! Heh.  I said that to Britney once and she punched me in the ear. She so easy.

Oh, yeah, and we had another baby.  I ALMOST talked B into naming him Sean P2, but she ain't that simple.  I also wanted to name him Snoop D -- like, Sean P is after P Diddy, so why not give some love to the D O Double G? And she said no.

She's so boring, dudes. My next wife is going to be Paris Hilton. You know she would totally let me smoke out at home.

And now she's yelling at me again.  Something about me emptying our 401k? No way she could have found out about that shit already. I better go on damage control. Which means, turn up the Vandross...it's time for Baby Number Three.

PEACE OUT, BITCHES

Federleazy

Oh SWEET JESUS:

This is so, so questionable.  Lindsay, babe, we haven't talked about you much recently -- mostly because there are only so many ways you can say, "Honey, please stop partying so much.  We're worried that you're blowing all your talent on [REDACTED ON THE ADVICE OF OUR LAWYER], doing too much [REDACTED] and spending all your money on [REDACTED]. Also, put on some pants" -- but I must speak up now.  I've seen chicer, more flattering cotton sacks in the Bulk Grains aisle in Whole Foods. You look like a bag of flour. Why must you continue to lash out at me in this fashion? Why do you still want to hurt me? Can't you just let me live? Can't you just leave the house in something attractive once and a while? I know you're going through a break-up, but is that my fault? Please stop torturing me like this. Also, put on some pants.

Listen, I have nothing against belts.  Belts hold your pants up. Belts define your waist. Belts are not a problem. What is a problem is the current trend of just belting the shit out of everything, willy-nilly.

To wit:

Perhaps a few years of playing a character who is generally wearing some kind of flight-suit-type-thing on Battlestar Galactica has got Grace Park mixed up about the way accessories actually work on planet Earth. A short little camisole? Does not take a belt. Other items that do not take a belt, just for reference: hooded sweatshirts, jogging shorts,  tacos,  Members Only jackets,  coffee cups,  sports bras, bras of any kind, electric stand mixers, or any clothing item already containing a built-in belt. Thank you.

How apt that at the premiere of the movie Infamous, a shoe that will forever live in infamy in my eyes made a red-carpet appearance.

Repeat after me: Crocs are not okay. Crocs are not okay. Crocs are NOT OKAY.

I mean... look: If you're in the garden elbows-deep in an afternoon of weeding, I'll concede that Crocs make an ounce of sense. And I can even apply that outward to jobs where you're on your feet all day. I understand that Mario Batali is a busy man, and that maybe his feet get swollen from running around the kitchen all day screaming orders at people; if he wants to tell me that Crocs are the only shoe that can get the dogs to stop barking, so to speak, then fine. Sure. But there's no reason he should be wearing the Rubber Menace to a movie premiere. I don't care if he thinks they're his signature in the kitchen. He is not IN the kitchen. He is at a premiere, and Sandra Bullock is in a GOWN, and he's wearing a fleece, shorts, and filthy rubber clogs, like he just managed to squeeze in his paper route between the lunch service and the event start time.

PLAN AHEAD, Mario. Throw some loafers, or sneakers, or platform thigh-highs -- ANYTHING -- in the car and change on the way there. I'm sorry that you've become the poster child for this crime against global retinas, but so be it. We cannot allow the ghoulish Rubber Menace to become the sort of perceived all-purpose footwear that the Ugg boot has become; we cannot allow our impressionable starlets to think it's acceptable to start pairing them with skirts, or dresses, or evening gowns. They cannot cross into Formal Shoe country. We must, in honor of the late Steve Irwin, become Croc Hunters. Constant vigilence, people. It's the only way.

Either Amy Smart got bored with sewing ruffles onto her black dress, or she tore them off in a rage-induced fugue after the cancellation of her show Smith, unable to cope on a conscious level with the knowledge that she would no longer be getting paid to make out with Jonny Lee Miller, and then shoot suggestive glances at a shirtless Simon Baker.

And although that cold, sad reality might be enough to send any of us over the edge -- Simon Baker looks very, very good without his shirt on; getting paid to look at that amounts to a dream job -- it's still no excuse for wearing this thing out of the house. The top makes her look bizarrely part-ape.

I can't think of a good reason why Molly Sims tried to make a sack dress... well, wait, I was going to keep writing, but you could actually stop the sentence there. Something is inherently wrong with an outfit that evokes a a giant bag, unless she actually is toting potatoes under there.

But, why create a baggy, ill-fitting garment by wrapping a piece of iridescent fabric over the top of another dress? A dress that might even have been cute, and, by the shadowy shape of it under there, possibly even flattering?

Oh, Molly. Do-it-yourself couture won't get you onto Project Runway any faster.

I do understand that Erykah Badu has an unusual personal style. Really, I do. And I appreciate that.

But when she looks ripped from a failed Joss Whedon pilot called Aztec Superheroes on the Moon, it's just a tiny bit difficult to take her seriously.

Okay, we've since been told this is a tribute to an album cover and the history of funk music. Although that doesn't diminish the impact of its wackyness, it does at least explain that none of this was hanging in her closet while she waited with bated breath for the perfect occasion to wear her bitchin' new purple crazyboots. Still, even in light of this new information, any fascination with her resemblance here to actress Gina Torres, and any ensuing fantasies that Torres turned down the aforementioned role in the Whedon pilot because she wasn't into headdresses, may continue unabated.

Oh my God.

We knew she was depressed, but taking the veil seems to be a bit drastic.

Listen, Jess: The Sound of Music was just a movie.  You can not enter a convent in the hopes that the Mother Superior will dispatch you off to a mansion, where the man of the house -- a deliciously stern military man -- will fall in love with your moxie and musical skills. That doesn't actually happen all that often. Try Match.com or something first, okay?

Oh,  Kathleen Turner:

I was just watching Romancing the Stone yesterday, and you and Michael Douglas are both super hot in it. And now what? Now he's all married to babetastic Catherine Zeta Jones,  while you've apparently been tragically victimized by burglars who've robbed you of both your iron and  your back-up supply of Downy Wrinkle Release.

Listen, it's tough love time: I think you are awesome,  generally speaking. No other woman in the world could play both Jessica Rabbit, and Chandler Bing's father with equal skill. But unless you're in costume here for a role as the depressed zen master/suburban mom whose husband has left her for a younger model in a Lifetime move called Not Without My Downward-Facing Dog, we've got all sorts of problems. Problem A: You appear to be wearing your pajamas. Nice pajamas, but pajamas, and wrinkly ones.  Problem B: You appear to be wearing houseslippers. I know you've had some foot problems, but I am firmly convinced that you could find flats that don't look like the neoprene pool shoes my friend Nerissa used to wear to the public pool. Problem C: You appear to be wearing them, not as you duck out to nab your Sunday Times off the lawn, but on the red carpet. Girl, PLEASE. You are so much better than that.

*We've been told that La Turner has been under the weather with rheumatoid arthritis. We're sorry she doesn't feel well, but surely someone as innately glamourous as she has a pool boy on hand to iron her pajamas. If she doesn't, she should totally look into that,  as we hear that pool boys can also be induced to bring you snacks and tend to prance around with their shirts off, which always make us feel better.

So,  although we've featured her a few times on this site, and we've definitely had words with her stylist, Rachel Zoe,  we don't have much of a beef with Nicole Richie. Would we be happy to see her show up somewhere wearing a few extra healthy pounds? I think everyone would -- probably up to and including Nicole. She's certainly said as much. But as far as her clothes go,  she generally looks quite chic and put together, I think.  Unfortunately, it seems that her recent break-up with Brody Jenner has turned her toward the Derelicte:

[Photo courtesy of X17Online]

Baby, we know breaking up is hard to do. But wrapping yourself up in a $12 tablecloth from the Venice boardwalk ain't gonna make any of us feel better.  Even Mary-Kate's wised up on that point.

Linda Cardellini -- whom we know and love from Freaks and Geeks, know and tolerate from ER, and know and prefer not to acknowledge from the Scooby Doo movies -- is a lovely young girl with a cute figure. And an unflattering dye job, I think, but that's between her and her colorist.

Anyway. Being a lovely young girl with a cute figure, I can't figure out why she would want to regress into Bad 70s Jumpsuit territory.

I can't even tell you how vehemently I am praying that baggy-torsoed, bunchy-crotched nightmares of tailoring like these are not, I repeat NOT, coming back en vogue. This is like the worst outtake from everybody's family photo album, the picture you pause upon and laugh at how you/your mother/your other female relative thought she was SO HIP at the time in that kickin' tube-top jumpsuit, but now can't bear for the picture to see the light of day, which is why it's on your mental list of blackmail photos to be deployed selectively at clan reunions.

Sadly for her, somewhere, her relatives are like, "Excellent. Add this one to the pile, guys!"

POSH: So, er, Kat(i)e... is that what you're wearing to the Chanel show?

KAT(I)E: Yes. Tom picked it out. It's amazing. He said it made me look extraordinary.

POSH: That's lovely and all but don't you think it's a bit... much?

KAT(I)E: Tom told me that now that I'm an extraordinary childbearing woman, I should dress like one.

POSH: Well, you look like an extraordinary childbearing curtain in Chaka Khan's brothel, sweets, I'm just being honest here.

KAT(I)E: Is it not amazing? Really?

POSH: It's not that bad. It just doesn't work for this occasion, babes. I mean, look at me -- aren't we going around together so that you can study me? You want to look chic and sleek, not bleak.

KAT(I)E: You're so smart. This is so exciting.

POSH: I was in the Spice Girls. We did a lot of rhyming.

KAT(I)E: I am a thrilling woman.

POSH: Look, I'm going to level with you, Kat(i)e. It's great that you're trying to prop up your boobs, really-- I have made a career out of that -- but the bloody gown looks like it's weighing you down, it's way too much for a daytime event, and Kat(i)e, love, you're not to wear closed-toed shoes with something that aggressive, okay? You might as well be wearing loafers, babes. Frumpalicious.

KAT(I)E: This is so amazing. I can't wait to be a mother. Tom and I are really thrilled.

POSH: Er...what?

KAT(I)E: I am enjoying my courses in Extraordinary and I can't wait to be a Tom Scientology baby.

POSH: Bloody hell, this girl's malfunctioning. I can't work with this, people. Hello? Can any of her minders fix her?

KAT(I)E: The wedding is in two Suris but she's doing thrilled! I am excited to be Scientolmazing! Leah Remini amazatology!

POSH: Oh, bollocks to THIS. I need a drink.

Continuing in our accidental yet apt week of dishing out affection to British actresses, I rather love Helen Mirren. She's a straight-shooter, a blunt dame in every sense (having been made a Dame of the British Empire in 2003) who once allegedly said, "All you have to do is to look like crap on film and everyone thinks you're a brilliant actress. Actually, all you've done is look like crap." I sort of adore that for its utter balls-on, f-the-establishment frankness.

Another thing I admire is how well turned-out Dame Helen is.

Fine, full disclosure: I hate the shoes with this dress. They are frumpy. And I wouldn't wear thick tights with open-toed shoes, either, but I understand that sometimes when you get older, the rules change about how much of your actual leg skin you want to flash, and... look, Helen, maybe please wear a pump next time you want to wear hose, okay?

But you know what? On the whole I don't think I care. Because she's a 61-year old woman who's out on the town and knocking it on its ass in that form-fitting red dress. She's proof positive that women of her age, and indeed any age, can look sexy and embrace clingy clothes without needing to go overboard.

Check her out here, not long ago:

Gorgeous, regal without being pompous, and above all, unafraid to rock her cleavage.

So, well played, Helen Mirren, for glowing as you do and not succumbing to the temptation of the mighty caftan -- enemy of non-Golden Girls women everywhere.

I know Diane Farr is pregnant, and I think that's very exciting for her, but I do wish she didn't dress the fetus like they are auditioning for a role in Men In Trees as some sort of kooky, seasonally confused Alaskan townsperson-and-spawn.

Perhaps pregnancy makes your arms warm but your torso cold, resulting in things like layering a sleeveless prairie dress with a scarf and an equally sleeveless vest. Or, maybe pregnancy makes you want to run out and -- in a jarring symbol of female frustration with the sheer heft of being a human incubator -- chop some wood, an act for which she is relatively appropriately dressed. But as it is, Diane just seems to be unsure which equinox just happened, so she's trying to walk the line and be ready either way.

Note to all you starlets out there -- like this one, at the premiere of that movie where somehow Robin Williams ends up as President of the United States, like, I really would move to Canada if that happened -- if it's cold enough for you to be huddling under a full-on coat, WEAR SOME GODDAMN PANTS:

You look like you left your skirt at some dude's house, and decided to go out for the evening wearing his boxers. You also look COLD. It's OCTOBER.  What is wrong with PANTS? Have pants WRONGED YOU SOMEHOW? Please LOOK INTO PANTS.

The repeat offenders just keep on coming.

Hopefully, instead of diving asshead-first into one of his monologues, Dane Cook is actually explaining to the crowd and to Jessica Simpson that unless she is auditioning for the Women In Waders 2007 wall calendar, or indeed wading through the detritus of her fake relationships, ENOUGH IS ENOUGH with the past-the-knee boots over jeans. Especially when you take into account that she's wearing them with a cropped blazer, which is so ill-proportioned compared with the rest of what she's wearing that it looks like she shrank it in an attempt to Brave Little Soldier her way through a load of laundry.

Of course, the way our luck runs with these things, he's not saying anything of the sort, choosing instead to delve into of his truly groundbreaking, intelligent bits about Burger King. Which... look, as long as he's not repeating his tired and terrible opening monologue from last week's Saturday Night Live (in which he attempted to infuse suicide with dark comedy in a way that would make the entire cast of Heathers bury themselves in unison just so they could spin in their graves, then thoughtfully repeated the joke at length in case we didn't yawn sufficiently the first time), then we'll consider it a victory of sorts.

Confessional time: now that Star is off The View, and Rosie is on it, I am TOTALLY watching it. I know I once said some mean things about Rosie's vest,  but she's kind of rad on The View, both because she's really good at the daytime talk show thing (which I had forgotten), and because I enjoy watching her watch Elisabeth Hasselbeck squeak, because it seems pretty clear that Rosie is just tolerating Elisabeth for right now, and that, when the time is right, Rosie will unleash sweet, merciless hell down upon her, and lo, it will be sweet. 

I have no rational reason for my general distaste for Ms Hasselbeck, really, except for the fact that I think she makes all young women -- and she IS representing our demo -- look like dunderheads. Beyond that, there is something about her that grates on my nerves. And today, that "something" includes this:

OH NO SHE DI'N'T!

The kilt is cute -- I love a kilt -- but that shirt is about five feet too long on her teeny little body, and leggings? Elisabeth "Token Conservative Who Does Other Conservatives No Favors" Hasselbeck in leggings? Is it possible that this means the starlets of the world will start shunning the leggings in favor of something else? Something that hasn't been worn by someone who works on The View? Could we be so lucky? Could Elisabeth Hasselbeck be our unlikely little savior?

Ironic, that.

Sometimes, Paris Hilton dresses really well for long stretches of time -- say what you want about her, and we've certainly said plenty, but she has a great figure for clothes, and a lot of the time she drapes it relatively adeptly.

And then she goes on stretches of crazy.

Here, all narrowed eyes and headband and pleated skirt, she's ripped straight out of Cruel Intentions 4: Climb Every Valmontain, in which the main characters are, like, third cousins of the originals, and Paris is of course the Queen Bee, who conducts interpretive-dance orgies (hence the legwarmers) that lead to your typical high-school scandal and sexual politics. Look for it in the $4.99 DVD aisle at your favorite local Target.

I really like Patricia Arquette. I loved her in Flirting With Disaster,  I loved that she told the Medium producers to drop dead when they wanted her to lose weight for the part, and I really hope she and that dreamy Thomas Jane can make it work.  However, it's a bit concerning that she went out last night in an outfit that prompted me to search the interwebs for twenty minutes to find out if she's pregnant or not:

I don't THINK she is. But if she's not, she probably doesn't want people so perplexed by her outfit that they spend a goodly portion of their morning trolling Google to find out if seed has found purchase in her womb. And if she is....well, if she is, then congratulations to the happy couple! I do like them. But it's probably smart to avoid dressing like one of the kids from Our Gang, even if you are gestating a wee Jane-Arquettelette.

Sandi Thom is a Scottish singer whose single, "I Wish I Was A Punk Rocker," is starting to make its way over here so that she can take the U.S. by storm, or somesuch.

But her more immediate goal appears to be opening a punk club in Neverland.

When there's nothing left to believe in, believe in Mischa Barton. Because she will always wear something that cheers you up instantly.

Take this joke of a skirt, for instance. It's like a clown repurposed a blazer and wrapped it around her waist. Amusing, but not in a complimentary, deliciously whimsical kind of way; it's more of a hideous Fisher Price "Baby's First Buttons" kind of funny. Mostly, I just want to tug it down so that I don't accidentally get a view of her birth canal.

Still, at least we're laughing. Maybe for that, we owe her a debt of gratitude. Maybe we should all stand in front of her and join in a thinly harmonized chorus of "For She's A Jolly Good Fellow," led by Tim Curry, because the world needs more of him. And maybe, if we lavish her with enough giggles and praise, she'll back away slower than a gun-toting Mrs. Peacock, wary of our ulterior motives and never to be heard from in this capacity again.

Or, we could just wait for her to get bored with looking like a lunatic. That might be easier -- that, I can do from my couch.

Here at GFY, we are often asked, "Don't you girls like ANYTHING?"  The answer, of course, is no. We hate kittens and babies and Christmas. We hate presents and kissing and ice cream. We hate lip gloss and Luke Perry and football.

Listen, of course we like things. We like lots of things. I like all those things I just mentioned, especially the ice cream.  But the website is not called Hey, I Love Your Outfit.com. That being said, sometimes we like to feature people wearing things we love (especially if they often wear things we don't), and sometimes we like to give a shout out to people who almost always look good. (I believe the kids used to call this "giving props.") Today, it's the latter. Witness Kate Winslet at last night's Little Children premiere:

How much do we love Kate Winslet? A lot.  She never shows up with her boob hanging out, or wearing formal shorts, or sheer culottes, or leggings.  She doesn't go to Hyde and start yelling about the characteristics of people's ladyparts, or give interviews where she sniffs that she can't believe people aren't feeding their babies organic peas grown on their own acreage. She has not hired Rachel Zoe and wasted away down to a child's size pants. (In fact, in this week's EW, she says that Emma Thompson once told her that if she [Kate] lost weight, Emma would "never fucking speak to [her] again," and that is one of the reasons we love Emma Thompson, even if she sometimes shows up places in unflattering bodices.)

And she looks as gorgeous here as ever:  lovely dress; amazing skin; good hair; subtle, classy accessories; fantastic manicure.  The thing about her, of course, is that she almost always looks amazing:

Dear Diary,

You know how you, like, always try to think of a really funny thing to say in the moment, and sometimes you can't figure out what it is until way later? Like, when I saw Lindsay Lohan making out with that Stabby Nachos guy I stole from Mary-Kate? (Oh, don't look at me that way, Diary -- she didn't need him right that second.) At the time I just walked over and stepped on Lindsay's foot and then glared at her really hard, but I realized, like, two weeks later that the perfect thing to say was, "Dude. Like, get a room. At a Motel. AND BRANDON DAVIS STILL HATES YOU." HAHAHA! I mean, right? Then nobody could say I am not awesome and smart and clever.

Anyway, so you know what is awesome? My new shirt, which is TOTALLY the perfect thing to say any time you can't think of a comeback as good as the motel thing.  Are you ready for this? It's so good I can't even STAND IT -- wait, hang on, I have to touch up my makeup real quick ... Okay, I'm good now. (Sorry, if I don't check my makeup every ten minutes I start to get wrinkles.)

Here is my shirt:

[Photos by X17 Online.]

That is WICKED HOTT TO DEATH, people! That is for everyone who lies and says they don't like my album. And to everyone who thinks they can, like, arrest me for just driving someplace, and then CHARGE me for driving, like it's my fault I hadn't had any food that night except for a martini.

But you know who ELSE it's good for?

You totally know actress Jane Adams. She was in Frasier, and The Anniversary Party, and she delivered the babies in Father of the Bride II (you know, or so I hear). She's done a lot of theatre, from what I understand, and she's certainly a very good actress.

So do you think it's possible that she's going places dressed like this as preparation for a role?

A role as, say, a prim schoolmarm, with a predilection for tiny bows and strangely patterned tights, who harbors a secret desire to be a lumberjack (a lumberjane)? From the expression on her face, it  sort of feels as though every piece of this outfit goes with any entirely different look, and she just decided, "Screw it. I'm wearing all this shit together, and I don't care. I'm sure there won't be any photographers there!"

Whoops.

Not long ago, we chastised Chaka Khan for dressing up as a grieving sofa.

Now, she's moved onto the draperies in the room. She's creating a whole luxe den of mourning. Next up: matching lampshades.

Just when you thought Uggs had ceased to terrorize the feet of young starlets...

... they reappear, prowling the red carpet in all-too-apt animal print symbolic of how they prey upon the weak.

How cute would she have looked in some hot open-toed leopard-print pumps? Or some knee-high boots? Or in ANY shoe that is actually meant to be worn in temperate climes, or to places that aren't the grocery store? I weep for the shopping sprees that could have been, and which instead ended here, in tragedy.

Friends don't let friends go Ugg themselves. Remember that.

Why are all these people clapping for Sharon Stone?

a) Because she is Sharon Stone, and for Basic Instinct alone she deserves a standing ovation, let alone surviving a brain aneurysm;

b) Because she is headlining a conference on selling one's soul to Satan, and she's just proclaimed, "AND YOU WILL KNOW US BY THE BLOOD OF BABES TRICKLING FROM OUR HUNGRY SUCKLING LIPS, and also, the fact that we have no wrinkles";

c) Because she just shouted the aforementioned statement thinking she is at a conference about selling one's soul to Satan, but actually having crashed an Office Depot Employee Loyalty retreat, and everyone is too polite to correct her;

d) Because they're looking at her from behind, and they know something.

The answer is D.

Well, at least, we assume it's D; it might also be A, B, or C, but D is the only one for which we have firm photographic proof.