March 2007 Archives

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Oh, Miss Tyra. Bitchin' boots, you divalicious beweaved creature, but those formal shorts are a Miss J-sized mess. Not to mention the belt that's giving you square hips. And the blonde weave just looks dingy and sad, as if you're lightening your hair to hide the greys, except we all know that your real hair hasn't seen the sweet light of day since you wore it in a marvelous, resplendent afro (seriously, it was awesome) in cycle 3.

All in all, my judgment is this: If you were competing in a contest for America's Next Top Tyra Banks Drag Act, you wouldn't even make it past the casting special.

Few celebrities have escaped the wrath of GFY over the course of the almost three years that we have been writing this site.  People we like, people we don't like: All are at risk. There is, however, one group that we have, to this point, ignored.  Here in Los Angeles there is a group of people (mostly women) who attend almost every event, from premieres to charity functions to the opening of a shoe store. These women are photographed. And we have no idea who they are. Literally. They're not studio or television or music executives. They may claim to be "actresses" or "models" but they've never appeared in anything notable, nor do they have a string of non-notable credits. If they do have credits, usually they're consistently playing something like "Girl #3." Sometimes they appeared in Playboy once, but not necessarily. They're not married to any one notable, as far as we can tell. We really don't know how they're getting invited to anything, why they're being photographed, or how they're making the money that allows them to keep up with their Botox schedule. They are a mystery, that, until now, we have basically ignored, primarily because no one knows who they are. But the time has come for us to break our silence.

The leader of this group -- in our minds, since I don't even know that this mysterious group of taut ladies even know each other -- is Phoebe Price.  And while we have been silent on the subject of Miss Price for many, many months, at last she has broken us. We can keep our mouths shut no longer. Thanks to this:

"That's not even that BAD," you say. "Maybe she didn't know it was sheer!" Oh, sweet reader.  It IS that bad, and she DID know it was sheer. Let us continue to explore the Kinda Naked All Tacky world of Phoebe Price after the jump (some of these are only Moderately Safe for Work):

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Yes, tights can help you feel more secure with wearing a short skirt. But when the minidress so heavy on the "mini" that you can see the tights change thickness and texture as they stretch over the upper thighs, a.k.a. the Highway to the Lady Zone, then you are violating the private social contract a woman has with her hosiery.

But at least Kiki's hair looks cute, or rather, shiny from something other than grease. It's just a shame her boyfriend Johnny appears sort of douchey and 14. And is it just me, or do his Vadar-gloved hands look disproportionately large compared to the reedy rest of him? If you look at her eyeline, and that of the man behind them, it looks like they both might be laughing at Twerpy McShaqHands. Who I'm sure is a very lovely young boy (whose fly does not, I've decided, appear to be open), but in this photo I can't shake the feeling that he's hoping he and his gigantic palms can steal third base before he has to finish his history homework.

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BECKS: Just keep your head down, babes.

POSH: Look, I really can't figure out why you suddenly have a cracking great rod up your bum, David. It was YOUR idea.

BECKS: It was not.

POSH: It was TOO.

BECKS: I was being SARCASTIC. When a person says, "Oh, I don't give a rat's bollocks what you wear -- wrap a garbage sack around your waist for all I care," they are not ACTUALLY hoping you'll do it. Get it?

POSH: Well how am I supposed to know that? I thought you meant, "You'd look gorgeous in a trash bag, honey."

BECKS: Certainly not. I'm not your mum.

POSH: Don't be a prat.

BECKS: Look, I was getting sick of waiting. It took you two hours to pick your shoes. Who spends two hours picking out shoes to go with pants that don't even SHOW them, Vic?

POSH: Oh, well, fine, if you don't CARE about the details. Although coming from someone who couldn't be arsed to tuck in his shirt before throwing on grandpa's cardigan...

BECKS: Pipe down, Simon Le Bon. I'm not ALLOWED to have closet time while you're still deciding, remember?

POSH: And I expect you're going to blame that hat on me, too, now.

BECKS: It's the only thing I could find that might help me hide.

POSH: Our reality show is going to be bloody brilliant.

Now that Hilary Duff's new teeth are fixed -- or she grew into them, or whatever -- I actually think she's been looking really hot, especially with her darker hair.  Which is why this scrolldown is so very tragic:

It's like, casual, casual, casual,  an extra in the Love is a Battlefield video, the floor. And while Hilary is certainly quite cute, Pat Benatar she is not.

I am beginning to think that either Kristen Bell or her stylist or both of them are suffering from some kind of body dysmorphic disorder wherein they think she is way, way bigger than she actually is. Because Kristen Bell is a teeny tiny little teeny person and yet whoever picks out her clothes for her everyday seems to think that she's about ten feet tall. Like this:

I actually kind of like her top. It's so LOUD and retro and Palms Springs-y, and I have a weakness for loud, retro, Palms Springs-y tops. But MAN ALIVE is it overwhelming on her frame.  I think she's wearing it with slim jeans, and rightly so (it's hard to tell in the picture), but I honestly think she's just too small to wear something this bold in both cut and print, period. It's just not flattering and I can't really think how she could ever pull it off. If it were a solid color, sure, or had either the billowing cut in the body of the shirt OR the big sleeves but not both, maybe. But as it is, she just looks like a little girl playing dress up down at her grandma's condo by the golf course. Next, maybe Grandma will let her drink some General Foods International Coffee and pretend to smoke a cigarette out on the lanai!

This isn't an isolated incident, either. La Bell is almost always wearing something that looks far too big on her. Like earlier this week, at the Neiman Marcus event that's yielded so much material for us lately:

"Sequined chain mail? That's what you think of my shirt-shawl-drape-dress-poncho-thingy? Are you KIDDING me with that, estupido? Tonto, tonto, tonto, tonto, tonto, you are being GLIB with me. If you start talking about chain mail, you have to read the research papers about chain mail, which is what I have done. Chain mail is a pseudofashion. You do not know the history of chain mail. I do.

"Also, I don't know WHERE you got the idea, but there is NO TRUTH to the rumors that I am becoming a Scientologist. Nada. None at all."

I had to actually double check the date on this picture to make sure that it wasn't from Those Dark Days when Christina was running around with the ass cut out of her chaps.  It's so sad to see someone who's been looking so awesome lately slide back into the world of tan-colored pantyhose:

There's GOT to be a reasonable explanation for this, right? Like...she was just on a long, long flight, and these are compression hose designed to prevent her from having a  deep vein thrombosis.  Or she's on her way to the ice skating rink to practice her long program, and the hose keep her legs warm, while that bra acts as an air bag if she falls on her face. Or she and Jordan had a bet and she lost it, which would also explain why she looks so cranky. Let's just decide that's it. 

Perhaps wearing better shoes would have saved Emilie de Ravin from looking as if she had been styled by a pinata salesman. As it is, though, she couldn't hope to sell that outfit with the way she's venturing down the dangerous path Kirsten Dunst blazed -- the one where are forced to assume that ten seconds after this photo was taken, Bea Arthur beat her over the head with a cheesecake for stealing her sandals.

I wonder if that's why Emilie looks so confused and unhappy here; it's possible she saw, in the distance, a blur of loud fabric shooting toward her and knew she was headed for trouble. Brings new meaning to the slogan, "It was a Chico's kind of day."

You know that part during the Oscars pre-show where one of the Nancy O'Dell-types asks all the actors what they ate before the red carpet, thereby continuing society's fascination with the eating habits or lack thereof of the rich and famous? And Cameron Diaz is usually like, "I ate a 4 x 4!" and Beyonce is like, "I had a Big Mac!" and Jessica Alba is like, "I inhaled a Whopper!" because part of the problem in Hollywood is not only that no one eats ever, but also that no one eats and then totally pretends that they eat ALL THE TIME and they never have to work out, really, even though they have their picture snapped rolling around with an exercise ball with a trainer all the time and then everyone in the real world is like, "Damn, she eats cheeseburgers all the time and looks like that? WOE IS ME,"  when the truth of the matter is that it takes a lot of work to be as trim as most of those girls.

So when they got around to E! host Debbie Matenopoulos and she said, "Oh, I don't eat," I was kind of like, "oh, honesty! How refreshing! Will someone please pass the bucket of wings? Oh, and the Oreos. An some cream cheese, if you've got it." But now that I've seen some recent pics of La Matenopoulous, it's kind of clear that she really wasn't kidding, nor did she mean, "I haven't eaten in two weeks so I can fit into this dress."

The trouble is, she seems so pleased that she doesn't eat, from announcing it gleefully on television, to aping the dress Keira Knightley wore that prompted everyone to scream "EATING DISORDER." It didn't work on Keira and it scares me a bit on Debbie as well.  And while Keira was like, "listen, bitches, I've always been skinny," I kind of get the impression that Debbie's reaction might be, "oh, you NOTICED! I'm so glad."  And, honestly, that's kind of f'ed up. Not ever eating isn't really, you know, awesome. It's just no fun.

So here's yet another in our long line of pleas to the ladies of the world: we were not all built to weigh 90 pounds. Being healthy is a good thing: being HUNGRY just makes you really crabby and then your face starts to look prematurely aged, and while some people believe you can never be too thin, there's no cliche along the lines of "you can never be too cranky and gaunt." 

Apparently, cheeseburgers can help. Get on it, Debbie. Your body fat really misses you.

Actress Marley Shelton learns the hard way that when you're attending a fashion show that primarily involves sitting, satin is your most deadly, dastardly enemy. I am stunned no one attacked her with a steamer.

So often in fashion, it all hinges on the tailoring.

Unfortunately for the delightful Lindsay Sloane -- so great in the Tori Spelling role when she was on Grosse Pointe, the WB's show-within-the-show takeoff on 90210 -- the tailoring of this dress appears almost exclusively to have involved a stapler and a hot glue gun, as well as a brisk amount of vodka. Martha Stewart would not approve. Well, except for the vodka part.

Witness actress Laura Cayouette at the Grindhouse premiere:

This is what we, in the Fug biz, call "a lot going on," also known as  "a bit much, don't you think?". While I applaud her...bravery, and her self-esteem,  and her apparently ability to rig the back of her dress on a rope and pulley system to shorten and lengthen it at will, this is the sort of dress that....well, there's something to be said for leaving certain things to the imagination and I fear that a good gust of wind will destroy all of our imaginations forever.

"And so I thought, what the heck? It looked great on the runway!"

"Unfortunately, it turns out that it makes ME  look a little bit like a sofa.  But what are you gonna do? Am I right?"

[Photo by Daily Celeb.]

Eva Mendes is not a particularly dowdy, shapeless person. And yet, she looks to be both of those things here. Why the unflattering wide-legged jeans that gobble up her shoes in their toxic denim sea? Why the cardigan that cuts her at her widest point, swallowing her curves? Was she dragged here? I'm all for casual wear -- hell, I dashed to Sav-On yesterday in my slippers to get cold and flu medication and some restorative Gatorade -- but I feel like you can be comfortable at an event without looking as if you had been laying around the house in your too-big lazy-day jeans before realizing you are out of Diet Coke and Jif, throwing on a shawl to go run a really fast, "I don't care what I'm wearing because I will only be outside for two seconds, so it doesn't matter that I don't have any shoes that go with these pants" errand , and then spontaneously deciding to drop in on Quentin Tarantino for some fun face time.

I don't blame her for eschewing skinny jeans, but there is a happy medium between those and what amounts to floor-length culottes. Also, is it just me, or do those pants make her legs look freakishly short? I mean, I'm staring at the fade in the wash and wondering if that's supposed to be where her knee is, but it can't be, because factoring in that she's presumably still with both her ankles, that would leave about three inches for her shin.

Sigh. Maybe that's just the TheraFlu talking.

Originally, our little LiLo had planned to wear her Shakespearean get-up to the premiere of The Tudors, but realized that perhaps she was being a bit too literal.  So she went for a deconstructed homage to the chainmail of Henry VIII's knights instead:

This pit-chain also has the benefit of acting like a de facto leash, in case she runs into anyone at the party that she'd like to have lead her around by the boobs. You never know: those Hollywood parties get KEE-RAZY.

[Insert obligatory statement about how at least she's wearing cute shoes here.]

Pop quiz, darlings! This will count for ten percent of your grade in Fug 101: Fugology Basics.

America's Next Top Model runner-up Melrose Bickerstaff:

a) was so overcome by the trauma of her loss that she finally surrendered to the dark side and allowed herself to become a child of the night,  feasting on the blood of humans and occasionally turning -- when appropriate -- into a bat. The upside to this, of course, is that she's finally stopped the aging process.

b) really finds, you know, inspiration in the story of Little Red Riding Hood, and likes to imagine that she is the titular heroine, while Tyra Banks is the Big Bad Wolf whose stomach she will eventually get to hack through in order to rescue someone innocent who Tyra has eaten (probably Twiggy).

c) is just really into Superman

You have ten minutes to complete this quiz. Extra credit will be given for anyone who can trace, in three paragraphs or less, the connection between Melrose's cape and the absence of Janice Dickinson from the ANTM judging panel. If applicable, place a special emphasis on the spoken word poetry of former contestant Jade, especially her work "Leftover Lady."

Linda Thompson isn't someone we'd generally feature here on GFY, because -- despite her storied past dating Elvis and, um, appearing on Hee Haw -- she's primarily working behind the scenes these days as a songwriter. However, her Wikipedia entry identifies her as an "actress," and the woman did agree to appear on a reality show (the very short-lived  Princes of Malibu, which also unleashed her son by Bruce Jenner, Brody Jenner, upon us. That said, I secretly think Brody Jenner is very cute. On the other hand, I really wish Lauren on The Hills would stay far away from him. I think he's using you, LC! His friends are so douchey! You don't need that in your life! Date some guy who doesn't want to be on television. Now, I live in Los Angeles, too, so I know how hard that can be, but you deserve better. And seriously, you can't have a mother-in-law who dresses like this. Okay, end of Hills-related sidebar). Ergo, I think she's fair game. Also, clearly she's not shrinking from attention:

Lady, you have a great body, but I don't need to see your bra OR your panties. Ever.  You appear to be wearing a formal swimsuit cover-up of some sort, which isn't appropriate unless you're actually going to a formal pool party, or you're J. Lo. Which you are not. Although J. Lo probably would have dated Elvis if the timing had worked out.

"Hi. I'm Ridge Forrester.

"You might remember me as the, ahem, young fashion magnate from the reality show The Bold & The Beautiful, a decadent half-hour of dead-on documentary honesty about the dog-eat-dog fashion industry and the sex-crazed people who run it from their lush offices in L.A. while their wives die and then come back to life a few times. I am rather sure I represent the 'beautiful' side of things on this docudrama, what with my chiseled cheeks and the daring bandanna that's cutting off my oxygen supply. I mean, I've married eight times, seven of them to the same two women (hey, I'm consistent! And loyal... ish!), so I must be pretty foxy, right? Especially since I'm still with one of them even though I inadvertently raped her last year, which... look, it happens, okay? Sometimes you trip and fall, and in it goes, and, well, awkward! But we're fine now, and I'm ensuring us a happy ending by previewing here my newest collection, which is going to make us millions of pennies. It's called Lounge Lizard. We're targeting karaoke competitions and a few off-strip Las Vegas casinos, as well as any place that has a hot dog stand inside, like most mini-golf venues, because you can spill all the toppings on some of these shirts -- like mine! -- and no one will ever notice. So don't worry about ol' Ridge Forrester, Fickle Love Whore, because I have got it ALL under control. I am young, SO VERY YOUNG, and I'm in love with the blonde one, or at least I think that's the one, and I'm about to slither around on top of a grand piano singing 'Can't Take My Eyes Off Of You.' Life is perfect."

Katarina Witt has got to step outside her Ice Capades comfort zone.

Does she think we won't recognize her if she's not wearing glitter, or something conducive to pitching in just in case a raucous skate-off breaks out at the party? Honey, you're Katarina Witt! You are the beautiful East German goddess who won six European skating championships in a row and two consecutive Olympic gold medals! You captured our hearts so much that we weren't even really rooting for poor ol' Debi Thomas of the U.S.A. (sorry, Debi; it's nothing personal) because we wanted to be tall and graceful like you! And you won an Emmy for, I kid our readers not, Carmen On Ice in 1990! I promise we will recognize you. Or, more accurately, that we in particular at GFY will recognize you. Which means you can run but you can't hide, so maybe look into broadening your shopping experience, okay?

Unless you are at a gala for the ice version of Anne of Green Gables and you are playing the inspirational, uplifting schoolteacher Miss Stacey, in which case, hooray, and go forth and eat dinner at Marilla and Matthew's house. But, a word of advice: Don't eat the dessert, because Anne accidentally lost a dead rat in it, although she'll scream that at you herself in a minute. I guess I kind of scooped her on that one. Whoops.

I have registered my concerns about Nicole Kidman's hair before,  but my feelings are even stronger now:

Oh, Nicole. I know you lovely natural redheads tend to see your hair fade over the years, but GIRL! This is what your friend Miss Clairol is for. And you should know that the last time we spoke about your hair in this space, we got some emails claiming that you've worn a wig for years, to which I say: if this is true, you need to scurry down to the Wig District and upgrade, because you look a bit fried.

But listen, who amongst us has not woken up with frizzy hair and decided, "screw it. Today, I am frizzy!"?  So I do understand. Almost every woman alive has hated her hair at some point. Right now, the left half of my bangs are standing out at nearly a right angle.  If that look didn't go so well with what I'm currently wearing -- I call this look Pajamaist. Watch for it in all the chicest bedrooms -- I would consider a jaunt to Wig Alley myself. What I am more concerned about is your habit of matching your hair to your skin to your outfit. Everything you're wearing is fine, but all of it -- and you -- is beige, and it washes you out. You're too delicate a flower to fully work this.  See if you can trade shirts with Keith at intermission, hmm?

Oh, W magazine. It's been a long time since Kirsten Dunst played a vampire; it seems unfair to style her for this cover to optimize the illusion that she's spent all her time since then sleeping in a coffin. You've also managed to give her a wonky eye and a wig that looks like something Ken Paves scraped out of a gutter and then rejected for looking "too cheap." Well done! Here's hoping the article within does not reveal that she found herself at your photo shoot.

I don't know how she manages it, but every week, Top Design judge Kelly Wearstler manages to out-fug herself. Even the Bravo Web site features her photo with the caption, "What's she wearing now?" And that's often what I say to myself when I'm watching the show, except with a lot more expletives, gleeful cackling, and a touch of evil Mr. Burns-esque finger drumming.

This week, during the episode in which the designers try to piece together a chef's room for guest judge Tom Colicchio -- whose presence was a painful reminder that I wish I had been watching Top Chef instead -- La Wearst actually took my breath away, and not in a wonderful way. The screen cap won't do it justice, but here's a peek at her glories.

[Pic from BravoTV.com]

Dare I say she puts the "worst" in "Wearstler"? I dare. Oh, do I dare. It's not that I'm super enamored of Jonathan Adler's sockless charms, although I do find him totally delightful as a person/character. But seriously, just LOOK at the lass in the middle! Behold the wonder of that pseudo perm, the ultimate light-socket coiffure! And the puffed sleeves! Whenever there was a close-up of her (why did I delete the episode before snapping a series of pics? WHY?) she and her crimson mouth looked like a wicked stepsister kicking ashes in Cinderella's face, or a bitter Victorian spinster who was systematically locking up the town's nubile lasses in her subterranean chamber of horrors in an attempt to scare the improper impulses out of them.

I can only pray that next week she descends upon the judging panel in an enormous muumuu and a mohawk.

Maybe the reason that Amber Tamblyn looks so cranky here is that she just realized that her outfit is really unflattering.

And, Amber, I'm concerned. You seem like you might be fun to hang out with. I suspect that you're the sort of girl who does shots with glee and then gets all rowdy and mildly violent, but in the fun way that involves shoving handsy guys and then yelling at the rest of the bar patrons to mind their own business, not the scary way where you eventually have to get bailed out of the drunk tank. Which begs the question: where are your friends? At some point, I imagine you tried on this look for someone. And that person should have said, "Hmmmm. I don't know if I would wear those TOGETHER." And you would have looked at yourself in the mirror again and said, "really?" And your friend would have said, "Yeah. I think you need a tighter top with that skirt. Or a slimmer bottom with that jacket." And then you would have said, "are you telling me that I look fat?" And your friend would have said, "You don't look FAT. You aren't FAT. No. But these two sort of puffy items kind of hide your waist in a way that isn't super flattering. Do you know what I mean?" And then you would have changed, and while you were in your walk-in closet looking for a tighter top/slimmer bottom, your friend would have thrown those shoes out the window, because three people can wear an ankle strap that thick and all of them are walking on a runway somewhere right now. And because none of this happened, obviously, I am worried about your peeps, Amber. They need to step up and help a girl out sometimes. That's the beauty of girlfriends.

Because when you think about the celebrities who are unlikely to be able to negotiate a long, ruffled scarf, fairly high heels and knickers without getting the scarf wrapped around the heels, falling knickers over tea kettle and accidentally getting strangled Isadora-Duncan-style...well, Paula Abdul is kind of on the top of the list.

Seriously. She's at least in the top three.

You probably know April Scott from such meaningful, touching roles as Model #14, Girl in Bikini, Model, Model, Vegas Girl, or -- my personal favorite -- Runway Model. Verily, Los Angeles Fashion Week truly does attract the upper echelon of the celebrity crop. Okay, so she also took over the Jessica Simpson role in the straight-to-USA Network prequel to The Dukes of Hazzard, Dukes of Hazzard: The Beginning, and while I have not seen this program, I am QUITE sure that she is better in the part than poor J. Simp was. I mean, for serious: I've never heard a worse Southern accent on an actress and JESSICA IS FROM THE SOUTH.  Just TALK, you moron. God. But this was not meant to devolve into a diatribe against poor Simpson The Elder who -- as long as we're talking about her -- looks pretty cute as a brunette, I must say, and who has been pleasantly low key lately.

But yes. April Scott. For those of you keeping score at home, the IMDb keywords for her Dukes TV effort are: Prequel, Sequel, Buxom, Cleavage, Underwear, so I'm advising a certain portion of our reading audience to set their TiVos, and don't complain I never did nothing for you. Much as this rather unfortunate dress does nothing for Miss Scott: 

Why, it's camouflaging all her keywords!

I have long held that, even though her mother is a model, Liv Tyler (and her sister Mia, also, in fact) still got very, very fortunate in the genetic lottery when you consider the identity -- and face -- of dad Steven. She's got the kind of grin that lights up her entire face, the prettiest skin and eyes, and what's more, she didn't starve herself after having her child with Royston Unibrow or whatever his name is, which is admirable and healthy. Mostly, she seems pretty regular and nice -- again, quite possibly something of a miracle. I just think she's intriguing overall.

And she certainly looked lovely the other night at the Reign Over Me premiere.

I've always struggled with looser-cut dresses like this because I feel like they're hard to pull off without looking a bit like a balloon; they seem to swallow everything. But here's Liv wearing one with as much confidence as if it were figure-hugging, and it looks completely adorable on her. I suspect I really need to take her shopping with me, especially for accessories -- the shoes and the handbag and the bracelet are wicked. I'm not a card-carrying passenger on The Chunky Bang Bandwagon, but even that's working for her on this night. As are her legs.

Sigh. Now I have a sudden urge to watch That Thing You Do! Unfortunately, the movie-channel gods apparently would prefer I caught Liv again in Armageddon, but I can't bring myself to do it, because not even coveting her skin can outweigh having to watch Steve Buscemi randomly go nuts so that the otherwise divine William Fichtner has to utter the line, "Oh my God. He has SPACE DEMENTIA." Yeesh.

Hayden Panettiere of Heroes is so cute, and that is an adorable apron she's wearing. But ... what gives, cheerleader? Did the hot, mysterious Haitian secretly pluck all memory of the concept of shirts from your brain? That seems awfully pervy of him.

Dear Nicky Hilton,

You're in the front row at L.A. Fashion Week, and you're related to that drippy suckmaggot Paris -- she who blithely did her makeup in the middle of a Max Azria show in September -- so we shouldn't be surprised that you have a short attention span yourself.

And we were even willing to give you the benefit of the doubt that, mid-show, you were merely idly clutching your BlackBerry because you didn't have anything else to do with that hand -- perhaps Brandon Davis was on your other side, for instance, and you were trying not to catch anything via accidental contact. That's certainly completely understandable.

But then we saw another photo.

We've been so busy trying to battle leggings and formal shorts with our verbal light-sabres (which, when I was little, I always thought were called "light savers," which made no sense to me since they emitted colored light; I guess I should have trusted George Lucas, but then again, look where that got us with the prequels) that it just didn't occur to me to stay vigilant about trouser length. I just assumed people had already learned the lesson.

Apparently, I had forgotten never to assume, because you know what they say: When you assume, you make an ass out of Uma Thurman. Or something.

Behold the lovely Carla Gugino:

Beautiful woman, cute shirt; it's a shame the pants make her look like she's treading the carpet on her bloody stumps, having lost her feet in a tragic ankle-strap accident. Either Carla needs to explore new and exhilarating heel heights, or she needs to find a good seamstress. Or figure out how to use a sewing machine. I don't know how to do it either. Come on over, Carla! We'll learn together. Over martinis.

The server with our masthead and half our photos on it is having a small tantrum today, but fear not -- once we're able to wrestle it into the corner to have a good, long think about what it did, followed by a time-out and a possible spanking, it'll be back up in no time.

Oh, honestly, Joan Allen:

I so enjoy your work in The Bourne Whatevers, and I really am glad that the severe botoxerexia you suffered from previously has relaxed so I can find you pleasantly recognizable once more. (Seriously, I feel like actresses who fall into the I'm No One's Bimbo, Mister Category -- like Joan Allen, or Meryl Streep or Cate Blanchett or even Reese Witherspoon, women who may occasionally play the bimbette onscreen but who we never doubt to be sharp and interesting in real life -- should have some kind of limit placed on the amount of plastic surgery they have done. Your faces are interesting, ladies, and most of the time,you seem to know that, so it's particularly alarming when one of you veers off the rails hanging onto the back of a syringe of deadly poison).

HOWEVER (and don't pretend for a second you didn't know this was coming), you seriously look like you were in the middle of making a carbonara when you realized that you were out of bacon, so you just threw on the first jacket you found in the hall closet and ran down the street to the mini-mart for some Farmer John's.  But then, on the way home, you realized that your pasta was totally overcooked now anyway, so screw it -- and, hey, what's happening at the Chinese? A movie premiere?! Awesome, they always have food at those things! We'll just pretend this super casual, kinda mismatched, I'm Just Going to Stay In Tonight, Make Dinner for My Boyfriend And Then Settle In For an Hour of The Pussycat Dolls Present The Pussycat Dolls' Search For the Next Pussycat Doll look was totally on purpose.  When, really, you know that the Dolls would have been the smarter choice. Because that show is secretly the funniest show on television, and this outfit is just kind of a joke.

Blu Cantrell is the Old Faithful of fuggery, not in the sense that she is old -- she's a year younger than I am (allegedly) and therefore is a mere spring chicken about to burst into bloom. Or something  -- but because she can be counted on, like the famous geyser, to erupt into something noteworthy roughly every hour and a half. We haven't seen much of Blu lately, so this eruption was overdue. And it did not disappoint:

It's like she's gone to Los Angeles Fashion Week for the express purpose of finding a shirt to wear that very night.

I've often thought it'd be fun if my life were a musical -- perhaps a beautiful cross between Chicago, Annie (except without my parents having orphaned me), the roller-skating parts of Xanadu, The Sound of Music, and the parody at the end of Blazing Saddles; that's not too much to ask, is it?-- but I've stopped short of dressing in anticipation of a song-and-dance number spontaneously erupting around me at any given moment. For one thing, that requires a lot of spandex and glitter that I don't generally have on hand, and for another, it would be kind of pointless; a massive chorus number is probably not going to break out tomorrow night at, say, my accountant's office.

At any rate, all that rambling means that at first, when I saw this photo, I thought, "Wow, Milena Govich is way more of an optimist than I am."

Then I realized that she was at a "Broadway Cares" event, and as a scheduled performer, she probably did run inside and instantly deploy her very best jazz hands with a high-kick or five.

Still, this is a fairly specialized case of actually needing to belt out a song at a moment's notice. I applaud Milena's preparedness, and her pedicure (and her figure, and her red lipstick -- she looks pretty hot, if slightly disco in that thing). But I wouldn't want anyone else to get any ideas -- Lindsay Lohan is in a fairly impressionable stage of her life, for instance, and it would be greatly alarming if she started costuming herself as if she's the lead in her own bio-musical, Red Death: How They Killed My Innocence. Ergo, maybe this leotard dress should have come with a warning sign for use on the red-carpet: "Functional Costume: Do Not Try This At Home."

According to TMZ, my beloved Janice Dickinson has been banned from several shows at Los Angeles Fashion Week, following some shenanigans of some sort.* (Janice? Shenanigans? Shut your mouth.) While I was sort of surprised to read that Janice had actually been barred from any event -- seriously, have none of the event organizers read her books? They are hilarious. She is a national treasure. A probably drunk, definitely unpredictable trainwreck, but a treasure nevertheless -- I wasn't surprised to hear that she was in the news thanks to her LA Fashion Week behavior, as I had already seen the pictures.

This is the week that Janice demonstrated why a dress can be dangerous if you've been [ALLEGEDLY, POSSIBLY, MAYBE, PERHAPS] imbibing:

Don't do that in a dress! Especially in a wrap dress! Those are tights -- not leggings, not trousers, not jeans, not shorts. They have a visible cotton crotch. I don't need to see Miss Janice's cotton crotch.

OR her ass:

I am totally a fan of Robbie Williams, and I've often wondered why he hasn't done better in the United States. He's so talented and charming and funny: the episode of Cribs where he passes off Jane Seymour's house (well, manor. Castle. Whatever) as his own is particularly brilliant. However, all that being said, I do wish he would wear a proper shirt when he leaves the house:

Because this is less Sexy Insouciant Pop Star Out On The Town and a little more Transient Out In Your Alley.

Okay, maybe it's not totally fair to call Danica McKellar by her Wonder Years alter-ego's name, as if she has never achieved anything else in life, but seriously, it's a compliment. Who didn't love Winnie Cooper and her pretty, pretty long hair? We all hoped she and Kevin Arnold would get it together, because -- to mix references for a second -- they were clearly each others' densities. Plus, the trivia that half the reason the characters ever had a falling-out was because Danica's growth spurt came faster than Fred Savage's and they didn't look right together is really kind of hilarious.

But then Danica McKellar decided to do something unusually ambitious: She dropped out of the public eye and went to college, and not only turned out to be some kind of math genius but actually helped prove a new theorem that now is named after her. Suck on that, Good Will Hunting. There aren't too many ways to top that, unless NASA decides to rechristen one of its shuttles "Danica," or somebody discovers a new constellation that clearly depicts her image. Me, I'd settle for having Diet Coke rename itself after me, but since "Diet Cocks" isn't really all that appealing-sounding (and yes, that is how you spell my last name, for real, and no, I was never a man) I can't see it ever happening.

At any rate, apparently Danica McKellar came from a blessed gene pool. Because aside from all that mathematical excitement, and her robust brains, she also grew up very lovely.

Why is Maria Conchita Alonso on the floor?

Her dress might be sort of cute, if she weren't busy obscuring it by genuflecting to the photographers at L.A. Fashion Week. Perhaps she's trying to prove the girls are legit, or perhaps she's suggestively trying to see just how deeply one dandy lensman's zoom can penetrate. Either way... we really just wish she'd get up, because it seems a bit needy and sad, and also, we're sure whichever random starlet she borrowed the knee pads from could really use them back.

Many of our readers e-mailed us last week to tell us that we are crazy, and that the bedraggled, elderly Kris Kringle-in-a-world-without-Christmas-looking man we fugged on Monday is not Tom Hulce but in fact Timothy Hutton.

To those readers, we were forced to say: 1) You're right, we are probably crazy, but not for that reason*; 2) that's a very nice compliment for Tom Hulce, in some ways; and 3) lock the doors and hide under the bed, because Timothy Hutton is going to cut you.

Indeed, as if understanding on a deep psychic level the need to prove he looks nothing like Latter-Day Tom Hulce, our own Mr. Timothy Hutton stepped out this weekend to the premiere of what might be the worst-named movie of all time: The Last Mimzy. (Sidebar: I know it's based on a short story about time travel and children and genius-making toys, but seriously, based on the name, it sounds like a movie about a world in which sweet, harmless grandmothers have been totally eradicated from the face of the Earth by a race of cruel Hollywood agents -- but for one lass, hopefully played by Betty White, who survived the purge and is living in a mud hut Somewhere Outside Los Angeles, is discovered by curious children who've never seen a wrinkle before, and emerges to show society that aging is not toxic to others. Which... actually, I might have just convinced myself that I'd see that movie.)

Ahem. At any rate, for the abeyance of all concerns that he's aged before his time, I give you Mr. Timothy Hutton.

He could stand to comb his hair a little, and I'm not sure if those are velvet pants to match the furry jacket, or if they're just made of slickery material, but either way they scare me a little and could benefit from a nicer shirt pairing. And Joely Richardson seems so brittle you could build a bird's nest out of her, but we're sure that's just because she's exhausted from all the finger-numbing work she's done in order to graduate summa cum laude from the very prestigious Ellen Pompeo School of Dressing In Figure-Obscuring Floaty Things That Tamp Down Your Breasts And Fasten Around Your Neck And Threaten To Cut Off Your Airway.

But, other than the fact that he's quite possibly the only thing holding Joely upright, Timothy Hutton would like you to know that he's doing very well, thank you, and that he hopes The Great Tom Hulce Controvery of 2007 will come to an end with this very stirring, incontrovertible proof that he's still using his "Just For Men #112: Chestnut Fury."

* Thank you for all the reader concern that we had doubted ourselves, but rest assured (everyone, especially Mr. Hutton), we always knew it was Tom Hulce.

Sometimes things are so crazy that they stop being crazy and swing all the way around to being SPECTACULAR. Like the outfit on (the extremely pretty) Miss Poland, Marzena Cieslik, here pictured at the Grand Prix Ball in Melbourne. I do not know why Miss Poland is kicking it in Australia, but I guess that it probably has something to do with the weather.  Anyway, this dress takes Pageant Fashion and kicks it up to the proverbial 11:

Tulle! Sequins! Illusion netting! Contrasting colored boobs! AWESOME. This is so over the top that I must embrace it. It reminds me of one of my favorite scandals from my past: when I was in high school, we had a Latin teacher who was sort of quirky and interesting, but in a very... sort of scholastic-seeming way. Well, I guess she had some kind of crisis, because she left the school under a cloud of mystery, but not before donating a huge box of clothing to the school's drama department, which I was involved in (I know, big surprise, right?). In the box were several elaborate beaded, ruffled, neon gowns, all of which were cut to the navel. We later learned that Lady Latin had been a nationally ranked ballroom dancer until she had been BANNED FOR LIFE from the National Ballroom Dancing Association -- or whatever the national ballroom dancing association is called -- for behavior not befitting a ballroom dancer. The rumor, which was naturally immediately accepted as truth, was that she had been caught in a particularly shocking and perverse orgy, corrupting her fellow dancers, probably so as to throw them off their dance-game, but my guess from the adult perspective is that maybe none of this actually happened and she just decided she was tired of nude t-strap sandals and high school girls and quit ballroom dancing and teaching, in that order, and ran off to somewhere more interesting to do something else.  But I'm still pretty sure that Miss Poland's night is going to tragically end in her being banned from Miss Universe for doing something inappropriate that this ballroom-dance-inspired gown forced her to do.

Periodically, as their busy spa and Spider Club schedules allow, celebrity experts will join us to answer your questions about how to fug up your life as thoroughly as they do theirs. This week's expert has an advanced degree in psychotic behavior with a minor in alienating one's family, and is fresh from a spiritual experience in the slammer that has resulted in him pursuing a career as a minister.

Dear Aunt Fugly,

I have this great wife -- she's smart, she's exotic, she likes to talk about really obscure books while walking around the house naked, and she enjoys traveling and drinking beer. All my friends think she sounds fantastic but because she lives in a different part of the state for work, they haven't met her. But they're doubling the pressure lately for me to introduce them. There's just one problem: She doesn't exist. I totally made her up and it's been three years now, including a successful stint in couples counseling that I couldn't stop talking about, and I'm worried it might be a little bit too late to confess to my friends that she's fake. Apparently I am kind of a douchebag. What should I do? Should I admit to my friends that I lied? ... No, really, give me an actual good idea.

Sincerely,

Screwed By My Fake Wife

Dear Screwed,

I don't see why this is such a big deal. The solution is so obvious: Hire a hooker to impersonate your wife, introduce her to all your friends, and then "divorce" her. Or kill her off. And then you can just murder the hooker if you need to produce a body.

Wait. No, don't do that. If there's anything I learned in the joint -- other than how to be a better father to my daughter -- it is that killing someone will earn you some hard time and while I emerge from prison a better man, fully qualified to resume managing my child star's finances, I can not recommend you doing anything that might land you in the Big House. Also, maybe it will turn out that the hooker you hire will be awesome and hot and freaky and you can really marry her and I will be happy to broker the deal you make when you sell the rights to that major feature film for a low, low percentage of your gross. Say, 65%.

Dear Aunt Fugly,

My parents SUCK. I know all young girls say that, but seriously, mine REALLY DO. My mother thinks she's 19 and hangs around a bunch of nightclubs getting messed up -- and she's, like, the world's most annoying person when she's buzzed --  and she won't stop wearing my clothes and trying to sleep with all the guys I'm trying to sleep with, and it doesn't make sense because she TOTALLY has crow's feet and I can see it and I don't know why they would want to NAIL a woman who could HIDE THEM in her WRINKLES. And my father's, like, totally an ex-con and I hate him for ruining my childhood. Except my mother is ruining my adulthood -- should I hate her more? Seriously, HAS NO ONE NOTICED that I am celebrating being out of rehab by hanging out at a bunch of clubs? And that I  was IN rehab before I was the legal drinking age? And that I keep changing my hair color and losing weight? ME! Pay attention to ME! Stop shooting your stupid "I'm out of prison and I want to help children BLAH BLAH BLAH" reality show and stop nailing people who are younger than me and START FIXING MY PROBLEMS.

So my question is, should I stop wearing slouchy boots?

With ANGER IN MY TRAGIC HEART,

Big Red Brown Blonde

Dear Blonde,

Your mom sounds hot. Why don't you give me her number, so I can talk to her directly about how to be a better parent to you -- maybe over a couple of ice-cold Buds?

Dearest Aunt Fugly,

I am the victim of a sad misunderstanding. Recently, I was having an intimate chat with a dear friend of mine -- we'll call her Foolia --in front of some TV cameras (I know, I know, but it was a favor to another friend of mine; let's call her Doprah). Anyway, in the course of this verbal embrace, which was otherwise laden with warm personal truths, I made a joke about getting plastic surgery done on my eyes. See, Aunt Fugly, my wit is dry. It's arid as the desert but thrice as jolly. And unfortunately, now everyone thinks I was serious. Nobody can stop teasing me about my eye job. My friend Bark Smallberg called me up and was all, "Yo, I hear you got jobbed," and then started cackling. Even my bosses, two of the fairest souls you ever see across a crowded room and long to cuddle their worry-lines away, can't resist poking fun at me (although they can't resist poking at me in general; I'm a ticklish and highly touchable piece of man flesh). What should I do? I crave a hug of reassurance. If you could even donate one arm of your time to a half-squeeze, I would be forever in your debt.

Yours,

G. Whiz

Dear Whiz,

While I would love to hug it out with you, I am trying to teach my daughter how to be a better person and part of that includes not throwing her limbs around men she hardly knows. Instead, I suggest you consult my forthcoming self-help book, Turning It All Around, which will help you learn how better to own up to your mistakes, whether your mistake is: getting an eye job, joking about something as serious as an eye job, not getting an eye job when you need one, securities fraud, being a terrible parent to impressionable teens, inspiring a really crappy pop song, aggravated unlicensed driving and attempted assault, or Solaris. I wish you luck, my good man, and suggest you practice patience. Surely someone will do something scandalous eventually, like run over a paparazzo with her car, and that will draw the attention away from your plastic surgery imbroglio.

"Oh, YOU!"

"It's just a faux hawk, silly! Since I'm somehow not aging as well as everyone would have predicted five years ago, I decided to throw caution to the wind and make Maddox Jolie-Pitt my style icon. He's the youngest, hippest person I could think of!  With any luck, Brad and Angie will scoop me up and raise me, too. They seem so nice, and I clearly need some discipline."

[Source.]

"I don't know what that bloody smirk on David's face is for. I'm going to rip off his bollocks and he knows it. I can't believe he told me my hair looks like I'm wearing a bloody old man's combover. It's TRENDY, you slag-shagging bastard! I don't CARE if the last person with hair like this was a member of Duran Duran. America is going to go PIG WILD for me and THEN who'll be smirking at the person down the row? And THEN who'll have people lining up to have a fling with me, eh, David? THEN who'll be so jealous he's having rage blackouts? ... Oh, don't be cross, David, I'm just taking the piss. I love you and I miss the mad passionate love we make when we're together, because we're in mad and passionate love. In fact, maybe that's what I'll call my show. Me & My Golden Balls: Mad, Passionate Love. Right, David? Right? We're okay, right? ... Dammit. Fine. I'll book myself in for some extentions tomorrow. Want to have another baby? Think about it, okay? Because we're in love. Love!"

Singer Willa Ford had, oh, about one hit: the sensitive 2001 paean to romantic idealism "I Wanna Be Bad." She also, I hear, did fairly well on Dancing With the Stars, though her very appearance on that show proves that sometimes they're not so much "stars" as, you know,"people who used to date Nick Carter and did some other stuff you might have heard about." (No offense to the current cast, of course, as I have am quite seriously thrilled to see Steve Sanders on my television again. You guys know how we feel about Steve Sanders.) But I wonder if the best way for her to reappear on the media scene once again is....well, wearing this:

I am a big fan of her nude shoes -- her legs look nice and long. EXCEPT THEY'RE COMING OUT OF A SHORTY JUMPSUIT. I know, I know: these are supposed to be in for summer, but WHO can REALLY pull off a shorty jumpsuit? A toddler. That's all. Frankly, they're not particularly flattering - this one gives Willa what Heather calls "a polterwang," in which it starts to look like...well, you know. I just wonder what it looks like from behind. I feel like a shorty jumpsuit is nothing but a recipe for an ass that is not flattered to its best advantage. Which, as human beings, is something we should all band together to fight against. We all need to look after our own asses, you know?

So, I don't know if any of y'all are watching Top Design. It's one of those shows where every week I think to myself, "I don't know if I'm going to keep watching Top Design," but it shows up on my TiVo and I do watch it and there's at least one small moment that delights me and I can't cut the cord. Like a few weeks ago, Jonathan Adler squealed that he loved paint swatches and I was back in for another week. I ALSO love a swatch! The other good thing about it is that the judging is really sort of bitchy, which I appreciate. We want judges talking shit about cast members behind their backs! It's the whole point of competitive reality programming, shit-talking is. The other thing that is awesome, and by awesome, I mean crazy, are the outfits of one of the judges:  designer Kelly Wearstler. Now, this woman has designed some great interiors in her time and there was a spread on her in Vogue about two or three years ago in which she was photographed out by her pool with her kids and she was wearing this amazing Eres swimsuit and I read the article and I was like, "this woman is so chic. I love her."  So I know she has taste. And yet she keeps showing up in things like this:

[Photo via Bravo.TV]

Do I need to tell you which of these four people I am referring to? We've got a strapless gown last seen on one of my Barbie dolls, probably before I shaved her head (my Barbies led dramatic lives overly influenced by the daytime television I shouldn't have been sneaking. One of them threw a rival for Ken's affections down the elevator shaft of the Barbie Townhouse, for example, and I also remember telling my mother that the Barbies' smiling faces were inappropriate for the Barbie funeral I had to have after two of them jumped off the side of my bed in what seemed like a suicide pact, but which was actually just them faking their own deaths. My mom kindly gave me some black lace fabric scraps to make them veils for the funeral, and then cut off my access to All My Children), over jeans and a tee shirt. Seriously, just don't do that. Last week, she had all this crazy crimped hair, like, CRAZY, like CRAZY crimped, and prior to that, there was an incident with leg warmers. It is really kind of awesome, but in a way that is at best moderately deranged, and I spend a lot of time looking at her the way that fellow judge Margaret Russell is in this photo. The look says, "Girl, what are you doing?"  Because, seriously, girl, what are you doing?

...Other than keeping me tuning in to see your crazy outfits. Is this all some kind of elaborate plot to hang onto viewers? Damn it! I hate it when I am successfully manipulated by the media!

[Source.]

It's been chilly in London lately, according to the weather reports. Does Keira Knightley really have enough body fat to trot around in tights under baggy shorts and not be freezing? And by asking, I'm being polite. Which is unusual for me. Because no mistake, I can see her legs. I could pick my teeth with them. I could stick one of them in a baking cake to decide if it's done. I could use them to jimmy open a car door. There's a box in my kitchen that contains a frying pan wrapped in newspaper, and it is better insulated.

In her honor, I am going to go make and eat a delicious sandwich, full of carbs and other flesh-wooing goodness. I wish she would do the same.

"I feel like wearing something literary-inspired tonight," Debbie Gibson said, as she rifled through her closet. "Shall I wear my Anna Karenina train-tracks jumpsuit? No -- too casual. What about my Great Gatsby outfit, with the seven Oxford shirts all worn on top of each other? That will be too hot. I know! My Lord of the Flies Salute to the Conch Shell!

Although last time I wore this, my driver called me 'Barnacle Boobs.' I didn't like that very much.  But what the hell! I feel a little fish-y today!"

DANE: Hi, guys! Hi! It's me! Hi!

KEVIN: Sigh. Looks like you owe me $10, Demi.

DEMI: Wait, I thought you owed ME -- wasn't I betting you that he'd show up looking kind of greasy and smarmy, like normal?

KEVIN: I thought that's what I bet you.

DANE: But it's not normal me! Today I'm classy! See? I have artificial hair grease and a striped suit and I had my manager sew a stick in the back of it so I'd have good posture.

DEMI: Huh. Somehow it's still smarmy and oily. You still look a bit like you need a good smack upside the head, preferably with a copy of the Employee of the Month DVD. Except that no one would be caught dead holding one.

KEVIN: Oh, man, I had to watch that on an airplane and I wanted to strangle you.

DANE: Dude, what? I'm ALL CHARISMA. I'm a RAKE! I'm a charming rapscallion!

KEVIN: You're no Ashton. That guy's a star. Did you see The Guardian? Oscar-quality, man. He was robbed.

DEMI: You don't need to kiss his ass, Kevin.

KEVIN: Well, he's going to be mad at me when I can no longer stop myself from staring at your thigh, which I am pretty sure I can see almost all of, because your skirt's kinda sheer. So I have to ingratiate myself.

DEMI: Yeah. I do look kind of hot, I have to say.

DANE: Wait, pay attention to me! I got all dressed up and adult for this! I'm a SERIOUS ACTOR now. In a SUIT. Does this mean nothing to you?

KEVIN: Chill out, kid. Talk to me when you're my age and you can pull off a suit jacket, jeans, boots, a major man-tan, bleached hair, and a soul patch.

DEMI: Let's not get too confident, Kevin. You're not pulling off the soul patch.

DANE: It looks like a rash, mofo! It reminds me of when I worked at BURGER KING, the BK Lounge, bitches, and I...

KEVIN: Oh, cram it, kid, your douchebag is showing. No one cares any more.

I'm always very happy to see Sandra Bullock looking good. Ever since she married burly, tattooed Jesse James, I've been rooting for those two crazy kids to make it because she seems quite charming and fun and he's probably a complete closet softie and they just look very happy. I once saw them at an L.A. Kings game -- sitting next to Kid Rock and some buxom blonde who looked like his younger, and more plastic, replacement for Pamela Anderson -- and she and Jesse seemed so sweet together. Plus, Sandra was really attentive to the two kids in the front who got beaned in the noggins by a stray puck. They ended up fine, perhaps in part because Kid Rock brought them a red ice bag three times the size of their heads, and in ten years will probably be horrified that a hot older lady like Sandra Bullock saw them sobbing. Maybe they'll sell their stories as a TV movie. Maybe this puck clocking them in the heads will send them on two very dramatic, divergent paths, and only Sandra Bullock can bring them back from their respective brinks of self-destruction. Maybe she'll play herself.

And then they'll have a fantastic premiere bash where the real-life kids will tearfully thank her for changing their lives and Kid Rock will bring them a box of Kleenex that's ten times larger than their hands can hold, and Sandra will show up on the red carpet looking as fantastic as she does here:

She looks fab here at the Premonition premiere. It's a gorgeous color on her, the makeup works, and I even like the sexy-sloppy updo. In fact, there's really nothing amusing to say about it, so I have to lean on the totally hacky, terrible quip.

Are you ready? Here goes: "Evidently, Sandra Bullock had a premonition that we would love this dress."

Sigh. Now I have to go wash that off.

[Source]

To mi amor, Marc:

Gracias, my little neck-sucking husband, for everything you do. I love the way you start to cry when you're in direct sunlight and have to run away, because it shows me how deeply you feel things. I cherish how you told me the reason you never show up in any of the mirrors in our house is because you decided my reflection is too pure to share space with anyone else's, so you made special mirrors that will only show me. It gets me trembly with affection when you make me garlic chicken even though you're allergic to it and have to go lie down for 14 hours afterward with nothing but a raw piece of prime rib for company.

But, sweet tiny Marc, it touches me the most when you make me things with your own two hands. At first it was confusing when I walked into the basement and saw you shredding a moldy old rug with your teeth and screaming, "Who stole my stash of blood," but when you explained that I'd misheard and that you were actually saying, "Yippee, my wife will be so happy that I have made her this shawl for her next concert! Hooray! And if she doesn't wear it, my heart will turn to mud," it all made sense to me. You are so thoughtful, amor. You always care. And so even though this smells a little bit like something died in it a year ago, I am wearing it because that perfume of decay will always remind me of you. Te adoro!"

You know, usually I'd be all, "I like that dress better when Carrie Bradshaw wore it on the side of a bus," and "Leggings? THEY'RE SO OVER" about this:

But honestly, I totally don't even care anymore.  Wear whatever you want, Sienna:  Wear leggings with formal shorts and Uggs, covered in a dress over jeans with your boob hanging out. I'm bored of you now.

I wonder what Kathy Hilton and Bebe Neuwirth have to talk about:

Bebe appeared in a show set in a bar; Kathy's daughter lives in a bar. Bebe was in Chicago; Kathy has visited Chicago (Paris claims to like the shopping there!). Bebe is wearing a person; Kathy's children would wear a person out. Bebe attended Julliard and has won countless awards; Kathy....I have no corollary for that one. Stays in Hilton hotels free of charge? I'm sure raiding the honor bar without guilt over paying $16.99 for a bag of cashews is its own reward.

I will always have fond memories of Tom Hulce from the time he played the ne'er-do-well son in Parenthood, and of course from his seminal performance as Mozart in Amadeus -- a movie that brought us many wonderful things, but none so glorious as the Falco tune that encouraged him to rock us. I also enjoyed him in Stranger Than Fiction, and no one among us will soon forget that wrenching work in Shelley Duvall Presents: American Tall Tales and Legends: John Henry: The String of Colons That Would Not Stop: Nope, Not Yet: Okay, Now.

But his most surprising work lately has been his wacky achievements in cranial hair.

.

Not that there's anything wrong with getting older, or growing a beard. But it's hard not to look at this picture and think, "Wait, THAT is Tom Hulce? What happened? When did he become some kind of nutty professor being dragged to the premiere of a student film?" It doesn't appear to be for a movie, as we've been able to dredge up pictures indicating that he's been moving in this direction for a while now, and Jessica did just read something where he was complaining about his vast quantities of ear hair, so evidently Tom Hulce is having a bit of trouble finding an adept-enough personal grooming lackey. He could work it to his advantage, though, and hijack the Santa Clause franchise from Tim Allen. The fourth could be The Santa Clause: Dangling Participles, in which Santa teaches English at a small New Hampshire prep school and imparts lessons about love, lust, and language to a bunch of randy young boys while he makes them part of his secret toymaking society. Surely we can rustle up Haley Joel Osment for the Ethan Hawke -- er, "sensitive loner" role.

So come on, Tom Hulce. Don't fight the hair, if that's a losing battle. Instead, let's get it working for you and get you to working.

An Imagined Tableau, Starring Grey's Anatomy Star Isaiah Washington, Fresh from Rageaholic Rehab, and Danielle "Dani" Evans, Past Winner of America's Next Top Model:

ISAIAH: I confess, I'm a bit nervous. I don't have a great track record at awards shows.

DANI/IELLE: You don't win?

ISAIAH: Well, that too. Mostly, I just have the habit of saying the wrong thing.

DANI/IELLE: I have the habit of WEARING the wrong thing. I mean, look at this. I look like a cocktail waitress at a futuristic-themed Vegas casino in 1971.

ISAIAH: You have the legs for it.

DANI/IELLE: Don't add sexual harassment to your list of problems, dude. Let's be honest: I look like I'm wearing the new version of The Infinite Dress, The Infinite Shorts.

ISAIAH:...you have a point. Also, I imagine Tyra would want to see more neck, and also would advise you to create some wind in your hair right about now.

DANI/IELLE: ...

ISAIAH: What? They show a lot of Top Model in Rage Rehab. It's soothing, and I believe it's also teaching me a lot about gay culture so I can better understand my homosexual coworkers and not call them names. I've also gained some important knowledge about not having dead eyes.

DANI/IELLE: Um....You know what? Let's just present this award.

Beloved Friends,

It is with throbbing arms that I thank you for all your support of Go Fug Yourself, which -- thanks to snuggly little nuggets like yourselves -- has won 2007 Bloggies for Best Entertainment Weblog and Most Humorous Weblog. Heather and Jessica weren't actually at SXSW in Austin for the announcement, but they decided to live today as if they were, mainlining margaritas from about 8 a.m. onward and then trying to hold a panel discussion called, "Why Steve Madden Shoes Don't Seem To Fit As Well Anymore, And Also, Yay Blogging." Then I clasped their hands, got down on one knee, and whispered the sweet words they'd longed to hear: "You should really eat some guacamole." And it was while they were delicately, sweetly shoveling that divine green goo into their mouths that we found out our happy news. I am so grateful for your votes, which brought such joy to GFY HQ that I dare say a wee tear squeaked out of my ducts before I dispensed hugs all around. The mailman acted surprised, but he went with it, bless his cuddly heart.

With a caring fist-pump to the sky and a hug in my soul,

Your George

P.S. The link is working now. I was just too overcome to focus properly before -- Heather and Jessica had just given me a raise by upping my daily back-rub quota to two! I've been begging them to let me provide more for them, so the news made me positively giddy.

An Open Letter to Dominic Purcell:

Dear Dominic,

You are a handsome, chiseled man and, by all accounts, a tall drink of water (IMDb puts you at over six feet).  For that, you should be sending the genetic lottery a thank you note and maybe some flowers -- personally, I like peonies, but I obviously don't work for the genetic lottery, or I would have given myself longer legs. Roses are always a safe bet. Or cookies! The people in charge of the genetic lottery can eat as many cookies as they like, seeing as they never get fat.  At any rate, you definitely shouldn't be taking what the good Lord gave you and and doing this to it:

Look how short your legs look, dude! They're not short! There's absolutely no reason for you to look so short and schlumpy when you've been given the material to look...you know, the total opposite of that. Your shoes aren't even tied properly. You're a grown-ass man with four children -- all of whom, I've learned, thanks again to IMDb, have totally lovely normal names, so way to go with that -- and you shouldn't be slouching around with baggy pants and untied (though cool-looking) kicks.  Even K-Fed's not doing that anymore, dude. Get with the program!

Also, I don't watch Prison Break, but I'm sure you're very good in it.

Love,

Jessica

It's widely publicized that Todd Haynes is making a movie about Bob Dylan that features several celebrities playing the part of the gruff, grunty, nasal "Like A Rolling Stone" singer -- including the highly female actress Cate Blanchett.

We can only assume, then, that a jealous Lindsay Lohan is trying to bask in the glow of Blanchett's risky genius by garnering attention for a project she thinks will bring her similar acclaim.

[Source.]

It will be a biopic of Poison's Bret Michaels, starring none other than LiLo as the man who made 7th grade girls everywhere swoon over the romantic joys of "Every Rose Has Its Thorn," because it was a slow song and sounded so full of worshipful yearning that none of us bothered to listen to the actual words.

Now, the brilliance of her plan is: If, in light of his upcoming reality show, Bret Michaels is deemed too much of a sellout to be immortalized in an edgy movie of his life, she can easily segue it into The Sebastian Bach Story: 18 And Gilmore Girls To Go. Or perhaps a little something about the Nelson twins -- after all, she's had experience playing dual roles in The Parent Trap. Just get Dennis Quaid on board as the stern but lovable manager who had their best interests at heart all along and was heartbroken when they cut off their hair, and you've got some serious marquee value.

CariDee, the most recent Ameica's Next Top Model winner, has to be very excited that she's actually getting to go out in public looking pretty. And she does look pretty in this semi-futuristic white minidress; it's hard to mess up that face and that figure.

Alas...

She appears to have stolen shoes off the feet of her Grandma Edna's chief bingo rival, rendering poor old Hazel underconfident and meek -- and reluctant to bother shuffling down to the cafeteria -- without the power of her lucky sandals. We hope CariDee is getting a cut of the bingo winnings in exchange for being seen in public wearing these plastic nightmares; after all, being an ANTM champion, she could probably use the cash.

There are so many things to love about Geri Halliwell. There's her red hair; her saucy Union Jack dress from the heady, loony Ginger Spice days; her grabbing Prince Chuck's bum; her autobiography that unflinchingly includes pictures from her "glamour modeling" (read: topless) days; the fact that I have read her autobiography, which includes dates, and I still think she's older than she claims to be and has somehow paid off everyone in the book not to squeal to the press; her alleged invention of the concept of the Spice Girls; her claims that she was innocent and misunderstood in the whole "Geri up and left the band" fiasco despite the fact that, essentially, Geri totally up and left the band; her scrappy battle with eating disorders, having finally come out the other side more accepting of her famous and sexy curves; and of course, the highly entertaining fact that she named her daughter Bluebell Halliwell, which sounds more like the name of a paint company than a child.

But, like with all coins, this one has a flip side. There is something to dislike about Geri Halliwell. And that thing, today, is her trousers.

[Source]

I'm thrilled she's gone back to her her red roots -- the blond thing just wasn't working for me (same goes for you, Lohan, you zombie loon) -- but I am extremely cross with Geri for perpetuating this burgeoning trend of high-waisted pants. Now, I'm totally fine that people aren't wearing their jeans so low that you can assess accurately the quality of a girl's bikini waxer, but these are so high they're practically overalls. Didn't we gravitate to lower rises in the first place because it was universally accepted that high-rise pants are HORRIBLE? Because high-rise pants give a belly where there is none, and gruesomely cradle one where there is? And did we not learn this painful lesson the very hard way? Did I wear, and eventually violently discard, all those Gap Classic Cut jeans in vain?

Geri, if the rise of your pants is longer than your shoe size, you have taken a tragic misstep. Please stop this. Think of your child. Don't wilt little Bluebell before she has a chance to grow, and live, and marry a man named Benjamin Moore so they can have wonderfully colorful little tots.

I think actress Jacinda Barrett is really, really pretty and I have very fond memories of her, thanks to her stint on The Real World: London: The Most Boring Real World Ever -- Why Are These People So Freaking Functional? Isn't Someone Supposed To Be Calling Someone A Bitch? I Wonder What's On Lifetime. Maybe It Will Be That One Where Tori Spelling Plays The Hooker. That One Is AWESOME. And I feel like this ALMOST works:

The cut is cute on her, but that color is mad-hard to wear, and I feel like she looks a bit washed out in it, especially with the weird olive-colored tights. And while I kind of dig the delicateness of the details on the top, the cuffs on the sleeves are weirdly evocative of those little hats you put on lamb chops, the name of which I never know, despite the fact that I compare someone's misguided sleeves to them at least once every six months. Do those little ruffly hat jobbers HAVE a name? Or are chefs at fancy, old school hotel restaurants berating their sous-chefs, all, "WHERE ARE THE LITTLE HAT THINGIES FOR THIS LAMB CHOP! Fool! Get out of my kitchen!"?  There is so much I do not know.

Generally, I don't really like Mary J. Blige. I guess her story is good, with the beating drugs and the finding love and all that, but I'm a little sick of her trumpeting it nonstop for the past several years any time she wins an award, because we get it. We've heard it. A hundred times. That "Be Without You" song she won for this year makes me want to rip off my ears and feed them to Brandon Davis. Plus, she was terrible in The Ghost Whisperer when she had to play a cheerleading coach whose girls kept getting in accidents caused by a cranky spirit (spoiler: it worked out fine in the end). And to stand out as terrible in the day-player cast of that show, and in particular that episode, well, she MUST have been bad.

Nevertheless, she usually pulls herself together very well for public events. So it was a surprise to me to see her out on the town in a wig that I can only presume was once on Joyce DeWitt's head during a failed experiment with going blonde.

There's just something about its '70s aura, combined with her stiff facial expression, that suggests perhaps she lost a bet with somebody over the Grammys and is wearing this under duress. Perhaps that person was Suzanne Somers, and perhaps she's held on to DeWitt's old wardrobe rejects in the hope of deploying them selectively in order to subtly humiliate her old rival in painful ways only Joyce would understand.

To be fair to the wig, though, the entire ensemble is retro in a moldy way.

Anyone who reads this blog knows that I am a big fan of the Spelling genre. It's all Brenda Walsh this and Dylan McKay that and blah blah Amanda Woodward blah. Poor Tori Spelling hasn't benefited much from this love, though, even if I did really like So NoTorious.  (It was funny! Although  it did mean that it took me a while to adjust to Zachary Quinto, who played her amusing gay roommate, being a crazy brain-eater [he's eating the brains, right? I think he's eating the brains. He must be eating the brains. Or something.] on Heroes.) And I admit that I will totally TiVo this reality show she's doing about opening a B&B, because I'm the person who watches reality shows featuring people who used to be on 90210.  But she's had a long run of bad press, with the estrangement from her mother after her father's death and all the alleged plastic surgery and the divorce from Husband One after less than a year of marriage and the taking up with Husband Two who then got a tattoo of her face even before his own divorce was final.   And unfortunately, this is not the moment where it all turns around for her. Because, DUDE, PUT IT AWAY:

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That skirt is TOO SHORT.  I think it's awesome that pregnant women don't have to wear giant jumpers with huge bows at the neck anymore, and I am all for working your legs but OH MY GOD I'M SCARED OF HOW SHORT THAT SKIRT IS. People -- pregnant women, non-pregnant women, men, children, anyone -- should not be walking around in public looking like they are about to inadvertently reveal things best left unrevealed.  It makes the rest of us uncomfortable.

And this picture makes me very uncomfortable indeed. Both because of the expanse of thigh, and because of all the pointing. I feel like Dean McDermott is the new K-Fed. But sort of more menacing. For all of K-Fed's many faults, he mostly just seemed very very very very lazy and entitled. But McDermott looks unafraid to wield a tire iron, you know? He will come after you, his Tori Spelling tattoo in tow, and he will f you up.

So I will just stop talking about her too-short-skirts now.

Clearly, Mischa Barton has unusual taste in clothes. That's about as controversial a statement as, say, "Peter Gallagher's eyebrows are kind of large," or, "Paris Hilton's not a virgin." And while oftentimes we don't think that taste serves her figure or our eyeballs particularly well, there are times when she steps out in something that completely works.

Here she is at a party during Paris Fashion Week:

[Source.]

It's a challenge to pose in that dress -- in that color -- and have the most lasting impression be, "Wow, Mischa Barton is gorgeous," but that's basically what my reaction is to this photo. Chartreuse is not a color I particularly gravitate toward, as it's bright to the point of being almost garish, and could threaten to cast a yellowish pall on even the rosiest of skin tones. But Mischa is rocking the hell out of it. I love, and covet, her sexy tousled hair and perfect eye makeup. And of course, the timing is particularly tasty -- The O.C., which unexpectedly killed her off last season, just limped to a tired, pathetic end; meanwhile, Mischa, totally unbruised and unaffected by that firm boot to the derriere, is gallavanting around Paris looking fantastic and without a care in the world. It's the greatest middle-finger she could possibly flip.

Of course, the appearance of nonchalance might go to hell in a handbasket carried by Satan himself once her movie with Hayden "So Wooden You Could Build A Barn Out Of Him" Christensen hits theaters. It's about the black plague, people. Mischa and Hayden and a deadly epidemic. And no, Hayden Christensen is not playing the part of the plague, although he will probably be a pox on the movie. But that's not my problem. As long as Mischa listens to these style instincts, rather than the ones that routinely tell her to wear tent dresses, she might at least look fabulous at the premiere -- assuming she doesn't run in the other direction.

So, Tamara Tunie has been in a ton of stuff -- 24, Law and Order, and, of course, As the World Turns, also known as The Soap I Keep Thinking Got Cancelled Years Ago. Sadly, her character on ATWT has only been married once,which prevents her from having a hilarious soap opera name like Erica Kane Martin Brent Cudahy Chandler Montgomery Montgomery Chandler Marick Marick Montgomery,  but she is, according to my sources, lucky enough to get blackmailed a lot, which I suppose is what happens when you are the only lawyer in town. And blackmail would explain this:

I feel like we're moving right along until we come to the hat, which, added to the satin vest-thingie is just... let's just say that we've got a lot of textures happening here. We've got the leather and the denim and the satin and the leather and the shearling and the wool and the plaid and the mystical crystal pendant and it's all just overwhelming.  Especially on that carpet. As backed up by blocks of ice.  And the restroom sign. And half of Queen Latifah's face. None of which is her doing, but I am going into sensory overload and need Intern George to bring me a nice cold drink right now.

One of our main peeves here at GFY is when someone like model/actressLiya Kebede here takes her exceptionally good genetic make-up and essentially stomps all over it:

I suppose that she's trying to bring to life the old saying, "She could look beautiful in a paper bag," and while she IS a beautiful girl, she could look ever so much MORE beautiful if she had chosen to wear something that didn't do that annoying thing that happens when you wear something sweater-y with something leggings-y or tights-y and it rides up and people think, "Oh NO. Is that a wee jumpsuit?"  And you sort of shuffle around the party fighting a silent, losing battle against static cling, constantly pulling down and smoothing out your uppermost layer and wondering why you didn't wear something silk underneath it, like a slip, like your mother always told you to, because that would have prevented this problem, and you hate it when she's right, like she was that time she told you that it's really hard for men and women to be platonic friends because hormones always get in the way. And then you just don't enjoy yourself very much. Which does seem to be the case here.

Queen Latifah is someone who almost always knocks it out of the park at major events. Her Oscar outfit was awesome, and that wasn't a surprise. She knows how to dress herself. Well, usually:

La, I hope you're throwing those signs as a signal to your peeps to go take out whoever dressed you in this. You look like you're about to run down to the 7-11 for a Slurpee. And while I have nothing against Slurpees or running out to grab one, and in fact now I really want a Slurpee,  you don't look like you're leaving work or MTV or a disastrous blind date in search of that delicious icy goodness. You look like you're leaving your apartment, which you are in the middle of spring cleaning.  And we all know you're better than that.

Actress Alice Evans has been in a bunch of stuff I don't watch or haven't seen, and she's engaged to that dreamy actor -- and frustrater of people who want to spell names correctly on the first try -- Ioan Gruffudd. That's all I know about her, despite having seen her appear at almost every event existing in the last three weeks. Oh, and apparently, she also loves bows:

We've got a bow around her neck, two bright bows around her ankles and, honestly, her dress looks enough like a ball of used -- albeit pricey -- wrapping paper that it, too, calls for some kind of ribbon wrapped around it. Won't someone take pity on this girl and just unwrap her?

I may have mentioned in this space before that I went through a long period of unemployment back in 2001 -- like many people who graduated with me, I went to work for an internet start-up which eventually crashed and burned in a spectacular fashion, leaving me several long months where no one would hire me because there were 239,220 other copywriters also out of work. And as most people who've been laid off come to realize, it's only fun to be at home during the week if someone is paying you to do it, or you are independently wealthy, because otherwise you just get depressed. It was during this period of depression and unemployment that Bravo began showing thirtysomething in its entirety. I became obsessed with it in a mildly unhealthy way, to the point where I wouldn't be able to talk on the phone while it was on (adding to my tragedy, this was all before TiVo). Hello? I can't talk to you. We're about to find out if Nancy still has cancer! In many ways, my dates with thirtysomething were the only things I looked forward to at the time. So I have great fondness for the cast and am therefore very sad to see that Nancy appears to still have cancer...of the wardrobe:

Patricia Wettig! What are you doing? You look like you have a window treatment hanging from your clavicle. And it's not even a good window treatment! Those are the curtains you see in the home of a wealthy Beverly Hills matron who hasn't redecorated the living room since 1986 (they match her sofa, which no one has ever sat on). That's not what you want draped across your boobs! Someone might take you for a piece of furniture and try to perch on you.

Rashida Jones apparently didn't get the memo (see what I did there? Because she works on The Office? And they have memos? In an office? Oh, leave me alone) that wearing a sack is rarely the best choice for a girl,because no matter how pretty a girl is, she'll always look prettier in something that's not actually a bag:

There's a reason that  "that old bag" is a pejorative term. No one has ever been called "that skanky, man-stealing sheath," or "that nasty-ass old A-line." So take a letter, Rashida.

Pop Quiz:

Mary-Kate and Ashley Olsen are:

A) pixie-sized vampires, carrying cut-glass vials of human blood in their bags, which they mix with vodka to approximate cosmopolitans at parties.

b) pixie-sized zombies, wearing long skirts and sleeves to conceal their rigor-mortis-ravaged limbs.

c) pixie-sized superfans of The Cure!

d) screwing with us.

Marianne Jean-Baptiste is awesome on Without A Trace -- the cliffhanger wherein we thought her bum heart was going to take her out elicited a very loud, "oh NO!" in my living room -- and the part she played in Secrets and Lies, for which she was, I believe, nominated for an Academy Award, has the best name: Hortense Cumberbatch. If I were a celebrity trying to avoid a mob of fans, "Hortense Cumberbatch" is the alias I would use when sneaking into hotels. That way, said mob would just have to hang out in the lobby and wait for me to come down, a technique you may have observed on the seminal episode of 90210 where Donna -- stalking Color Me Badd  at the Bel Age hotel -- discovers that h er mother is having an affair. Adding to her misfortune, Donna is wearing argyle hot pants when this happens. Anyway. M J-B: cool. This look on her: well....see for yourself:

Don't try to confine your breasts in a linen prison, Marianne! Allow them to bounce free,  as God intended! Don't sentence your skirt to a life of wrinkles!  Choose something that doesn't look like you've been keeping it balled up in the corner of your closet like a moldy towel! Live, Marianne! Live in something that doesn't have a phantom ruffle sprouting from your hip like the eye on a potato. Live!

TIM ALLEN: So let me see if I've got this straight. You've thrown out all your toupees?

JOHN TRAVOLTA: Yes indeedy.

TIM: But you don't want people to know that you're bald.

JOHN: Righty-o.

TIM: So you're just going to wear do-rags, bandannas, and head-scarves to every event from here on out?

JOHN: Yup-ola.

TIM: To the market?

JOHN: Yep-arino.

TIM: To parent/teacher night?

JOHN:  Positivo.

TIM: To the opera?

JOHN: For shizzy.

TIM: If you get invited to the White House?

JOHN:  Hail to the do-rag.

TIM: I gotta tell you, man, I really admire you.

JOHN: I know.

You know how sometimes you'll find yourself walking down a tree-lined street, wearing a spectacular trench coat and adorable shoes, carrying one paper shopping bag, out of the top of which pokes a baguette and some unidentifiable leafy greens, and everything is going beautifully -- there's music in the air, and your hair looks awesome -- until you accidentally collide with a devilishly handsome but infuriating eligible young man and your groceries go everywhere and he doesn't really even seem to care, and after that you two run into each other all over your well-lit town and you really, really hate him until the fateful morning when you wake up (wearing the cutest jammies, which just happen to coordinate perfectly with your bedroom) and realize that, actually, you love him? I think that's what's happened to me and Maggie Gyllenhaal this week. I loved her Oscar dress, and now I love what she wore to the Independent Spirit Awards:

It's quite simple, for sure, but it's crazy-flattering on her, and the buttons and detail at the waist, as well as the texture on the fabric, keep it from being too boring. I've had this photo in my queue for a couple of days, thinking I wasn't going to post it because the dress wasn't enough of a stand-out but then I realized that I kept coming back to it to look at it. There's something about it that I find very alluring, and I kind of want it.  It and I are destined for a clinch at sunset while a popular single from a British band that employs strings to great romantic effect swells in the background. I can't wait!

When I first saw this photo, I was completely confused. Was it a sculpture? A whimsical boot-shaped cigar-cutter? A magnifying glass for foot fetishists? Some sort of jar-opener? What? It couldn't be an actual SHOE that somebody would WEAR, so clearly, it had some other function.

Yet again, it was a foolhardy leap. Because sadly, at least in this case, often the obvious conclusion is the correct one.

Must... suppress... frustration...

My, what a nice... pedicure! And don't her eyes look lovely. And, gosh, her teeth are so nice and white. What else, what else... oh yes, that dress would look so adorable with a cute pair of strappy sandals AND A BARE LEG, LAURA, PLEASE, FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, YOU WOULD LOOK TOTALLY HOT WITH BETTER SHOES AND NO JEANS OH MY GOD I CAN'T SWALLOW MY RAGE I THINK THIS IS GOING TO [thud] kjghlakdskjlhag

"Hello friends -- Intern George here. Heather's going to be fine. She turned a little blue in the face and started gesturing wildly before fainting dead away on her computer keyboard. It was so graceful, I applauded for five minutes before I realized it was a real rage blackout. 'Silly George!' I boomed, rife with manly regret. 'Woe betide thee if a Fug Girl gets a concussion on your watch!' But after some extensive CPR and a lot of me fanning her with my 1500 thread-count pillow-cases, which I keep with me at all times just in case I need to lay someone down and hold them all night long, Heather revived. She seemed to think she needed a little more CPR but I hugged her tightly instead and sent her off to a corner, where she's now engaging in her usual ritual of rocking back and forth and screaming, "Why?" She's even regained enough of her senses to start begging Laura Dern for mercy. So, all will soon be well here at GFY HQ; fear not, sweet friends. But I do beg you: Please put your pants away if you're wearing a perfectly lovely cocktail dress. If not for her, then do it for me, your embraceable George. For I can't live another day picking Heather or Jessica up off the floor for any reason OTHER than it's their turn to get a Georgieback ride to the fridge. It's too emotionally taxing." - Intern George

"Dear God, it's me, Beyonce,

I'm so grateful the Oscars are over. Having to sit there and look happy for everyone when I wasn't nominated for anything was hard. Thank you for allowing me to remain calm and collected when You Know Who won. I was scared I might lose my shit -- er, I mean, my stuff. Um, sorry about that. I was also worried that I might snap during our musical number and shove her into the orchestra pit.  So I really appreciate the fact that I did not. And thank you for her terrible gold bolero. I felt much better about myself once I saw her in that. Thank you also for these shoes, they're very cute.  And, finally, thank you for giving me the courage to wear a zip-up, hoodie-style camo gown on TRL. Not everyone could do this.  Oh, also, if you could get Solange to stop singing 'And I'm Telling You I Am Not Going' to me over breakfast, that would be awesome. Today, I shoved a bagel in her face. I hope she forgives me. Amen!"

Oh, Shannnnnnyynn Sossssammmon. Why?

You look like a downtrodden Dust Bowl victim, crossed with a mime. Also, while I know this has nothing to do with your outfit, can we mention again that you named your child Audio Science? Those are not names. They are nouns.  There is a difference.  I just wanted to take a moment to tell you that. I'm glad that your exhausted, be-legginged ensemble gave us this chance to chat.

KATE: Hey, Pete?

PETE: Uhghhgojf.

KATE: Do you think that just maybe once, you could NOT look like you are sweaty, faintly green, and moments away from dying?

PETE: Need... blood... of virgins...

KATE: Oh, shove off, Pete, you were fine in the car.

PETE: Why do you always have to kick my good time in the balls, Kate? I'm TRYING to get myself a major motion picture based on my struggles.

KATE: What?

PETE: You don't think I walk around dressed like this -- a cross between Charlie Chaplin and a dying man who's starring in Guys and Dolls -- because I think it LOOKS good, do you? GOD, Kate.

KATE: Well, why are you making me put up with it, then? It's not raining -- there's no reason your hair needs to look like that.

PETE: Because if I'm immortalized on film as a tragic hero, I will become a LEGEND. And that Harry Potter kid is in really fine form right now -- he'd be PERFECT. I mean, he's already stripped naked and pet horses on stage. That's half the battle right there.

KATE: Ooh! I like this idea. Who gets to play me?

PETE: I was thinking Mary-Kate Olsen.

KATE: No fair! She looks WAY more stringy than I do. How about Mischa Barton?

PETE: Not glassy-eyed enough, I'm afraid, pet. Now, stop bothering me. I need to get back into my tragic character. If people don't believe I'm a step away from trying to cut off their hair and smoke it, they'll lose interest.

KATE: Fine, but next time, check with me -- I know some tricks from modeling that can make your eyes look even redder.

PETE: That's my girl! Now, where was I? Ah yes: BLOOD... I need blood...

It's a shame Natalie Maines was not ready to make nice with her stylist; if she had, she might have avoided this red plague. The top makes her look so wide and enormous that she almost appears to be standing on only one foot -- as if she had actually been wearing the largest, most ruffled trousers on the planet, until a very aggressive man named King Arthur came along on his phantom horse and hacked off her right leg when she wouldn't let him past her into the forest.

So I guess the lesson here is, tip your stylist. Or at least let her hold one of your Grammys for more than two seconds.

I admit, I was hoping that Rinko Kikuchi would show up to the Oscars wearing something crazy -- a dress made entirely of bubble wrap, maybe, or couture legwarmers, or a turban. I wasn't alone. On the E! preshow, they ran a crawl along the bottom of the screen featuring text messages that viewers had sent in. Typically, they said things like, "Jennifer Hudson RULES! -- Sarah in Chicago," or "Where's Rachel McAdams?!?! - McGosling Lover in Houston" or "Ryan Seacrest is so HOT -- Ryan in Los Angeles." But one message caught my eye in particular. It said, "Wear something crazy for us, Rinko!" (Sadly, I did not catch the name of the sender. If you're out there: well played, sender.) And yet, I can't say I'm disappointed with Rinko's lack of Oscar crazy:

Because she looks awesome. This is what I imagine Chanel couture SHOULD look like, when I am imagining having the kind of money it takes to buy Chanel couture. I don't want to spend my bazillions on ankle spats. I want to spend them on something like this: exquisitely fitted, chic, a little sparkly, and very glam. And yet I hope this is not the last we'll see of Rinko Kikuchi. For one thing, her name is cool. For another, I suspect she has not worn the last of her out-there outfits.

In the end, Tracey Edmonds turned out to be Eddie Murphy's most necessary accessory on Oscar night. When he peered into her reflective sternum after he lost and realized he wasn't a good enough actor to hide the burning, seething, frothing rage shooting like lasers from his eyes and nostrils, he quickly hightailed it out of the Kodak Theater lest the producers spend the rest of the evening gleefully cutting to furious closeups during everyone else's golden moments.

Unfortunately for Tracey, she was the one stuck wearing the thing, which managed to give her the illusion of flesh rolls she almost certainly doesn't really have. So really, neither of them were winners here.

They're called camisoles, Joy. It almost rhymes with areola, which is what I can see because you're not wearing any kind of undergarments. Although, actually, you'd probably need something strapless, since when you stapled your flimsy translucent fabric together, you were determined to do it in a way that thwarted anything strapped. So perhaps I should say, "They're called undergarments, Joy." And they result in your boobs not being entirely visible to the rest of the world. Do you have a friend who can take you to Victoria's Secret -- you know, the giant pink panty palace in the mall where 40 photos of Gisele in tiny underwear stare down at you as you wonder whether you can handle that much lace in your nethers? Yes, that place. You might want to go there.

So that's where my pillow case went!

She can have it.  I can't put my head down on something that's been in such close proximity to those shoes.

Perhaps the saddest thing we've seen amid all the Oscar hullabaloo is the "Night of 100 Stars" gala. Doesn't that feel like it should have been "Night of 1,000 Stars"? Indeed, I was positive I was just spotting a caption typo, until the red-carpet backdrop confirmed that the organizers prefer to aim low.

And, when you have your sights set significantly below the awe-inspiring cliche, why toss two of your invitations at the Peldons?

Granted, our favorite Hollywood style-and-scent minxes are looking very pretty; Courtney's dress looks a tiny bit like what soft restraints might have been in ancient Greece, but Brown's is quite unusual and flattering, and considering their catalog of failures in the past, we're willing to give this a thumbs-up. But it's not like either of them even sneezed near any of the nominated films, so once again, we have to applaud either their moxie or their management team's ability to convince people that they're the Olsen Twins.

Not that it matters, in terms of this event. By next year it will have become the "Night of 10 Stars," so discounted because Barbara Walters will have thrown a massive snit fit not only at having been included on a guest list with two girls who tried to sell her a perfume called, "The Aging Daytime-TV Babysitter," but also with this "star":

HEATH: If we weren't allegedly in a giant fight and not speaking to each other, I'd tell you that I like your new Rosemary's Baby look. It's hard to pull off that haircut, but you look cute.

MICHELLE: If I were talking to you, I'd ask you why you look homeless. I'm not the only person who needed a haircut.

HEATH: Damn, can't you just say, "Thank you for the compliment, I'm thrilled that I can work the Mia Farrow, too"?

MICHELLE:  Are those your shirt-tails hanging out under your jacket?

HEATH: I don't know. Maybe.

MICHELLE: God. Gross.

HEATH: I'm being CASUAL and INDEPENDENT at the Independent Spirit Awards. IT'S IN THE NAME.

MICHELLE: Really? I didn't know they changed it to the Independent Dirty Awards.

HEATH: That joke sucked.

MICHELLE: You suck. If I got to choose between going home to Brooklyn with you, and going home to a really fantastic apartment in the Dakota that just happens to be next door to a couple of elderly Satan worshippers with whom my husband will broker a deal in which I end up bearing the Antichrist in exchange for his professional success, I WOULD TAKE THE SATAN BABY.

HEATH: I'm going to sell YOU to Satan.

MICHELLE: You're certainly dressed like you just got back from Hell.

HEATH: Burn.

MICHELLE: Exactly.