January 2007 Archives

BOB: It's so nice to be here with the twins now that they're legal. And still talking to me. I mean, seriously, these are good kids. You don't see Stamos here, do you? No. But they are.

MARY-KATE: I wish Stamos were here.

ASHLEY: Bitch STOLE MY LIPSTICK.

BOB: Although... you know what, I wonder if I should have a talk with Mary-Kate. She's basically wearing a boxer's robe. And that's messed up -- I mean, if anyone tried to fight her, they'd get a KO just by sneezing on her hard.

ASHLEY: Seriously, I can't believe she stole that. We don't HAVE to be LIPSTICK TWINS, beeyotch. You already have MY FACE without my permission.

MARY-KATE: Stamos loves a red lip. He told me that. He was talking about someone his own age, but whatever -- we're soulmates. I knew what he meant.

BOB: And also, she really needs to get her roots done. Like, I'm happy to see her, but the reverse skunk stripe thing is annoying the crap out of me.

ASHLEY: At least I did my makeup without scribbling on my face with a black crayon.

MARY-KATE: When Stamos is here, he always takes me into a corner and wipes all the smeared eyeliner from underneath my eyes. It's the most special time I ever spend with another person. Why else would I show up in public looking like this?

BOB: I'm not good at these kinds of talks. I wish Stamos was here. Everyone listens to that sexy bastard. Even I can't stay mad at him.

ASHLEY: I'm totally texting Stamos later -- he'll understand. He'll feel my pain.

MARY-KATE: I can't believe Stamos didn't show. Sigh. Smile through the heartbreak, Mary-Kate.

ALL: Oh, Stamos.

"For a woman whose blazer was recently ripped apart by a pack of rabid dogs," Sharon Stone thought, "I look pretty f'ing good."

Oh MY GOD, Oksana Baiul.

What is UP with you? One day, you're dressed like a hooker in a particularly grim Law and Order episode , and today, you look like you woke up and wrapped yourself in a....damn, dude, I can't even come up with a pithy metaphor for what this looks like. It's like a Hefty bag married to a parachute crossed with a bean bag divided by a....GOD, I DON'T EVEN KNOW. I'm out. I'm out of words. I have no more words. If only I could skate my displeasure in a long program titled "Sweet God, What Is That Thing?" and set to a remake of the old Bel Biv DeVoe classic, "(That Dress Is) Poison." That would about cover how I feel.

Britney Spears could learn a thing or forty from Ms. Reese Witherspoon. And not just about how to wield talent, or how to be a loving and attentive mother in Hollywood.

No, she could learn something very specific about The Bounceback: how to rise above a pending divorce without needing to run around town caked in hangover sweat, changing your hair color every four hours but leaving no doubt as to which curtain color matches the carpet because you can't resist airing out all your bits.

Reese Witherspoon kept a low profile until her divorce news died down in favor of stories like, "Britney and Paris: Lovers, Fighters, or Both?" and "Hollywood Nose Jobs: Name That Septum."

And then she showed up on the awards circuit in a series of understated but glam cocktail dresses that show off how toned and trim she is, looking as if she doesn't have a care in the world. She also refrained from shoving her tongue into the mouth, ear, or other assorted oriface of the first guy who looks like her ex/looks like he smells like her ex, or even the second guy she met who fit that criteria. Indeed, she appears to be taking it all in stride and putting bedhopping at a relatively low priority. Whether that's true or not is all her own private business, but the point is, she's done a bang-up job of putting up a public facade of normalcy and class.

However, I will say this: She'd better not drop any more weight, because Reese is getting to that familiar point where she is too skinny for her chin.

See? It's just very... chinny. Which is an incredibly eloquent observation, I know. But her face just needs to carry a little bit more weight to avoid the ol' wicked-witch chin.

So here's my solution: Britney and Reese should become best buds. Reese can teach Britney how to dress, how to behave herself, how to rise above a split gracefully and without providing five tomes' worth of custody-case evidence in favor of her rat-pig ex, how to dial it down a few notches and be photographed taking her kids to the beach or to a playdate or shopping, and how to stop overprocessing her hair; Britney can repay the favor by teaching Reese how to eat enough Cheetos that she takes the edge off her chin. Ms. Spears would thusly up her social profile and her personal hygiene, and Reese comes out of it all looking like a Nobel Prize eligible humanitarian with a face that's got just the right amount of softness.

Everybody wins!

Oh, but Reese: Careful with the cocktail dresses at the Oscars. They were fine for the first two bashes of the season, but don't get stuck in a rut here, okay?

Poor Kim Dickens. Her character on Deadwood -- prostitute/madam/sad sack Joanie Stubbs -- went through a lot of terrible things, most of which I can't remember because I was so fixated on her outfit throughout the run of the show. See, her character had a habit of wearing this terrible wee top-hat, with a long veil attached. I hated it -- perhaps irrationally.

I don't like this either, but I feel totally rational about it:

I was watching a TiVoed episode of What Not To Wear the other morning, and Clinton Kelly made the wise observation that mustard yellow flatters no one. What a terrible tragedy it is that his words of wisdom came too late for Kim. He also, I'm sure, would have said, if asked, that weird schlumpy bodices with bows that both make you look squashed and slumped over are ALSO flattering to no one. I want to run over there, grab the top of her dress, hoist it up about three inches, and tell her to leave the bad posture to the celebutantes. 

Frankly, I kind of wish she'd gone for the hat.

In a desperate attempt to have a worldwide hit in Ghost Rider, Nicolas Cage has apparently taken a page from the Book of Hanks:

Unfortunately for Nic, trotting around in hair befitting an alleyway rapist isn't actually going to make his movie about a flaming skeleton biker look any less wretched.

What it might do is get him randomly sprayed by suspicious people with itchy trigger fingers wrapped around their pocket mace, but somehow I don't think the two experiences are in any way approximate of each other. Still, he does have National Treasure: The Book of Secrets coming up to console him. Movies about made-up mysteries of history apparently SCREAM for lead actors who look like their pockets are bulging with roofies. It will be so awesome when Diane Kruger's character returns for the sequel with a chestnut pixie cut, a French accent, and nothing to do except ask expository and often redundant questions of the male star.

Inside a Factory Girl party, Anna Wintour is caught out without her signature huge dark sunglasses, and remembers too late that half the reason she needs them is because she has no poker face.

SIENNA: Oh, bollocks, look at THAT, it's Anna Wintour! Editor of Vogue! Isn't it amazing that we're both here together -- a total fashion icon on one side, and Anna Wintour on the other!

ANNA: ...

SIENNA: Look, Anna babe, I've got this fab idea for your cover. It's gonna be me, right? Wearing THIS: a fuzzy sweater and nothing but tights as pants. It'll be, like, neanderthal lady meets Shakespeare. But with some serious control top.

ANNA: ...

SIENNA: Of course I don't need control top, Anna! It just keeps my bits warm for whoever gets them later. Between you and me, I'm thinking maybe the Harry Potter lads. Several of them, actually.

ANNA: ...

SIENNA: Anyway, your cover with me is going to make everyone talk, you know, because EVERYONE will be wearing this soon enough and I'm offering YOU the chance to be at the front of the line.

ANNA: ...

SIENNA: By the way, I really like your coat, can I borrow it? I'd like to cut it up into one of these shirts, and then maybe make a pair of furry trousers out of it that I can wear once everyone ELSE is wearing control-top tights-pants, and I suddenly become incredibly bored with them.

ANNA: ...

SIENNA: Come on, Winty, give us something more than just a robotic smile. Are you thinking about how to express how avant-garde I am? Or are you just speechlessly pleased to find someone who understands fashion even more than you do? Or do you want to have a go at my tights-pants? Come on, let's hit the Ladies, you can slip them on.

ANNA: ... Repulsive. Repulsive. You are an utterly ridiculous girl.

SIENNA: Er... uh, what? Sorry, can't hear you, babe! Too loud in here. Anyway, must dash. I see a camera over there that I haven't hit up yet. Kiss kiss!

ANNA: Somebody fire her. Immediately.

We recently took a trip to our nation's fair capital for a wedding. It was mighty cold in DC, but the city greeted us warmly, and when we took our leave, it was with the satisfaction of a weekend well spent.  When waiting in line for security at Dulles, I spotted one of those freebie magazines you find at places like airports. I am, if you must know, a huge fan of the SkyMall. Where else can you find the Pop-Up Hot Dog Cooker [awesome], the Basho The Sumo Wrestler Table [classy!] AND the extremely unsettling Poison Oak Tree Sculptures, as well, of course, as an assortment of change counters and accessories for your dog? And so I expect this particular magazine to perhaps be trying to sell me a new robotic can opener. But what it is REALLY trying to sell me on is the possibility that the cover model is actually Alec Baldwin:

At first, I thought this publication was called Washington Fever (a rather catchy name for a magazine, I think), and that Alex Baldwin HAD one, which is why he looks so very orange. Frankly, he doesn't look like himself at all. Let me refresh your memory:

See? That's Alec Baldwin. Crinkly, amusing, ready to attempt to sell us some Schwetty Balls, and probably willing to show us his actual ones. We like it. Washington Flyer Alec, on the other hand, appears to coming directly from a Men's Warehouse print ad shoot. In fact, I'm not convinced that that's all Alec at all. I think maybe his eyes, nose, and mouth may all have been placed on the face of another oranger, less eye-bagged, even smarmier model in the hopes that exhausted travelers wouldn't notice that El Baldwin looks -- well, weird. But not us. We know the real Baldwin when we see him, and he's generally not the color of a mango margarita.

Which reminds us: we need to order that Margarator.

Congratulations to Mary-Louise Parker for picking the one pair of open-toed partial-platform heels that are as frumpy as if they belonged to a geriatric stripper.

The pleated ballet costume isn't helping, of course. Its misguided "I'm 12 so I have an excuse for this in ten years when I look at the photos and hate them" youthfulness only further underscores the theory that those shoes were pried off the feet of an 80-year old prostitute named Hazel, whose heart gave out after she heaved the dominatrix whip one too many times, only to have a gross but enterprising Hollywood Boulevard shop owner liberate them and resell them for $50.

Maybe Mary Louise should play Hazel in the movie. America loves 3-hours-in-the-makeup-chair-every-day come Oscar time, so a wrinkled lady of the night who may sag but still shags is a perfect way to stretch her limits.

Okay, children. Everyone, lie down on your mats, and close your eyes. We're going to play a little game of pretend.

Pretend you are Rachel McAdams. You are adorable and talented, and everyone likes you -- even mean, cranky bloggers -- because you are adorable and talented and seem normal and friendly and down to earth. You've got everything going for you. You have a totally cute boyfriend who finally shaved off his questionable facial hair, and who's getting nominated all over the place for his latest acting role. We assume that, somewhere in Canada, he's probably building a house for you. You know, just because. Things couldn't be better. And so, when the time comes for you to go with the boyfriend to an awards show, what do you wear, children? Think about it:

No. I'm sorry, kids. I believe in the power of imagination, and I want each of you to have a rich and satisfying inner life, but you simply can not wear that if you are Rachel McAdams. It is too short and too boxy to do your figure any favors and while no one loves the short, kicky Mod look more than I do, this looks like a very posh bath towel. Don't wear a bath towel to an event. Unless it's a pool party, and the 1st Annual Hollywood Pool Party Awards aren't until March.

So this is a setback, children. Keep your eyes closed, and let's all focus on getting Rachel McAdams into something stellar for the Oscars.

"HELLO AMERICANS!

I am respected actor Jeremy Irons! You may remember me as the guy who was awesome in that movie where I'm married to Glenn Close and she ends up in a coma and it MIGHT have been my fault, or maybe from that movie where I'm totally creepy twin gynecologists! I was GREAT in those and you probably think, when you think of me, 'Oh, Jeremy Irons! He's a wonderful British actor, and when he's not playing roles in which he does totally creepy stuff to women, he works in poncy British costume drama!' And that's ALL TRUE. But now, I have a new role! In a show coming to YOUR American television sets. That's right! It's called Old Irons' Sides, and I play a
crime-fighter with multiple personalities who has the ability to morph into whichever personality is best suited to the crime in question. For example, here I am in costume as his personality 'Marlton', who's what you'd get if Carson Kressley and Chuck Norris had a baby. He's really good at tracking down people who default on magazine subscription and KICKING THEIR ASSES. Anyway, the show is going to be really riveting, I'm just saying. It's going to change all your preconceptions about me. Check it out! On The CW, of course."

[Photo Source.]

GIORGIO ARMANI: Boo! It's me! HELLO!

POSH: God, I'm fabulous.

KAT(I)E: Hi Karl! Hi! It's me! Mrs. Cruise!

GIORGIO: KARL? I am not Karl Lagerfeld, runt. What kind of IDIOT would think I am Karl Lagerfeld?

KAT(I)E: Oh, wow. I'm sorry. It's just that you're both so... tan. Ha ha ha... ha.

GIORGIO: Quiet, Scientology Spice. Can you not see that I'm trying to start a conga line with the Queen of America?

POSH: That's f'ing right, darling. Thanks to the football deal for David, we're even MORE filthy, stinking rich.

KAT(I)E: That's great, ha ha!  I'm so happy to be here! Kar... er, Giorgio, I just wanted to know...

GIORGIO: BUY A COUNTRY, you delicious pleated diva!

POSH: Too right I will.

GIORGIO: Take the Maldives. No one knows who owns those anyway! Make it Isla Victoria!

KAT(I)E: I think the Maldives...

GIORGIO: LIKE I SAID. Nobody knows.

POSH: I wonder if America will let me have Hawaii. It's closer. I'll pay cash.

GIORGIO: I will make you leis. FABULOUS leis of GLORY. With FEATHERS, just like mama used to make.

POSH: Damn, babes, you're WAY more fun than Karl Lagerfeld. All he does is scowl and glove-slap people. F'ing awkward sometimes if you ask me.

KAT(I)E: Sir, Mr. Armani, if I could just ask you about this dress...

GIORGIO: Or you could buy A SITCOM. We could be in one of those lively half-hour comedy shows! Where we live together and work in a pizza parlor that is also a tanning salon, and have strange neighbors with children who won't stop talking! IT WILL BE HUGE.

KAT(I)E: Yes! And I could play the...

GIORGIO: No, no, I want that Michelle Williams girl -- she's DYNAMITE.

POSH: Tanning and pizza, eh, Giorgio? We could call it Mystic Pizza.

GIORGIO: I've never heard of ANYTHING so divine, my queen. IT WILL CHANGE THE WORLD. Now, CONGA, you vixen! 

KAT(I)E: Mr. Armani, if you'd just look at me for a second, I don't think these weird pleats...

GIORGIO: Child, no shop talk -- not when I'm about to break into the macarena. You know the rules.

POSH: Look at that. Giorgio Armani, following ME around. Wanting to ride MY coattails. My life is f'ing amazing.

KAT(I)E: My life is awful. He won't even look at me.

GIORGIO: Actress girl! We need an inanimate object to be the limbo rod. Can they use you?

KAT(I)E: Thank God I had this smile surgically locked in or else I would be SCREAMING at some people right now and then Tom would make me sit in the audit closet for a week.

POSH: Allegedly.

KAT(I)E: Oh, whatever.

Dear Evan Rachel Wood,

Hello. How's it going? Are you feeling okay? Having fun at Sundance? That's nice. We just wanted to check in with you and make sure it's been a fun, relaxing vacation.

Oh, but before we go: WHAT IS THE DEAL, woman?

I mean, seriously. Has it escaped your notice that you appear to be shacking up with Marilyn Manson? And that you're 19, and he's, like, 38 or so, and also a horrific prince of doom? Did he give you beer goggles that make him look like Kiefer Sutherland? Does he turn back into a cuddly little pumpkin after midnight? Is his junk made of Diet Coke? WHAT? What is it?

Because it's rather well documented -- we're certainly not the first to say it -- that you are starting to turn yourself into his ex, Dita Von Teese.

Here you were B.R. -- that's Before the Reckoning -- looking fresh faced and normal as you eased into womanhood.

And here's a little collage of you and Dita now, after you (allegedly) took a twiddle on the skin-flute of Satan's high priest of contact lenses.

See? THIS is the sort of thing we wish American starlets would go back to wearing:

You know, to give us something to talk about.

Her boobs! They're in jail! What heinous crimes could her boobs have committed? Arson? Espionage? Extortion? Conspiracy to commit murder? Assault and battery? We must KNOW. Have they been committed for life, or is there a possibility of parole? Might she let them out for good behavior? Or are they going to end up in the hole? So many questions!  At least they have each other, as they waste away behind bars.

An Ode To Katie Holmes-Cruise:

Dear Katie, imagine our horror

When we saw they snapped you getting out of the car.

"Dear God, no!" we exclaimed

"Why, we'll burst into flames!

If we have to see shots of your flora."

But although you have married a nutbag

This situation ain't all bad

Sure, the brain-washing's a bit of a hurdle,

But THANK GOD,  instead of for-going panties,

You've quite wisely gone for a girdle:

Hooray!

Well, they say that even a stopped clock is right twice a day. And so it has come to pass that I have stumbled upon a photograph of Sienna Miller at Sundance and thought, "Heavens, I quite like her coat."

Is it possible that, beneath her coat, she's wearing a torn and saggy promotional tee shirt from Discover Card, belted with a vine? Yes. But right here, she looks pretty cute. It's kind of a relief to see her so toned down -- no crazy hat, no hot pants. It's very simple (almost boring, even, although the cut and color are classic and classy), and it turns out that, without all that crap distracting us, she's actually very pretty.

Also, we're pretty sure that she and Steve Buscemi here are going to be the next big couple. Call them Buscemiller.

From the waist up: cute and comfortable and flattering. From the waist down: OH MY GOD I CAN'T SIT DOWN IN THIS SKIRT, WHAT WAS I THINKING?

Um, that's tight. And shiny. And 80s. And shiny. And tight.  And shiny.

When you're a pear-shaped girl -- as so very many of us are -- it's not the greatest idea to shrink wrap the bottom of the pear like this. Every single fashion magazine in the world advises you to find a skirt that lightly skims the pear, and every time I read that, I think, "blah blah, skim the pear, yadda yadda, where's that article about how using the right night cream will prevent me from needing Botox next week?" And yet, it seems that the fashion magazines are correct. Which I suppose means that I need to go out and buy that cream.

"Well. I'm sure it's very nice for Penelope to have her little Oscar nomination -- I mean, how thrilling for her that people aren't questioning her ability to act any more, you know? I wonder how that felt. Probably not very good, much like all her English-language movies. Ha ha! I mean, who was she kidding with the Mandolin one? Nicolas Cage? Really? But that's not her fault -- I mean, we can't all be in a summer blockbuster like Wild Wild West with Will Smith and that other person, right? Anyway, it's just so exciting for Penelope to be able to lose to Helen Mirren on national television, which she totally knows how to do now that she's already lost to Meryl Streep at the Globes in front of all those people. I can sympathize, of course, but I can't empathize, since my show won and that makes me a Golden Globe-winning executive producer, AND the actress I fought for won her category, too, which is really like me scoring two trophies on one night. But you know, I don't need to bring that up, because I don't really need to be the center of attention here -- I mean, I'm not even going to campaign for myself to get an Emmy nomination for my really long guest-turn on Ugly Betty, which by the way was in ENGLISH, bitches, and that's not my first language EITHER and yet you all managed to love ME in it, but of course I'm not going to say that to Penelope because it will just make her feel bad about her own failures and we are VERY CLOSE friends, and oh LOOK, there she is up there staring at me. THANKS FOR THAT, producers, because it reminds me that I'm so pleased for Penelope that I even put on my very biggest fake bangs for this announcement and it has NOTHING TO DO with wanting to hide my eyes at all, because they are full of nothing but thrilled thrilledness that my VERY BEST PAL got an Oscar nomination for prancing around with lots of eyeliner on and wearing a prosthetic ass, and seriously, I am so happy. SO HAPPY. Did you not hear me scream before? I AM REALLY, REALLY HAPPY. STOP LOOKING AT ME."

Why so angry, Mandy? Did you not get that part in The Crucible you were angling for?

Or are you simply mourning for the box-office prospects of your irritating-looking new movie with Diane Keaton, I Don't Even Care Enough To Look Up What It's Called? You know, the one that looks like a maddening and icky hybrid of two OTHER Diane Keaton movies, Something's Gotta Give and Hanging Up? Is that it? Yeah, that would upset me, too. It's tough when the only work Diane Keaton is getting these days are in a movies that are basically all about how much she needs to get laid. But hang tight -- someday you'll be in something good again, and you can stop lashing out at us via misplaced black tights, prim shoes, and grouchy, overlong, frumpy jumpers.

Oh, Jennifer. We told you to put your leggings in a trash bag...

Not put them on under a trash bag. Please listen more closely next time.

Also... those can't be mesh shoes. Can they? Would you really do that? Are you that untrustworthy now? Do we need to ground you until you can see reason more clearly than we can see your feet? Oy, lady. You're giving me a headache.

Oh, Jena Malone, you adorable ragamuffin:

There is nothing cuter than an apple-cheeked youngster such as yourself attempting to look "street," as your pose suggests, especially when you're actually decked out in an ensemble that probably cost upwards of several grand. I just can't wait until you take your faux-disaffected youth attitude and hook up with Kevin Federline. You two can strut around town and attempt to panhandle, say, Emmy Rossum. The two of you could totally shake that one down -- she seems easily intimidated. Later, you can terrorize Encino in Federline's ride, knocking down mailboxes and egging your agent's house. It'll be simply adorable.

Anika Noni Rose thought she was posing with a drag queen who'd been tapped to play Velma Kelly in a progressive production of Chicago. She didn't realize until it was too late that the person next to her was Naomi Campbell, holding a giant purse -- perfect for a violent hissyfit. Admirably, Ms. Rose remained totally calm in the face of this terror; we congratulate her on coming out with her face and her composure intact, although we shouldn't be surprised. After all, the girl survived From Justin To Kelly, so she's pretty much bulletproof.

Naomi, on the other hand, looks a bit like the emaciated child derived from the bizarre love triangle of Tyra Banks, Kerry Washington, and an alien.

I am not one of those women who is all, "white shoes after Labor Day? My lands! Why, this misstep will rend the very fabric of decent society! Where are my smelling salts? Loosen my stays, or I shall swoon!" But white shoes are very, very hard to pull off, especially with a white dress -- unless you are a bride, a nurse, or a stripper dressed as a bride or a nurse. As Taryn Manning so helpfully illustrates:

Oh, my god. While the dress isn't bad (in a totally Stars on Ice kind of way), these shoes actually cause me physical pain.  Are they orthopedic slippers of some kind? Why would she do this? Why? When she could have worn a silver strappy something and looked totally acceptable, as opposed to looking like someone's grandma trotting out to the shuffleboard court? Listen, we have a finite amount of time to wear painful yet attractive shoes, and we must embrace it. Avoid the orthopedics until absolutely mandated by your poor sad feet!

And seriously, even then, you don't need to wear these.

"Hello, I'm Chris Klein.

I know, you've all been wondering what I've been up to lately.  Well, right now, I'm at Sundance, promoting some movie I made, the title of which I can't actually recall. I've also been cultivating a haircut that I think makes me look dashing and debonair, sort of like a 21st century Peter O'Toole. My girlfriend keeps telling me to cut it, though. She says she wants me to look the way I did in Cruel Intentions. I wasn't in Cruel Intentions, but I haven't told her that, mostly because she's finally completed the last steps in my Anonymous Starlet-to-Katie Holmes Transformation Process (Patent Pending). Check it out:

Pretty awesome, right? From a distance, it's like they're totally the same person. I just squint a little bit and it's like Katie never left me for Risky Business on the sofa over there. Sometimes, this one even calls me "Pacey," just like Katie used to. She also apparently has some role on a television show playing a slightly naive girl in a relationship with a dude who's kind of self-absorbed and into other women. I don't know -- I don't watch it, just like I didn't watch Dawson's. It's seriously been an almost seamless transition from the Original Katie to Current Katie. I know: you want to know how you can get a Katie Holmes of your own. Imagine the possibilities: she could read your  Dawson/Pacey slashfic to you after tucking you into bed. Or she could clean your house in the nude, if you're into that kind of thing. Or you could jump on your couch and then drag her out of the bedroom to tell her how amazing she is and how much you love her, which is actually pretty sweet, especially with Valentine's Day coming up. It's really up to you. The good news is that the Anonymous Starlet-to-Katie Holmes Transformation Process (Patent Pending) is going to be available on HSN on February 1st, for the low, low price of three payments of $39.99 each. (Anonymous Starlet not included, but the good news is that I'm pretty sure any girl who's ever spoken in public works.)

Thanks for checking in, America. I had a rough couple of months there, but as you can see, I have totally bounced back from my break-up with Version 1.0 and I am happier than ever before."

We here at GFY HQ would like to issue a Tanorexia orange alert, pun fully intended, because of word of an epidemic sweeping the America's Next Top Model gang: It would appear that Jay Manuel's rampant affinity for turning himself orange is terribly, toxically catching.

To wit: Here is Tyra Banks in her Emmy dress (and exposed wig tape) late last year.

And here she is as photographed at the PGA awards -- which is thrown by the Producer's Guild of America, and not, in fact, a ceremony devoted to the very best in golf, at which her presence would be a tad more confusing. At any rate, have a gander.

It's always awkward when you're looking at a photo of an actress and you wonder, " a) is she pregnant? b) Does it make a difference if she is pregnant?"

The answers, I think, are a) I don't THINK so, but maybe, and b) probably not. There's a lot going wrong here: for one thing, why is everything fastened at the boobal-area? The fur bed jacket (very Alexis Carrington) plus the satin bath towel/bedsheet, both precariously pinned/tied/knotted in the same area, give her some extra girth that you don't want even if you ARE with Binchocette. So there are some weird fit issues -- honestly, it looks like she came straight from a romantic assignation (way to go, Juliette) to the premiere without having time to stop home and change, so she just threw on the admittedly decadent satin sheets (again, way to go), and ran over there. But even if this little number fit perfectly, the color makes her look like said assignation took place at the local hospital, where she's being treated for anemia and possibly being actually made of wax.

We love to see a girl with a soap background make good. It's especially important to us now, with all those actors on Passions about to be unemployed come August because the show was just cancelled, pouring into the market a stellar group of people who are experienced at acting opposite and/or as zombies, sinister sheds, the floating head of Adrian Zmed, talking candles, kidnappers masquerading as clowns, a living doll, and a witch who is beholden to the devil's minions living in her basement. Come on, Hollywood, scoop them up and give them a future someplace else. Or, if nothing else, The CW is probably desperate enough to pay Galen Gering to take off his shirt every week. They could give him his own show, and call it -- I'm just spitballing here -- Galen Gering Takes Off His Shirt. And each time someone new could show up to sit around and be shirtless with him while a random object in his "apartment" becomes possessed by a demonic force and starts hissing warnings at them. I'd watch.

At any rate, let's stop digressing: We were happy to see Sharon Leal, who was on Guiding Light ages ago, show up on the big screen in Dreamgirls as (spoiler!) The One Who Replaces Jennifer Hudson. She's a lovely girl and she's got pipes, and we hope this leads to more opportunities for her.

Including opportunities to put this behind her.

Methinks something is trying to liberate itself. Every which way Sharon stood, that side of her dress sagged dangerously and her right breast seemed ever more ready to run for the border. We appreciate a breast's desire not to be pinched, as this one appears to be (somewhat painfully, I might add), but once the boob is inside a couture gown on a red carpet, it kind of needs to suck it up and stay put. We don't think it ever actually did pop out, but this is a perfect example of why you should never commit to a strapless gown without first waving your arms around, jumping, stretching, and otherwise making a fool of yourself in front of a mirror to ensure that everything still stays where it should.

Congratulations to former Josh Groban flame January Jones, who just won the lead in that hotly anticipated sequel, Newsies II: These Urchins Were Made For Catwalkin', in which a jolly band of depression-era guttersnipes are forced to save the newspaper that employs them as streetcorner vendors by staging an elaborate fashion show -- which, this being the Depression, would be impossible to pay for without first putting on an uplifting song and dance benefit to solicit donations. But since most people didn't have any coin to drop into their coffers, a few intrepid youths start a prostitution ring to wring cash from the seedy for the needy while the remaining ragamuffins begin this merry chain of events by robbing a bank and, rather than keep it, distribute the proceeds very thinly around town so that all the happy donating can start and be a tax write-off.

It's exactly the mix of Robin Hood, Bonnie and Clyde, The Full Monty, Annie, and Les Miserables that we've been needing in our lives. 

Never let it be said that Paris Hilton is not resourceful:

Why, she made this entire dress herself, out of tin foil!

Oh, Renee. You've been in the cocoon of work for months and months now, and this is how you emerge? Wrapped in a shapeless green sheath that hits you at the wrong point on your leg, wearing your signature puffy, pursed-lip smirk and generally looking like you are allergic to fun? Sigh. What are we going to do with you?

Personally, I think you need a sandwich, a tailor, and a good lay, possibly in that order. But maybe a good belly laugh would do the trick with significantly less effort. Just try something, okay?

As many nits as there were to pick at the Golden Globes, there were a lot of people who looked glorious. And in the spirit of karma, I've decided to spotlight a few of them. Although it might just be the soothing back rub Intern George just gave me; he does put a girl in a good mood.

Let's start with Sara Ramirez from Grey's Anatomy.

In addition to being a Tony-winning performer who held her own in that original star-studded Spamalot cast (check out "The Song That Goes Like This"; it's funny, and she's got a great voice), she is also, in my opinion, really wonderful and tough and funny on Grey's. And here, she looks like an old-time movie star, utterly glamorous in ruby-red with a sweetly feminine coif. (See, Cameron Diaz? It's possible to wear red lipstick and not look like a five-year old smeared it on for you.)

It's also refreshing to see her working a real woman's body. Forgive me if this is a pale retread of Jessica's America Ferrera entry of yesterday, which was brilliant, but the point bears repeating: Remember on Ally McBeal, when all the actresses skinnied up because they had to go to work every day with Calista Flockhart and it made them insecure? Well, the Grey's set has so far avoided such catastrophes, with Chandra Wilson and Ramirez (and to a degree Kate Walsh and Katherine Heigl) balancing out the very tiny Sandra Oh and Ellen Pompeo. I dearly hope none of them start emaciating themselves in a McBeal vein; in an interview, Ramirez once admitted that it was hard for her to watch the show in the early days because she felt she looked hulking, and that the underwear-dancing scene was a challenge to shoot for that reason -- and so she hired a trainer and has felt better about herself. And that's great and all, as long as it's for her health and not because she thinks it's required of her by the viewers or anyone else. Because Ramirez has been smoking hot from day one on that show, and she doesn't need to change a thing.

Another stunner who got almost no attention on any of the red carpet shows: Edie Falco.

Presenting An IM from GFY HQ:

HEATHER: Oh dear, Rinko Kikuchi.

JESSICA: It's like she's mocking us.

HEATHER: She DOES seem to be having a good time.

JESSICA: I know it's couture Chanel....

HEATHER: I know that I want to use it to apply my astringent.

JESSICA: I know that it reminds me of dust bunnies.

HEATHER: I know that I'm relieved she's not wearing spats.

JESSICA: I know that we probably both want her shoes.

HEATHER: Shoes are the great uniter.

JESSICA: Thank god for them.

EDDIE: Just look suave, Eddie, just look suave. If you act cool enough they won't even remember you have another one of those fat-suit movies coming out in a few weeks.

JENNIFER: Wow, my hair really DOES look good this way. And I'm so glad I chose this navy dress -- I have to say, I feel pretty hot right now.

BEYONCE: Yeah, fine, smile it up, TV bitch - let's just all remember who only held back on her singing voice because they MADE her, because she was TOO FIERCE for her role. Was it you? NO. Was it the From Justin To Kelly chick? NO. Was it that other bitch? NO. CHECK IT, hos, it was ME.

JAMIE: Man, Hudson looks fine. Almost as fine as I do, although nobody could outfox the Foxx. Miss B over there must be pissed-- she looks so Las Vegas that her dress even has its own coin slot up there. HAHAHAHAHA, oh, Foxxy, you've still got the funny, baby!

JENNIFER: I hope Beyonce isn't mad at me.

BEYONCE: No, I'm serious, hos, are you checking it? You'd BEST. Because I can't believe I am playing second fiddle to some bitch Paula Abdul dug up out of obscurity. Seriously. The claws are coming OUT. And so is her HAIR.

JENNIFER: I also hope Beyonce doesn't try and pull out my hair. She keeps accidentally touching it and she looks kind of like she's plotting something. I can't help it that I have a great stylist and she just has her mother. I didn't do that to her.

BEYONCE: It is ALL HER FAULT that I didn't win. Lady, I could sing circles around your ass, and Simon Cowell would CRY and Randy Jackson would be all, "You're doing your thing, dog, and that thing is KICKING SERIOUS ASS," and Paula would go, "If I ordered a pizza right now they'd deliver it to Montana because that was so good you almost made me want to eat some mascara and there are rainbows here and where am I? Are you my mother?" ...

EDDIE: I wonder if they'll burn the print of my next movie if I pay them enough money.

BEYONCE: ...and then Simon would be all, "What Paula is trying to say is that you are perfection, and you're the best there has ever been and I don't need to see any more," and then they'd CANCEL THE SHOW because there was no way they could do better and THAT is how I would WIN American Idol, you sad little runner-up, you.

EDDIE: No, really. I don't want to be all Queen Latifah here, winning a major award and then having a craptravaganza like Taxi coming out right afterward. But at least I look smooth. What the hell was Beyonce thinking? If we hang her from the ballroom ceiling they can turn off all the other lights and have a real cheap electric bill.

JENNIFER: Oh, well, I'll just try not to think about Beyonce. After all, I've never felt this good about myself in my life. Seriously, I think I deserve to be very proud of myself.

BEYONCE: Ohh, yes, just get ready, you humble little trophy hound, you. It's COMING.

JAMIE: DANG, bitches, I'm glad I took my shades off -- I'll get a better view of the catfight this way. Come on, let's see some clawing and spanking. Y'all can mess up my tux if it means I see some girl-on-girl without having to go back to my hotel room first. Let's get it ON.

JENNIFER: Although... I really should remember to get that restraining order ready.

There are many things I like about America Ferrera. For one thing, I think she's adorable on Ugly Betty, in a role that could too easily be cloying, or sad-sack-y.  I loved her in The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants, not that I saw that, or cried at it. And I love that she's probably the only actress her age in Hollywood currently sporting her own hair, breasts and teeth.

I also love her in this dress:

The color and the cut are both really good on her: they flatter her skin tone and her body without being boring. She looks tall and curvy. Which, by the way, I don't mean as a Euphemism For Fat. I hate the fact that "curvy" now means, in Secret Hollywood Patois, "tubby." For example, according to Star Magazine, Jessica Alba recently said to a journalist, "I know I'm curvy. I'm working on it." Fast-forward to Jessica Alba dropping ten pounds she didn't need to drop. CURVY IS GOOD, PEOPLE.  Curvy is sexy and feminine, not Marlon-Brando-In-A- MuuMuu-Fat. Women -- all women: naturally very thin women, naturally not so thin women, flat-chested women, big-breasted women, ALL WOMEN -- have, as we learned from America's debut film, some curves of some size somewhere on their body.  IT'S OKAY.

I was thinking about this yesterday (in between trying to figure out what our government should do about Darfur and meditating on the existence of God in the 21st century, obviously), and I came to the conclusion that I seriously think America is so freaking cute and fresh-faced, and her body looks GREAT here, and therefore, I really hate the idea that at some point, she is going to drop twenty pounds and start Mystic-Tanning the shit out of herself, just because someone told her she had to do that to be considered for more mainstream roles. Because you KNOW someone is going to do that. Because, as you may have noticed, as a rule, certain people in Hollywood tend to have their heads up their asses regarding the subject of How All Women Are Supposed To Look In Order To Be Considered Sexy.  When, really, America shouldn't do a thing: as Mark Darcy said to Bridget Jones, we like her very much. Just as she is.

Which, for the record, is adorable in a perfectly-tailored purpley/navy number.

This is about as much collective joy as I've ever seen on the faces of perenially pouty Mary-Kate and Ashley Olsen. Aside from being thrilled she remembered her black tube top to wear under her turn-of-the-century PTA party gown, I suspect Ashley is mostly excited that with her new hair, she bears enough of a resemblance to the pretty but generic Kristin Cavallari that she can reignite her acting career by playing the Cavallari's little sister in something really classy, like, National Lampoon's Dick Orgy: Campus Private Eye.

Whereas Mary-Kate is just grateful that she's upgraded from mail-order bride to society madam.

Undeniably, Katharine McPhee is a stunner. And now that she's working some leg muscle, she's done a good job picking edgy minidresses with plunging necklines that show off her new figure. Take this one, for example, from the American Music Awards earlier this year:

It's a tough dress to carry, but she's glowing in it. She looks happy and sexy and young, and I would really like to know what witch doctor she's going to for that thick, shiny hair, because I am totally up for turning over my tresses to the dark arts. Even if it means mixing the hair of a spider, the toe of a chicken, and Essence of Newt in my Le Creuset and sticking my head in it.

At a Golden Globes afterparty, though, Katharine decided to change up her look. Which I can understand -- there's only so many short skirts and deep vees you can wear in a row before people start to wonder if you're just dying the same one a different color -- except that I don't like the direction in which she went: upwards.

Rose McGowan heard that Marilyn Manson was back on the market, and ran right to her closet to pull the Dark Bride Nightgown out of the trousseau she'd so hastily abandoned when their engagement was broken:

"He'll never resist me like this," she said. "I look almost completely undead!"

HUGH: God, I hate the bloody blow dryers in the bathroom. Some prat turned it upside down and it completely messed up my hair.

DREW: Don't worry, Hugh, you still look like the kind of destiny that smells like flowers.

HUGH: Er, thank you. And it's very nice to see that you're propping things up this year as well. Nicely done.

DREW: Well, I wanted to be the architect of my own dreams.

HUGH: I see. And in this case, your dreams are your breasts.

DREW: And my breasts are my dreams. It's beautiful harmony in a brassiere.

HUGH: I'll say. Because... I mean... bit of a disaster there last year, eh?

DREW: I think people were just startled to see the full extent of my feminine expression coming to blossom.

HUGH: I think they were probably more startled to see them express themselves down by your knees.

DREW: But this year, pink is my soul aura. I truly feel as though I've been touched by cotton-candy angels.

HUGH: Indeed, and your aura looks lovely on you. Congratulations on a lesson well learned. Although you might want to put on some sunscreen -- the rays from your soul glow appear to be giving you rather a tan.

DREW: No, it's just my radiant spirit ballerinas pirouetting through my skin. This dress, this night, it all feels like flossing my teeth with tiny threads of joy.

HUGH: Quite. Now I must dash -- I'm suddenly in desperate need of a scotch.

Insert obligatory bit about how beautiful Heidi Klum is, how much we enjoy Project Runway, and how much we want her and Seal to make it here. But:

Last time we saw this outfit, Princess Leia was informing Obi Wan Kenobi that he was her only hope. To be totally honest, it really doesn't work without the ear-buns.

If you'd asked me two days ago what Beyonce Knowles might wear to the Golden Globes if she were feeling terribly predictable, I'd have said, "Probably something low-cut and gold -- really sparkly. With a slit. And a big ol' weave."

Looks like Fate tipped its Magic 8-Ball over and saw that it said, "Signs Point To Yes."

It's not that she doesn't look beautiful; she does. She's Beyonce. Being a knockout with a hot body is her trademark. But don't you feel like you've seen this before? I mean, on her, not just in the Pier 1 Imports upscale gift-wrap section? And don't you wonder why, precisely, it makes that tiny wee gap in the front just under her cleavage? And then do you think that maybe she's wearing it because it's secretly made of 1,000 mashed-up Golden Globe trophies and the blood of a unicorn, all as part of a voodoo ritual intended to bag her a victory and a surprise Oscar nomination? And for the Oscars themselves, do you wonder what the odds are that Miss B will wear a dress made of Jennifer Hudson's mashed-up Golden Globe and the blood of Jamie Foxx? Indeed, do you wonder if the scene-stealing Dreamgirl is going to find a beheaded chicken on her doorstep one day this week? Can Beyonce get an Oscar nod when she was outacted by her false eyelashes? And what was the wig and cosmetics budget for Dreamgirls, anyway?

Sigh. So many questions.

"Why, HELLO, Justin!

That's right: this is what I would have looked like if we'd gotten married. You're not hallucinating: I AM dressed as your lunatic bride. Later tonight, when you're walking out to your car, you might see me sneaking down the street behind you, holding something sharp. I'm not saying that you will. I'm just saying you MIGHT.  Yes, I lost my other strap climbing up that vine outside your window this morning. I wanted to see what you were wearing. I like it. You could have worn that to our wedding. I know I always said I didn't want to get married. Maybe I was just saying that so I seemed like that totally cool girl who didn't care about getting married, because not caring about getting married went better with my reputation as That Girl Who Farts In Front of You and Watches Sports and Dances in Boys Underwear, but maybe I was lying, Justin. Did you ever think of that? Do you ever think about anything? DO YOU? DO YOU? DO YOU EVER THINK ABOUT ANYTHING BUT YOURSELF?

Anyway, yes. This is what I would have worn to our wedding. The happiest day of your life, that isn't going to happen anymore. How do you feel, knowing that now you're not going to have the happiest day of your life? Does it feel GOOD? DOES IT? ARE YOU HAPPY NOW?

So. Have a nice night at the Globes. I'm going to. I might just grab a PA and drive to Vegas and make an honest woman of myself. YOU DON'T KNOW."

It took all his self-restraint to keep Diddy from decking the celebrity assistant who snapped her fingers and asked for a pitcher of water and some coat-check cards. It would be the last time he borrowed anything from the hotel restaurant's maitre d', no matter how much his twins had spit up on his first jacket.

Obviously, the benefits to Mia Maestro's dress are multifold:

a) She doesn't need to carry a bag, as she can store an entire shopping bag's worth of paraphernalia in any one of her poofy layers

b) She will never suffer from the dreaded Numb Butt so often associated with events where you are required to sit for hours and hours, as her many poofy layers will act as a comfy cushion for her delicate behind

c) She can easily use one of those top layer flaps as a napkin, should she lose one. This is always convenient at a cocktail party, when you find yourself holding a giant prawn on a skewer in one hand and two glasses of champy in the other. If your napkins are attached to your boobs, that problem is solved.

d) Bloated? No problem!

e) Pregnant? No one will ever know!

f) Smuggling an Olsen? It'll just be your little secret.

Even with that Madonna-chic lace sausage-casing around her arms, my least favorite thing about Cate's gown is the uneven hem. It's the fashion equivalent of a mullet: party in the front, business in the back. And let's face it -- where Fergie's gone, others should fear to tread.

I understand that I may be the only person in America who watches According to Brian, or What About Brian? or Where Are The Kumquats, Brian? or whatever that show with WhatsHisName from 7th Heaven is called. Anyway, because none of you are watching it, none of you know that Rosanna Arquette is on this show, as Brian's sister who just had a baby. Now, if you were to only see her on the red carpet here, you would think, "there's NO WAY that old lady is having any babies any more."

She's 48  in real life, but this unfortunate Mother-of-the-Bride jobber gives her an extra 20 years. And if 30 is the new 20, then 48 is the new 38 and she looks like the old 68, which means she's somehow transformed herself into her own mother, which is really not the kind of "Red Carpet Transformation!" US Weekly is always chattering about.

While it pains us to admit that we rather like Sienna Miller's dress -- the bodice looks like it's been painted with the kind of gold leaf used on expensive chocolates, which is actually a compliment, because we have never met an expensive chocolate we didn't adore -- we are really not terribly fond of her sloppy milkmaid-who-just-rolled-in-the-mountain-glen-with-a-randy-goatherd coif. We're all for clandestine trysts, but alpine afterglow isn't perhaps the most ideal red-carpet fashion statement.

Unless she's trying to communicate slyly that if you have something to be milked, her skilled fists can take care of it. If that's the massage -- oops, er, I mean message -- then, well, she'll be the most popular wench at the barn.

Eek!

What this photo doesn't show is the burst of flames and smoke that facilitated Elizabeth Perkins's appearance on the red carpet; the broomstick she rode in on; Fritz or Franz, her flying monkeys; her cauldron; or the argument she had with Melvin, her stylist, who told her that wearing the traditional robes of the Witches of Endor would give away her big secret.

Listen to Melvin, Elizabeth: He has your best interests in mind.

Vanessa L. Williams is so brilliant on Ugly Betty -- she's catty, she's cunning, she's stunning, and she's got a mean way with a quip. In fact, the more we think about her adding the "L." to her name, the more it confuses us. I mean, she's the primary Vanessa Williams. The original. The best. The only one you think of when somebody says, "Hey, Vanessa Williams looks totally hot for her age." Why should The Other Vanessa Williams -- the one who was on Melrose Place for about half an hour, playing one of the most boring characters the show ever created, which is saying quite a lot -- get to keep the name in Tinseltown, while the legitimately famous one has to switch up to the differentiating initial? It's unjust.

Unfortunately for Vanessa L., at the Golden Globes last night, the extra initial stood for "light socket":

That is some CRAZY hair right there. Wilhelmina Slater would be furious. She would look this up and down with an eyebrow cocked, scoff silently at the disco-silver tulle that's draped over this dress in unflattering folds, and then hiss to her assistant Marc that she's surprised to learn that Chaka Khan is designing hairpieces for Wal-Mart.

In the "Oh, please, sweet merciful Suri, let this be for a role" department, I deeply, deeply hope that Rachel McAdams has done this because she's getting paid to:

Like, say, for a biopic about Courtney Love. Not that she necessarily ever had hair that color -- I'm not really abreast of Courtney's tinting habits -- but because there's something Courtneyish about her face in that photo.

Or, better, maybe she's wearing it that way for a live-action Jem and the Holograms movie in which the titular character and her band of heroes would mend the world's fractured social fabric by performing anthems like "Flowers In My Hair" and "Love Is Doin' It (To Me)" and "(It All) Depends On The Mood (I'm In)" -- whose moving lyrics proclaim, "I can be whoever I want to // Anyone at all // I can strut when I want to strut // Or hide behind a parasol." Then, with the world conquered through song, hopefully Jem would finally sack up and dump Rio for being stupid enough to fall in love with both her and her real-world alter-ego Jerrica because seriously, why does this not bother her? So what if it's actually the same person -- it's still TECHNICALLY cheating and it still TECHNICALLY makes him a jackhole and it therefore TECHNICALLY makes her a bit of a jackhole-enabler.

Anyway, I hope that's it. I suppose maybe she's just trying to be supportive by detracting from Ryan Gosling's mustache, which is ever more evocative of an old-school charlatan peddling his elixir wagon around small-town U.S.A. in the hope of bilking the elderly with a phony anti-aging tonic. But the Jem movie would be an actual important reason to have pink hair. So if that's not it, I suggest she hightail it out to some pitch meetings and make it happen, pronto.

We have been thinking recently that Rachel Zoe might be headed down Bag Lady Boulevard, if the rumors about her fleeing clients and business associates are true.

But it seems she's actually already walked a mile down that particular street: She's dressed as precisely the kind of grotesquely ornate drawstring sack that she herself might carry to a tragic event, like, say, the impending funeral of her reputation.

An Evening With Sienna Miller and Cameron Diaz:

We find ourselves at a well-appointed Beverly Hills home, at a dinner hosted by Sienna Miller. Let's listen in:

CAMERON: I know! Don't tell anyone!

SIENNA: Hah! I won't, I promise! I'm just happy I'm not the worst dressed person here! Not by a long shot!

CAMERON: Shut up! Anyone could forget her pants.

SIENNA: We'll just call that a dress, how's that? Although I don't know WHO wears booties with a mini-dress. Even I wouldn't do that. And I'll lace up my sandals on the outside of my jeans! Although I really just did that for attention. It TOTALLY worked.

CAMERON: I don't know why this is such a big deal. It's just a blocky, shapeless tunic that's way too short for me. My legs are good enough for it!

SIENNA: Your legs ARE great. But....never mind.

CAMERON: What? Tell me. I can take it.

SIENNA: Look, what do I know? My suggestion for dealing with a public break-up is stomping around the Village in my bathing suit and smoking furiously. Yours is to dress like a  elementary school student with a Mod-fixation and a need for orthopedic footwear. Maybe it's a generational thing!

CAMERON: Generational? How old do you think I AM?

SIENNA: I dunno. All that make-up, and the new Miss Clairol 'do and your desperate need to show a little leg now that you're single again....45? But a sad 45. Not like an awesome Susan Sarandon 45.

CAMERON: I'M ONLY 34.

SIENNA: Oh. Well. My my, this is awkward, isn't it?

CAMERON: At least my boyfriend didn't --

SIENNA: IF YOU SAY THE WORD 'NANNY,' I WILL RUIN YOU!

CAMERON: YOU CALLED ME DESPERATE!

SIENNA: I CALL 'EM LIKE I SEE 'EM.

CAMERON: AND I SAW YOUR BOYFRIEND SCREW THE NANNY!

The evening degenerates into a brawl. Hair is pulled, orifices are gouged. Ms Miller loses a tooth, although she later finds it under the buffet and puts it in her pocket. "I will string this on a necklace," she says to herself. Ms Diaz leaves shortly thereafter, nursing a black eye and a new, raw, bald spot on the back of her head. She vows to wreck her revenge on Ms Miller as soon as her face heals. And, lo, it will be sweet. Stay tuned.

Dear Angelina Jolie,

We here at GFY would like to congratulate you on all your humanitarian work. We are happy you've made philanthropy the new black; there are worse things to make trendy, that's for sure. Like, say, formal shorts. So well done for giving a nice chunk of your personal fortune to international causes, and for opening your heart and your home to children in need.

Indeed, Angelina, it's the latter quality that has prompted our letter. There is somebody in desperate need of a mother, a real one, and since you seem to care about your children very much, perhaps you can widen the sexy Jolie-Pitt familial embrace to include one more person in peril.

Warning: This photo isn't safe for work, or for Maddox. So send him out to play on his ATV with Brad before continuing.

Penelope Cruz is beautiful. But that doesn't mean she can get away with wearing an actual tiered wedding cake:

Don't feel bad, Pen. It takes a rare woman to pull off pastry-as-clothing. I tried to wear a croissant once, and it was totally humiliating.

"High five!

I'm wearing a tee shirt with the vest ATTACHED to it, just like we used to do in 8th grade! Doesn't this totally take you back to the dressing room at Wet Seal? And I'm wearing it on MTV! Give it up for me!"

Poor Eric Dane. He couldn't tell if he should leap to the aid of Jaime King, who appeared to be in imminent peril of spending the entire night with a curtain tie around her neck, or if he should just walk on by and pretend nothing out of the ordinary was happening.

In the end, after careful consideration -- just look at the consternation on his McSteamy mug! -- he evidently decided to let it lie. Which actually is fine. For as bad as her taste in neckwear may have been, as poorly chosen as her palette of pastel face paint is, and as close a resemblance as there is from certain angles, there was no real danger she would be permanently mistaken for Olympic medalist and semi-pro fame-whore Oksana Baiul; after all, her clothes weren't shredded, a $3 ponytail hairpiece wasn't glued to her head, and she didn't appear to be haphazardly slathered in bronzer.

In fact, when you look at it that way, Jaime not only got off pretty easy merely being photographed in a piece of rope from Bobby Trendy Designs, but Eric Dane dodged a bullet as well: Had he intervened, the ensuing red-carpet scuffle would surely earn its own moment in everyone's favorite part of Us Weekly: "Stars: They're Just Like Us! They Interrupt Your Big Moment In Front Of The Photographers And Rip Off Your Necklace Because They Think It's Ruining Your Outfit And That You Have Lost Your Mind!"

You know what? I was going to rag on this outfit -- something about how she's dressed as the silver platter she's serving her torso up on, or that she should be feeling a bit guiltier about stealing her guru's very best formal tunic -- but I've decided to cut Emily Procter some slack. Because for one thing, those cracks are pretty lame, and for another, her skin is gorgeous and her cleavage actually looks pretty healthy; if Dr. Sunkentits were wearing this, we'd be sticking the syrup in the microwave and frying up some bacon to go with those pancakes.

But the main reason I'm feeling charitable is: Emily Procter works with David Caruso, the man whose career won't die no matter how hard he or anyone else tries to throttle it, and who is now thriving like all those cockroaches who shake off nuclear fallout only to take over the world with their nasty little antennae. And after being cooped up with that all day, watching Big Red rip off his sunglasses and put them on again over and over and over while he spits out stilted puns and then hightails it off camera, I can certainly understand wanting to run out to the People's Choice Awards baring my soul and my chest and silently screaming, "YES, America, I am SURVIVING this! I'm still alive! BLOOD PUMPS THROUGH MY VEINS AND I AM BREATHING FREE! OH, SWEET MERCIFUL LIBERTY!"

So... carry on, Emily. And congratulations.

Chin up, Parker Posey, we feel your pain -- we're not completely sure what's going on here, either:

Personally, I know that when half of my collar randomly disappears from my crinkled and misshapen garment-thing, my first reaction is to panic that my brother Marty has gone back in time, forced my family's archenemy to crash his car into a random and somewhat inappropriately located dung truck, and then accidentally caused our mother to fall in love with her own future son, thus causing parts of us all slowly to be erased from existence unless he can reconcile our parents and put them back on the path of fulfilling their respective marital and child-rearing densities, uh, I mean, destinies.

Usually, of course, I'm overreacting, and the answer is really just that I'm not actually wearing a collared shirt. But you ostensibly are, so... listen, I can understand you being concerned in this situation, and I'm not sure what to tell you to make you feel better, except to say that fathers usually sack up in these situations and end up punching out the dung-encrusted bullies. Nevertheless, I'll keep you in my prayers in case anything else -- like, say, the hula hoop that appears glued inside your dress -- should start to vanish. Be strong.

Dear America,

Three things:

1) I'm not pregnant; 2) My body is better than yours; 3) it's 1986 where I am.

Love,

Halle

"Hey, guys.

Thanks for waking me up in time for me to make it to this awards show. I just got back from Vegas. I think. It might have been Thailand. I can't remember. Anyway. Does anyone have any espresso? Man. I am wiped out. Um. Yeah. So, thanks for this award. For whatever movie you gave it to me for. Huh? The Break-Up? Great. Is she here? She is? Great. Now Us Weekly is going to be on my jock again, all "JEN'S AWARD SHOW PAIN" or some shit. I don't even know how I got involved in that fu -- sorry, I forgot we're on TV. That....freaking....mess. Oh, I guess I already said "shit," huh? Sorry. Um. Yeah. So, thanks. GOD. I just need to LIE DOWN. The inside of my mouth tastes like the bottom of a bird cage. What did I DO last night?

Um, what does the teleprompter say? "Wrap...it up." All right. Um. Thanks for this, whatever it is."

What you don't know is that -- in a pinch -- Sandra Oh's dress doubles as a replacement HEPA filter for the humidifier in her dressing room:

As she walked away with her trophy for Best Leading Lady, Cameron Diaz caught sight of her reflection in the TelePrompTer and froze in horror. She couldn't tell which was worse: the fact that her dress looked like a funereal homage to Madonna's "Like A Virgin" video, or the fact that it closely resembled an upended, overly ornate Pier 1 Imports martini glass. Suddenly it all made sense -- her personal assistant taking one look at it and sighing that she might as well shove some olives on a toothpick and tape them to the skirt; Andy Dick trying to stick a bendy straw all up in her business; Britney Spears sending her that barely legible text that read, "2 BAD 4U SUCKA, JT NO DRINX DIRTY MARTEENYS, BS RULZ 4EVAAAA."

She knew then it was going to be a long, long night. And that she was going to have to change her mobile number.

Chandra Wilson looked fantastic at the Emmys -- a goddess in red, showing the carpet how it's done. And it's impossible not to have a girl-crush on her tough-but-tender Miranda Bailey on Grey's Anatomy, a character whose one-line description could be stereotypical but who is in fact rich and textured and funny thanks to Wilson. And sure, that's gushy, but I can't help it. I think she's fantastic on the show, and sometimes I am not cold and dead inside. Sometimes.

But -- and there is always a but, isn't there? -- I was a tiny bit disappointed to see her People's Choice Awards ensemble.

I'll give her the color, as it's a lot like what my bridesmaids wore, and they all looked smoking hot. But the trouble with wearing what are essentially satin cocktail pajamas is that they tend to look like you put them on, poured a glass of wine, ended all pretense and grabbed the bottle, crawled into bed to watch a guilty pleasure on the TiVo -- like 30-Minute Meals or Men In Trees or Everwood reruns on the Family Channel (because we all need our Bright Abbott fix) or, God help us all, the Rent movie, which some of us might hate with the white-hot fire of 1,000 suns and yet somehow be completely unable to avoid watching when it shows up on a movie channel -- and then fell asleep and didn't crawl out of bed until noon the next day.

It's like your mother always told you: There's a reason "a satin" anagrams to "I, Satan." Remember it.

Now Rinko Kikuchi is just screwing with me:

She's wearing those stupid shoes, AGAIN. This time, thanks to the hose, she looks like she's wearing those little hats you put on rack of lamb on her feet. At any moment, I expect a giant to come along, rip off her left leg, and start gnawing on her toes.

Is it possible that she's using her anklets in place of a handbag, and if we stood real close to her, and looked down into them, we'd see her house keys and a couple of pieces of gum and a credit card and her ID and a few pens that don't work anymore and a tampon and a few lip glosses and some receipts from Chipotle and a shopping list from last week and some matchbooks that she picks up everywhere she goes, not because she smokes, but because she has lots of candles? And if so, what happens to all that stuff if she crosses her legs?

Of course Kate Linder is wearing sweatbands:

She's on a soap: you never know when fisticuffs are going to break out, or someone is going to try to push you down a well or an elevator shaft or kidnap you, or your ex is going to sort of accidentally kill your boss's husband. That's always awkward.

We do, however, have to salute her for her bright solution to the The Flash Is Totally Going to Reveal My Bra situation: a bra with snakes/vines/whatever those are all over it looks mysterious and possibly evil, and there's no better way to keep people from your slice of cake than by intimating that MAYBE you could hex them into next week.

Maybe Jessica Biel is getting sick of everyone focusing on her body. Which I can respect. I can't relate to it, but I can certainly see why she might want people looking at her face for a change.

Still, it was a bit jarring to go from her understated elegance...

... to a baggy, frowsy slip dress whose ample, billowing torso space only seems necessary if you're sneaking in several illicit basketballs, or perhaps a gestating fetus. Or a keg. [Although, I'll give her a pass if she was smuggling beer.]

So while I can understand the desire to keep things modest and classic at the first and possibly only event she will ever attended at which her acting is being rewarded (she won some kind of breakout star award here, at the Palm Springs film festival), I also feel like: Honey, you won't have that waist forever. Nip in the dress a little. It won't hurt your cause, and it'll keep Us Weekly away from any stories like, "Jessica and Derek Jeter: READY FOR  BABY?" Everyone wins.

Sometimes Cate Blanchett leaves me speechless at her elegance; other times, merely speechless.

The worst Project Runway contestant could probably put something together in 8 hours that didn't wrinkle, crinkle, bubble, and gap as badly as this electric blue malfunction does. Who is responsible for this art-deco nightmare? Was this a tragic wallpapering accident? Did a one-eyed drunk monkey attack her with pleather and a staple gun? Or has she been to the future, and returned with this weirdly encoded sartorial warning of doom? And if not, can we lie about it, and tell Lindsay Lohan that the unencrypted message on the dress says, "Bury your BlackBerry in the yard -- TRUST US"?

God, I can't wait to see what she comes up with for the Golden Globes. The pendulum is due to swing back to spectacular, but with Cate Blanchett one never can tell.

I hear that Rinko Kikuchi is fantastic in Babel, and I am perfectly willing to believe it. What I am NOT willing to believe is that these shoes are meant to be anything but a clever joke played by the designer on the rest of the foot-having world:

Wait, let's go to the close-up:

Listen, Hilary Swank: We used to like you. Not because of Million-Dollar Baby, although you were wonderful in that, and not because of your stellar work in The Core, but rather due to your heart-tugging love affair with Steve Sanders. You had us at giving our favorite shallow Beverly Hills playboy a softer side. One might say you made a Sears out of him.

But then there was the whole Vanity Fair thing, when you decided you just couldn't not spill the beans about your estranged husband Chad Lowe's history of addiction, and suddenly, I wanted to wring your scrawny and indiscreet neck for using that as a salvo in some twisted, pathetic Hollywood divorce PR battle. Which, by the way, you TOTALLY LOST. Goooooo, Team Chad!

All of which means you've got a lot of work to do to win anyone back, and this dress at your Dangerous Freedom Writer Minds premiere isn't particularly helping anything.

I don't necessarily mind peekaboo dresses, but I don't care for how this one makes it look like you're wearing an enormous 36-Hour Bra. Or a bodyskimmer. It's as if you just covered your Body By Victoria skintight slip with a bunch of filmy black fabric, glued it together with a cheap strip of sequins, and tied it off at the neck. And looking like a homemade gift bag from The American Institute for Fostering Depression and Feelings of Hopelessness is not, perhaps, the way to crawl back into our hearts.

Please let this be for a role. Please let this be for a role.

Please.

Fortunately, Ryan Gosling's IMDb page claims he's currently filming a movie called Lars and the Real Girl, the one-line summary of which appears as follows: "A delusional young guy strikes up an unconventional relationship with a doll he finds on the Internet." At the risk of offending anyone with upper-lip hair -- it's not personal; it's situational, a face-by-face case -- that synopsis would seem the appropriate context for a mustache so cruelly rendered across an otherwise intriguing face. And yes, I saw The Notebook; as such, I don't mind him with the scruff, or even the full beard, but there's something ominous about this manner of follicular lipicide. The mustache has taken something from us. It has trapped him in that cruel purgatory between clean-shaven dreamyness and the totally rugged, ragged I Wore Overalls With No Shirt On Underneath In The Blazing Sun While I Built The House Of My Dreams To My Lost Love's Specifications, Because I'm A Hopeless Romantic Who Fought In The War And Loves Even Harder Than I Grow Facial Hair thing. It's launching a horrific bid to turn half of Canada's golden couple (Ryan Gosling + Rachel McAdams = The Squeeeeeeee! Heard Around The World, Or At Least Around Toronto And Vancouver) into a vacuum-cleaner salesman who was fired from his teaching job because of a seedy predilection for dirty massage parlors and, probably, Circus Peanuts, because nobody with innocent intentions would ever eat those.

So, I repeat: Please let the 'stache be for Lars And The I Will Never See That Movie Because Dolls Are Creepy, because if it is, it's (hopefully) going away soon, or about to be joined by the rest of the scruff. Fingers crossed.

I have kind of a mild obsession with reality and competition shows from countries other than my own, and there is generally a moment each week when I wonder petulantly why BBC America isn't carrying whatever kooky British reality show I'm currently reading about.  Today, however, I'm sad because I can't watch the German version of So You Think You Can Dance. Why, you ask? Because of the outfits. Check them out:

Leggings! Matching skulls! A skull necklace! They look like the bad seeds at Rydell High. Also, is he wearing pleather pants with Bedazzled spider webs on them? I've been looking for a pair of those.

These two are also quite spectacular:

I'm pretty sure she's supposed to be, sort of, like....an extremely sexy schoolgirl? And he's like....a sexy man-nerd? I don't know. I do know that I love it.  And if he whips off his glasses at some point, I love it even more. But while these two examples are delightful, I invite you to check out the piece de resistance:

Now that I've waded through my year-end supply of gossip magazines with Best and Worst lists galore, I'm compelled to put up another dress here that I ignored the first time around.

Beyonce Knowles' lacy blue gown from the L.A. Dreamgirls premiere got just about everyone's "Best" vote this year, and although I can sort of see people's logic in saying that, as a woman I can't get over one very massive mental hurdle with this gown.

And that is: Aren't her breasts about to pop out of that thing?

Well, actually, I also think all the lace is overly fussy and that the see-through quality of the dress has it walking a very delicate line between "sexy" and "I'm meeting you in the elephant at the Moulin Rouge to sex you into giving our nightclub lots of money." But mostly, I can't look at this dress without wondering how she is able to walk around in it without constantly checking on whether her nipples are saluting the flashbulbs, and also, how many pounds of boob tape she's employing in order to give her the freedom to shimmy.

Am I wrong? Look -- is that the top of a nipple, or a circle of tape over there on the right? Or just a dent? If it's tape, it hardly seems like enough to keep those under wraps. How is she moving freely? How is she comfortable? Did she just want them pushed up high enough to rest a drink upon, or has she really not noticed their precarious and somewhat pancaked state?

Now, I do understand that for a lot of people, the very promise of a one- or two-gun salute may be precisely why this is a "Best Dress" contender. But as a girl who loves gowns, all I can see is a bodice that looks in serious danger of  making her mother cry. Does she want to make her mother cry? Is that her revenge for all those years of hot pants? Wow. Admirable cunning, Beyonce, if it's true -- who could blame you? She REALLY kind of has it coming, when you think of it in those terms -- but you might want to consider orchestrating a less X-rated trauma. Becuse "What Would Tara Reid Do?" is not a viable mantra.

"Okay," Nicollette Sheridan is thinking. "So, I'm in this movie, and it's terrible, and already no one can figure out what Lucy Liu and I are doing in it -- hell, I don't even know what we're doing in it. I'm just glad Boltie didn't record a theme song for it or else I'd have to hear it in the shower EVERY DAMN MORNING. But seriously, why the hell did I even show up? God, I'd rather be anywhere. I'd rather be at a Knots Landing reunion. I'd rather be at a Paper Dolls party where I'm reunited with John Waite in celebration of the storyline where my character fell in love with him and tried to run away with him, only to have my meddling mother Brenda Vaccaro intervene and make him leave without me; at least then I could catch up with the mom from ALF and see whether she's stopped crying about that whole era yet. God, I'd even rather be at a party for that episode of Becker I was in -- YES, I was in an episode of BECKER, don't JUDGE me; a LOT of people were in that show.

"So... shit, is it too late? It might be. Do I really want to be this closely tied to this thing? What can I do, what can I do... what can I do that might make me less recognizable...

Hi y'all,

I know it's been a while, but listen -- I've been real busy with things. And I know a lot of y'all think I've been acting real trashy since Kevin and I split up, but listen, it was a ROUGH TWO YEARS THERE. Sometimes a girl just need to take her vagina out for some air, and that's all I was doing, so maybe you shouldn't judge me so much because if you'd been married to Kevin Federline for however long we were married, you would go on a binge later too. Anyway, I had this whole thing planned out where I explained WHY I stopped wearing panties for a little while and WHY I was pole-dancing with Paris Hilton and stuff, but then I found this, and I need to take care of it, first:

LISTEN PARIS: YOU STAY AWAY FROM MY MAN. I mean it. YOU STAY AWAY. OR I WILL TOTALLY CUT YOU. Everyone thinks I'm so dumb, but these are things I know:

a) Justin is single again

2) You and I are friends all of a sudden

3) you totally love to hook up with your friends's ex-boyfriends. Like you took Stabby Nachos, if that is in fact his real name, from the little tiny Olsen. And then you did the same thing to like four other girls and their boyfriends that I can't remember anymore.

d) ERGO: You are TOTALLY going to try to hook up with JUSTIN NOW. DON'T DENY IT. I KNOW YOU ARE. I KNOW IT. AND THAT IS BULLSHIT. IF ANYONE IS GETTING BACK TOGETHER -- OR TOGETHER...OR WHATEVER -- WITH JUSTIN, IT IS ME. ME! ME ME ME ME ME.

So I mean it. Stay away. Get away. Get far away. Because that skinny little Olsen girl is too little to screw with you, but I am NOT. I have still got some baby weight and I will use all of it to RIP OUT YOUR SKANK EXTENSIONS. You MIGHT be able to talk me into pole-dancing naked in your rec room or whatever, but I am NOT going to let you get away with THIS. I have been PLANTING THE SEEDS OF REUNION (I heard that on a commercial for Days once) for like FOUR YEARS and you are not going to UNDO IT ALL. You might have a deal with the DEVIL -- oh, I said it. I think you're THE BRIDE OF SATAN and I really mean that like FOR REAL, not metaphorifically , I think you ACTUALLY WENT INTO HELL and took Satan's hand and pledged to serve him for ALL ETERNITY and wore a veil and everything -- but I sang "Oops, I Did It Again," and I'm just as rich as you are and if I have to fight THE DEVIL to get Justin back, I WILL.

FROM:

Britney

PS: I really mean it.

We are beside ourselves with excitement about the Golden Globes, which are about a week and a half away -- not just because we're suckers for awards shows, but chiefly due to the size of the fashion parade on that red carpet. See, the holidays can be lean times for fug, and when our available resources run dry of celebrity faux-pas, we have to find somewhere else to turn. We have to find a happy place to get us through the rough spots.

Naturally, that happy place often involves poking fun at Paula Abdul.

The following is a photo I pulled back in December, but it fell through the cracks when more resplendent fuggery overshadowed it. I would come back to it occasionally, snicker, then get bored and move along someplace more dazzlingly stupid. But like an annoying younger sibling constantly popping up in your face -- trying to steal your Benetton rugby shirt because if you had one then she had to have one and please can I borrow your stereo and please can I have your stuffed animal because it's cuter than mine and I'm taking your Top Gun soundtrack cassette now and even though your shoes are two sizes too big for me I'm taking those too because it's MY TURN (not that I would know ANYTHING about being this younger sibling) -- this photo wouldn't go away. And now, in our hour of need, it's here for us (just as heroically as I am sure the aforementioned adult-angel version of that annoying younger sibling would be, IF she were real).

And so, in synch with the upcoming return of that talent contest she hosts -- have you heard of it? I can't quite recall the name at present -- we give to you: Paula Abdul in a bad corset.

What cracks me up about this corset is its air of being a really undisciplined teen craft project, designed by someone who thinks no outfit is complete until it's been crowned with pink velvet bows.  It reminds me of when I was nine and reading/watching Anne of Green Gables over and over again -- I decided that Anne was right, and that puffed sleeves were about the most glamorous and classy design touch in the world; then, when I was in the mood to pretend I knew how to draw anything beyond stick figures, I'd sketch a bunch of dresses and shirts with sleeves gloriously bloated with air.

The difference being, of course, that now, I wouldn't wear any of that stuff, because it was kind of ridiculous, and also, I wasn't kidding about not being able to draw. (Once, in Lower School, I unwittingly drew a magnificent white steed... with five legs. It was so insane that it got put on the walls of the Upper School Dining Hall with my name under it as part of some "Aw, look what lower schoolers think is art!", and I think my sisters got teased about it by their friends for a while afterwards. Oops, and oh my GOD, I need to stop digressing.) Whereas Paula up there, without the excuse of brain-addling youth on her side, is flitting around in something even Barbie would sneer at as "too childish," all the while pairing it with one of those terrible wraps that's all sleeves and nothing else. And, sure, this shouldn't shock us because historically her judgment has been proven somewhat off -- like, when she judges it appropriate to make comments on her show, she's almost always wrong to open her mouth -- but unless she's wearing this as a favor to an ailing neighbor-child whose last wish on this plane is to see her gothic princess corset appear on a red carpet, then it's a bit of a fugly mess.

Oh, PAULA. She's like Ziggy. Will she ever win?

Dear Diary,

So, remember that time I told Man-Paris that he was like a dead fish in the sack? [I think it was Man-Paris... or was it Nick Carter? Or Aaron Carter? Or Stabby Nachos? Or Travis Barker? Or Britney Spears? Or Andy Roddick? Or that other dude I was engaged to that time? Or was it the guy I met at the thing, with the stuff?... No, I think it was Man-Paris.] And he was all, "Oh yeah, well you're about as smart as one," and I was all, "Duh, brains make you FAT, they are ALL CARBS," and he goes, "Oh my God, you aren't even making any sense," and I go, "Sense gives you ACNE," and he threw a wastebasket at me and told me to crawl back into it where I belong, and I was all, "Well at least I don't have a failed solo career after my lame boy band broke up," and he was like, "Holy shit, Paris, that's your ex boyfriend -- do you even remember my name?" And I was all, "Duh, Nick, I'm not that stupid, it's not like 'Nick' is that hard to remember," and then he told me to go do something dirty to the Eiffel Tower and I was like, "OH  YEAH? MAYBE I WILL," and he was all, "Yeah, it's Paris-on-Paris," and then I totally looked at him and was all, "Dude, you're looking totally fine all of a sudden," and then we had sex? And he was like a dead fish in the sack so I told him so again? And he was like, "How would you know, anyway?"

Well... not that Nick Man-Paris will ever read this, but let's just say that I KNOW.

Heeee! But I really shouldn't say anything more, Diary. It's tough when you're dating a new guy and he sees his name in the press. So, toodles! I have to go buy more makeup. I used up all the eyeshadow I own on this one day in Sydney -- it's totally 2007 to paint yourself two black eyes and I want to be the first.

Kisses!

P

What on earth, we wondered, could Santa have brought Sienna Miller?

She has it all: a robust and loving relationship with the tabloids, a highly questionable, on-again, off-again toxic entanglement with a man currently best known for boinking the help (okay, I guess he's technically, "that guy in The Holiday who boinks the help"), and roughly 3 million pissed off Pittsburghers currently plotting revenge after she wisely referred to their city -- to a reporter, mind you, not her friends -- as "Shittsburgh." She is, in other words, one class act, and what do you give a girl like that for Christmas? Other than media training?

Why, if you said, "her own fashion label," you would be correct, according to Now Magazine, which appears to be the British version of InTouch.  Apparently, Sienna's line will be inspired by: "the poetry of the Beat generation, Patti Smith and the dark and brooding London of Dickens." I'm fairly sure this means that we're going to see a lot of models dressed like orphan boys holding copies of Howl, and if there's one thing a modern woman wants, I think, it's to appear as though she has just escaped from the clutches of Evil Headmaster Wackford Squeers, who beat her more than the rest of the foundlings simply because she kept trying to organize group readings of Naked Lunch.

So far, 2007 looks awfully familiar.

As usual, we can see Courtney Love's bra, and as usual, she can't keep her eyes open long enough for us to check the status of her pupils. Although, technically, this photo was taken on New Year's Eve, so it was still 2006. Ergo, although she rang in 2007 thusly, looking like a zombie whose nose had recently been broken -- seriously, what's up with it? Doesn't it look flatter? And yet knobbier? Did she bang it against the mirror on the table? We hope not -- it's entirely possible she turned the corner later that day and has now spent the remaining 24-plus hours of 2007 looking lovely and awake, playing Scrabble with Frances Bean before settling down to watch Finding Nemo and her new Sound of Music deluxe edition DVD and then singing her daughter to sleep with the "So Long, Farewell" song we so cherish and which Gwen Stefani needs to keep her grubby sample-happy mitts away from on pain of bitch-slap.

We're crossing our fingers. And, the lipstick is an improvement, so maybe there is progress on the horizon.

Cute young actress Kat Dennings -- yes, you know her from your work as the webmaster of the world's only Raising Dad fan site, an off-shoot of your other website, Sagatmania! -- decided that the very best way to ring in 2007 was by dressing up the way old people used to look back in the 90s. What was it call? Floth? Bloth?

Oh, yeah: goth! A chunky-heeled black boot, a black babydoll dress, and a black choker? She's totally partying like it's 199...3! It's so retro! Maybe later she can put on some flannel and listen to Pearl Jam and talk about Earth Day and Paul Westerberg and Heathers. Ah, I feel young again just looking at her. I remember when I, too, wore a red ribbon tied around my calf. I believe it was to raise consciousness about the plight of my locker: so jammed with books and papers, my locker was suffering, and no one cared, especially me, weighted down as I was by thoughts of college applications and the prom. Will no one spare a thought for my locker? Oh, youth. I sort of remember you.

Let's take a look at the close-up: