May 2007 Archives

I am mildly obsessed with musician Alison Goldfrapp's name. Say it with me: Goldfrapp. It's so fun. It could work in so many contexts: as a replacement swear word ("Aw, goldfrapp, I dropped my feather boa into my drink"), a raunchy verb ("I went home with him and we goldfrapped for hours"), an obscure sport popular in Scandinavian countries ("Hallå, I am Fjord Bjorn, zee Svedish national goldfrapp champion") an expensive novelty iced coffee beverage ("I'll have a grande goldfrappuccino with whipped cream, please") the name of a dashing, authority-averse TV detective whose boss is always yelling at him ("Get ... me... GOLDFRAPP") or the name of the aforementioned detective's villainous nemesis, frequently screamed at the skies while our hero kneels over a dead body and shakes his fist ("GooooldfrAAAAAAAAAAAPPPP!"), or even as a noun for something sort of squicky ("Shoot, I got goldfrapp all over my Jimmy Choos").

Unfortunately, if she's not careful, it could end up in our lexicon as, "Oh my God, that woman is totally pulling a Goldfrapp," or "I almost goldfrapped myself when I saw that shirt."

Behold:

Because what's a party without a dude in a corset top?

* Since neither of us watch So You Think You Can Dance, largely because we don't care if they think they can dance, we didn't realize this guy may apparently be Brian Friedman, a judge on the show. Friedman is also reportedly one of Britney's old choreographers. So, maybe he's wearing one of her old clothes as a tribute to her former glory -- the campy equivalent of pouring some out for your homies.

** Seriously? A corset top?

***  Didn't he used to have more hair?

**** No, really. I know this guy choreographed "Slave 4 U," which is awesome, as well as "Toxic," which is, parenthetically, the best cell phone ring tone for an ex EVER, in case you needed one, but just...don't on the man-corsetry.

If you, like Laura Sanchez here, are a model who uses her big moment in front of the photo pit to stand hunched over with your hands over your crotch, then consider the possibility that your dress is way, way too short.

Or, in Chicken Soup For The Fugger's Soul terms: Remember, a photographer's lens is not a speculum.

We all have items in our closet that we love and therefore wear too often. One summer, I wore this black and white polka-dotted halter top almost every time I went out, and I went out A LOT that summer (I was in a boozy phase. Then I found myself unwillingly in a phase where none of my pants fit anymore, and I had to lay off the beer).  I've got a pair of black heels that have been re-soled three times, I love them so much.

And yet, I find it hard to believe that, with all the crazy awesome stuff she's surely got jammed in her closet and stuffed under her bed and shoveled into her storage space and tucked between the cushions of her sofa,  THIS is actually the dress that Pat Field can not resist:

So good you had to wear it twice, Pats? Or are you just screwing with us now? If it's the latter...well, look, then I have to give you props. Because this is really sort of above and beyond, and that kind of devotion to kookiness and/or mindfuckery deserves at the very least an enthusiastic high-five and a very sincere thank you for wearing something underneath it.

Apparently, it was Crazy Tribute Week at Cannes this year. First we had the woman who swaddled her sex organs in the festival logo, and now we get a girl who is trying to out-Bai Ling Bai Ling by wearing a dress made entirely of film.

And when I say "dress" I mean "bathing suit with strips of film glued to it." All I can think of when I look at this is, she is in big trouble if she walks past an aggressive air vent, or an oscillating fan, or a dude with a vacuum cleaner. Or a dog. Or an industrial-strength hair dryer, or a jet engine, or one of those Segways. Or, indeed, any other people. In fact, she might be better off not walking at all.

A couple of months ago, we broke our long-standing silence on premiere and party fixture Phoebe Price. Her special brand of fashion-related crimes were too fascinating to be ignored. And since it's been a while, it felt like it might be time to check in with our not-at-all-famous red-carpet-fixture, especially since it seems she went to Cannes (her trip paid for, surely, by the....um. She clearly went to promote.... She's obviously there for..... Well, she's there).

Imagine our surprise when we realized that she didn't look half-bad in Cannes (you know, comparatively). Maybe a quarter-bad (okay, three-eighths bad. Okay, she did look half bad, but we expected it to be Whole Bad). Remember, we're talking about this woman:

That's ONE way to do the Reese Witherspoon Yellow Dress/Red Shoes look. It's also one way to do the considerably less popular Embroidered Hot Air Balloon(?) Floating Crown (?) Look.

So let's toddle down to Cannes with Ms Price and see what she pulled out of her Louis Vuitton trunk for the week, shall we?

What with all the online ragging on Sarah Jessica Parker's new cheapie clothing line, she must have been in a real panic when Loveleigh of the Misshapes showed up to her Bitten party wearing this:

I'm sure the last thing SJP wanted was for people to think she was pimping giant oversized... well, they're not really overalls, and they're not suspenders, so I'm not sure what to call it exactly. It's almost cut like a gigantic vest over bermuda shorts. Or culottes. Formal culottes. What demented madman is threatening to unleash FORMAL CULOTTES on us? It's possible Carrie Bradshaw would have worn this if Patricia Field had the chance. She is, after all, the batty crone who brought us those enormous flower decals; I wouldn't put it past her to unleash this kind of foul thunder.

The whole thing just looks like a romper you'd see on a badly dressed giant baby -- meaning not merely a big wuss, but the actual fruit of Gigantor the Aptly Named's loins. So if you are Loveleigh of the Misshapes (incidentally, also aptly named) people are just going to roll their eyes and go back to speculating on whether SJP has ever had plastic surgery. Because, I mean, we all love Mary Stuart Masterson from Some Kind of Wonderful, and we're thrilled she looked good wearing Eric Stoltz's future. But that doesn't mean we need to resurrect the kind of masculine '80s-wear she would have donned to chauffeur him and Amanda Jones around town.

Chris Fountain and Hannah Tointon here play lovers on the Brit soap Hollyoaks. Apparently, they've recently had romantic troubles because she found out that he lied to get his ex sent to jail, where she died after getting shivved. Parenthetically, I find it fascinating that so many British soaps focus on sort of Regular-Type people, as opposed to American soaps, which feature generally solely incredibly rich people or, at the very least, poor people who are INCREDIBLY good-looking and secretly rich, they just don't know it yet. (This, of course, excludes shows like Footballers Wives, which features primarily rich crazy tacky people. This is not a complaint: the ad currently running on BBC America to promote the new Joan Collins-y season of FW prompted the following train of thought: "Is that giant sheet cake on FIRE? Is he not wearing any PANTS? Is she really going to shoot him?!" and, really, what more could you ask for from a soap than flaming pastry?) Anyway, I have no idea if they're dating in real life, but it's so entertaining to me that they're showing up places in coordinating outfits:

She's cute, in a sort of I'm In Costume As A Barbie Doll Who Came to Life sort of way. (You know, as if she were in a remake of the Tyra Banks/Lindsay Lohan tour de force Life-Size, in which Tyra plays a doll Lindsay accidentally brings to life. Speaking of which, where is Tyra in this entire Lindsay Lohan Careens Off  The Rails saga? She LOVES advising people on the best way to solve their serious life problems. I can't believe she hasn't released a statement telling Lindsay to stay strong. And to stop driving around when she's hammered. And to leave her cocaine at home. And to try not leaving the scene of an accident. And to, seriously, stay home once in a while with a book.)  He also looks like a doll, albeit one that's been poorly dressed by its owner. Everything is untucked and unbuttoned to the extreme.

I can only hope that they ARE dating, and following the illustrious Hollywood tradition of Couples Dressing Alike. As seen here, for example:

I'm sure the Cannes Film Festival is very excited to be celebrating what its Web site refers to as "the symbolic date" of its 60th anniversary.

The organizers might be slightly less excited that this woman has chosen to commemorate the occasion by putting their logo on a bed sheet and turning it into the kind of beachwear you'd expect to see at a fraternity's spring-break Wet Toga contest. Although for all I know, they're completely stoked that she wanted to wrap her privates in some free advertising.

Perhaps I should be finding this inspirational. Perhaps I should be stamping onto my linens some stills from the Dynasty credits, or the little TiVo creature, or a picture of a Big Mac value meal, or pictures of Jennifer Garner's Alias wigs, then wrap myself in them and run around town generously promoting Things I Love. I might even get a wig (!!) or a Big Mac out of it. That's WAY better than the movie passes she probably got. I mean, you can't eat -- or go incognito in -- those.

We here at GFY love us some Sarah Polley, and are sad we haven't seen much of her lately.

We're aggrieved to learn that, apparently, it's because she died in WWII-era Austria after stealing Maria Von Trapp's wedding nightie, and has been bound to this Earth as a ghost until such time as Jennifer Love Hewitt can figure out her unfinished business. That's rough. Especially because in exchange for helping her cross over, J.Lo.Hew will probably demand the nightie.

Elena Lenina here has appeared in a number of French-language films, according to our good friends at the IMDb. One of them is called Il Etait Une Fois Jean-Sebastien Bach (translated: Something Something Something, Johann Sebastian Bach) which I at first misread as being called Il Etait Une Fois Sebastien Bach, and thought to myself, "there's a movie about SEBASTIAN BACH, former lead singer of Skid Row? WHERE HAVE I BEEN?"

And actually, I feel like this dress would not be out of place in Skid Row biopic:

Or, for that matter, in a movie about a woman who could put her head on backwards.

So, recently I've been reading a lot about how Lily Allen was all depressed and bummed because she feels like she's not cute enough, or something?  (Link goes to Perez, which may not be entirely Safe For Work, depending on your office.)  To which I say: this is patently absurd. Lily Allen is quite cute:

This is so simple, but I kind of covet it.  She looks crisp and youthful and casual, a bit retro, and basically adorable.   It's so summery that I have to shut down the computer immediately and go spend three days making love to Mr. Corona. 

Have a great Memorial Day weekend everyone (but especially you sailors up there with Lily)!  We'll be back on Tuesday, rested and ready to bitch it up.

Oh, Kylie. Is this Sharon Stone's influence?

I don't mean to point fingers, but let's look at the evidence: Yesterday, Kylie looked adorable. Then Sharon Stone rubbed her armpits all over everyone's favorite plucky pixie with one of the world's most cherished bums, and suddenly, she's part-dominatrix, part-lampshade. Pull her string and she'll either whip you with a bike chain or you'll get some nice, soft reading light. Or both.

Now, I suppose La Stone is innocent until proven guilty, but know this, Sharon: If Kylie takes off her thigh-belt and uncrosses her legs in a wanton act of pantylessness, my index finger of judgment will have no choice but to gesture angrily in your direction. And if that causes me to sprain anything, well, honey, it will be ON.

Okay. So....maybe I have set the TiVo to record The Starter Wife, that mini-series Debra Messing is starring in. I know this is not particularly cool of me, maybe, but look: there's nothing else on, it might have cute outfits, and...I mean, you know I TiVo Ghost Whisperer. I clearly have no televisual shame.

But if she shows up at in point wearing this, I am hitting the delete button:

While I rather like the smocking at the waist and the cheery Lucille Ball Day Dress-ness of it all (although...I feel like that point has already been made re: Debra),  this isn't supposed to look as though there are lead weights sewn into the hem, correct?

Just checking.

It would appear that Hofit Golan -- the "random blonde model" of yesterday -- has not since had any epiphanies pertaining to the art of asset management.

Presentation is half the battle, and unfortunately, plopping two cantaloupes on a tray with a red ribbon and calling it your fashion inspiration isn't going to score you any points for technical or artistic merit.

It's as our world's earliest sages have always said: "If the bodice fits, you must acquit." By that logic, Hofit's looking at 20 years to life, with possible reductions in her sentence if she gives up the name of the glue she used to keep that thing up over her nipples.

I know next to nothing about Tilda Swinton, beyond portions of her acting resume. But the suits she's busted out recently at Cannes make me wish her life was more of an open book (one probably called, as you'll see, something like Suits Me! or Just Jackets!, exclamation points required).

Because I want to know more. I want to see what she sees when she looks into her closet. I want to understand.

I would suggest that she borrowed this from Prince's closet, but she is almost 5'11" and even though the pants are hemmed a touch high, they'd be shorts if this had belonged to He Who Was Once Not Named. It might have once been worn by a member of Duran Duran. Either way, it would appear Tilda wanted very much to give off the impression of 80s glam-rock androgyny (which, given that her resume involves a lot of gender-bending roles in the early going, makes some amount of sense). That might warm my heart -- everyone loves Duran Duran! -- were it not for the hideous brown plastic shoes that look like rejects from the Jessica Simpson Collection of a year ago.

However, that outfit is a wave of sleek splendor compared to the next one.

RANDOM MODEL: Caprice, it was soooo smart of you to turn your bathing suit into a dress!

CAPRICE: I KNOW. This way I can roll off the beach and straight to the parties.

RM: Although, I mean... I don't want to say anything NEGATIVE, but you might have missed a spot with the sunscreen. Your arm is the color of steak.

CAPRICE: Aw, honey, thanks for the concern.

RM: Also, I SWEAR I didn't notice until now, but it seems you might have forgotten you bleached your hair -- those Ken Paves extensions you put in are dark brown. Oopsie! But hey, at least they're REALLY cheap, right?

CAPRICE: Hey, at least my ROOTS are done. AHEM.

RM: Also, I hate to tell you this, but your boobs could not look more like implants in that dress if they had a stamp on them that reads, "DO NOT PIERCE."

CAPRICE: At least my boobs don't look like eggs somebody laid inside a bodice. Whatever will you do when those things hatch during the movie?

RM: I'll use your skirt to wrap up the chicks. Which reminds me, I've been meaning to ask: How many Glad bags did you have to shred to get all that fringe?

CAPRICE: About as many as the blotting papers you'll have to use on your Crisco face. Maybe you might want to use that dress to exfoliate a little before we go inside?

RM: Your peeling sunburn arm goes first, whore.

CAPRICE: Watch that language, honey! You wouldn't want your tongue to shrivel up like your... oh, wait, pose for the cameras.

RM: Smile pretty! You always look like you're trying to determine what smells so funny.

CAPRICE: Well, I can name that stench in two: Your...

RM: Language, honey!

"So, yo yo yo, dawg, let me tell you something.... here's the thing, dawg, here's the thing:

"Yo, look, man, here it is: I like that you came out here and did your thing. This is all about taking risks. But for me, dawg, I don't know, the fit is only all right for me -- that thread hanging out of your middle button hole is a little pitchy, and embroidery-wise, it's not that strong either, man. I don't know, it looks like you went to Wild Pete's Olde Cowboy Wearhouse and Moonshine Saloon, where a Joanie Stubbs-type ripped patches out of her favorite dress and sewed them to your sleeves for good luck. I'm not sure it's enough tonight, dawg, it's a big night and you needed to bring your best and I don't think that did it right there. But you did your thing. Paula?"

"Listen, you both are heroes -- BOTH sleeves. I can't pick just one. This night is about shining and gravy, and both of those things are on the plate and all I can do is clap, because I do believe in ferry boats."

"I THINK what Paula is TRYING to say is, that jacket is an ABsolute MESS."

Oh, nutty Sharon Stone. I secretly love you. Let's be honest: how can I not embrace a woman who bounced back from an aneurysm  the same year that her then husband was bitten by a dragon? Who is always sort of charming and delightful on chat shows? Who works tireless for amfAR, even roping Intern George into auctioning off a kiss for the charity? (That's right: we're microwaving our own Lean Pockets and opening our own boxes of wine this week.) Who seems like she's the kind of woman who would chat your ear off in the line for the ladies room, and even if what she says is TOTALLY CRAZY, at least she would be entertaining, so when you got back to your table, you could be all, "you will not BELIEVE the conversation I just had" to your friends? And while S. Sto sometimes shows up places looking completely kooks, when she sets the phasers to "FABULOUSNESS" she can really pull it off:

So glamourous! And shiny! If I owned this, I would wear it everywhere: the gynecologist, the dermatologist, the podiatrist, the market.

Truly, Sharon has it all. Including, it seems, a very tiny Kylie Minogue of her very own:

I generally can't sit through the terrible American Idol results shows without the promise of being able to fast-forward through the parts that horrify me (read: 97 percent of it). This is how I ended up stalling for time by watching half of She's All That last night, and debating with my friend which of the supporting cast members has since become the most famous. Disqualifying Lil' Kim for just being there on a lark, we got to: Anna Paquin, Dule Hill, and Gabrielle Union in that order, after much debate about the last two. In case you were wondering. Matthew Lillard was also disqualified, on account of Scooby Doo, because DEAR GOD.

Anyway, once we got going on Idol, my itchy trigger finger had to put down the remote so that it could pick up my camera. Because as usual, Gwen Stefani was delivering a hearty dose of shrink-wrapped crazy:

I had thought Gwen passed Harajuku Fever like a particularly gargantuan kidney stone, but if Kimono, Interrupted up there is any indication, she's still got some residual symptoms.

At first, I couldn't fathom why she would turn her obi into a garish rosette after using it to tie her skirt into what resembles a very roomy, overly formal adult diaper. But then I caught a glimpse of who showed up at the finale on the red carpet,... and I realized Gwen must have just fallen and hit her head on the toilet earlier today, and instead of introducing her to the flux capacitor like it should have, it merely caused her to take style tips from the Miss America organization's official court jester.

I am not really familiar with Dita Von Teese. I mean, I know she was married to Marilyn Manson and now Evan Rachel Wood is Single White Female-ing her, and she does the burlesque, and she's refreshingly pale and retro and I suspect I would REALLY covet her shoe wardrobe. But I don't really have any preconceived notions of her, the way I do of other celebrities. Like, in my mind, Lindsay Lohan is a total mess, but she'd also ALWAYS have the best gossip about people and would totally be willing to help you egg the house of that douchey guy who broke up with you and if you ever wanted to stalk someone, she would be an enthusiastic sidekick who would not only drive your getaway car, but also bring Twizzlers and maybe at one point you would realized that she was WAY TOO INTO the whole idea of stalking.  And, like, Kirsten Dunst's house is probably kind of a mess and she hardly ever has her hair brushed and she also probably hasn't showered, but she totally doesn't care if you come over unannounced and sit on a pile of laundry and gossip while she gets ready to go out and then she'll drag you with her on her date, which will annoy the boy but also be secretly kind of funny. And Britney just calls and cries and you can have those kind of phone conversations where she talks and talks and you just make supportive murmuring noises and do the crossword. But I have no such theories about Ms. Von Teese. All I know is that I think she could have done better than this:

I just want to walk up to her and yank off the illusion net-y overshirty thingie (that's its official name, yes. Why do you ask?). I feel like she was aiming for this kind of effect, and yet instead managed to be reminiscent of Gunsmoke in a very unsexy way.

Today SHOULD be a national holiday.

Oh, sure, she's not technically from our nation. But on this day, 74 years ago, was born a lady who grew up to teach Americans about everything that's important in this life: how to be a fabulously dressed, big-haired beeyotch with a penchant for catfighting in lily ponds, hurling martini glasses, lying to your amnesiac ex-husband that you are still married and blissfully happy, wearing jaunty tam-o-shanters and turbans, eating caviar and drinking champagne as early as possible every day, and hissing the names of her enemies at closed doors while wearing sleeves so high and pointed that she could have used them to clean out her ears. This woman is our everything.

Happy birthday, Joan Collins, you delicious, mischievous timeless minx.

You've been quoted as saying, "After a certain age, you get the face you deserve." Well, clearly you're being rewarded for something. Probably, it's all those years you spent giving us Alexis Morrell Carrington Colby Dexter Rowan and her satin-clad hijinks. Feel free to dump a drink on our heads any time.

You can do it twice if you return to the airwaves soon. Please?

** Edited to add: To anyone who's thinking of telling us about Footballers Wives: We're definitely aware she's on the season that's about to air on BBC America -- what I was referring to is getting her on a major show here, that she could potentially be on for a long time a la "Dynasty," because that's the amount of Joan we need in our lives. But overall, e-mailers: Never fear! We have not lost track of La Collins.

Look, Helen. We have to talk.

You look fantastic. AGAIN. Do you have to look awesome in everything? You are making it very hard for the rest of the world to compete. Fair-skinned, fair-haired people (like, say, me) often can't wear yellow without looking like they're dying, and here you are smiling beautifully in your gleaming paleness and being fabulous. Like you ALWAYS are.

Don't you get bored with wiping the floor with everyone else? Don't you ever have the urge to throw on Uggs and some leggings with a caftan made of paisley terrycloth and watch Cannes fixture Sharon Stone weep with joy that she isn't being outdressed, outshone, outbabed?

Okay, so maybe I don't want you to resort to that. But if you keep this up, Hollywood's starlets might just lock themselves in their mansions and refuse to come out until the end of time, because there's no point; everyone's always drooling over you. And then, where will we find our fug? Can't you think of us? Just ONCE, can't you stop putting YOURSELF first and prioritize OUR needs?

Sigh. At least you might be saving other young actresses' faces from Rose McGowan Syndrome. The girl's not even 34 yet and she no longer looks like herself; as long as you're out there setting the bar super high all around town, you provide a perfect walking argument for how hot a woman can be without messing up her face.

** Oh dear: We just found out, thanks to a kind e-mailer, that Rose McGowan's face is different because she was in a bad car accident a while ago. Which is very sad. So I'm canceling Rose McGowan Syndrome, as we would rather have her alive and simply looking different than the alternative. See? I'm a lover AND a fugger. Maybe Helen Mirren can be out and about combating Jennifer Grey Syndrome instead. Or Marie Osmond Disease.

*** Oh dear II: We just found out that Rose McGowan's story about the car accident is rumored to be a cover for botched plastic surgery. We don't know what to believe any more. Should we be sympathetic that her face looks a mess, because it was a Tragic Accident and she is the real hero? Or should we wonder why we had never really heard about the aforementioned accident much before now, and therefore be laughing inside because it's her own damn fault that she went under the knife with a surgeon who apparently only wants women to look like Teri Hatcher? What? WHAT? CAN WE LAUGH OR NOT?!? Save me, Jeebus!

Janet Street-Porter is a rather well-known British journalist and TV personality who, like just about everyone else who's achieved a modicum of recognition over there, has also participated in many reality shows -- most awesomely, one by the name of Call Me A Cabbie. At first I was hoping this was a high-stakes contest in which you have to call people some taxis -- possibly while some toothless, grizzled dispatcher cracks a whip against your leg and screams, "WHAT'S THE HOLDUP? IS YOUR DIALING FINGER HURTING? [crack] DON'T YOU DARE USE SPEED DIAL, YOU LAZY GIT!" -- but in fact, the program was just about her and two other people undergoing tests and timed challenges in order to see if they could ever become a cab driver in London.

Perhaps she should have stuck with that profession; the makeshift uniform might have prevented this.

She looks like an impatient extra on the set of ZAP!, a steamy straight-to-video flick about aliens who come to Earth to plunder our natural resources and our supply of Pringles, only to discover that beach parties are way more fun on our planet. We're pretty sure Bai Ling and the Peldons would be in it.

BAI LING: I know, darlings. Despite the fact that my right nipple might be peeking out to say hello, I look surprisingly demure. Why? Why would my many personalities confab and decide to go lo-pro? Because look around you, darlings, it's Cannes. Everyone's tit is hanging out. I'm like Princess Diana floating in a sea of Jordans around here. Look at this young lady:

SNORE. I wore that to my 8th grade graduation.

YAWN. White catsuits with illusion nettings are so Plant Zarcon 2031. I already wore this in the future, you fools.

And speaking of fools:

English TV presenter Melinda Messenger probably thought her dress was a marvelous ode to a Grecian goddess.

I prefer to call it, "Static Cling: The Silent Killer." But on the up side, those dryer-sheet endorsement deals should come rolling in pretty quickly.

Remember Ryan Cabrera? He dated Ashlee Simpson for a while? Mostly while her TV show (what the heck what that show called? The Ashlee Simpson Show? Ashlee!? The Ashlee Simpson Hour of Power? You'd think I'd remember, as I used to watch it religiously thanks to the fact that I had bad taste) was on the air. You know, this guy:

He sang that song "On the Way Down," which until about three minutes ago I thought was called "All the Way Down," and which is apparently...not about what I thought it was about.  Anyway, it was kind of a catchy tune, although the kid is no Tyler Hilton, let me tell you, and despite having a penchant for making wacky faces for the camera and SERIOUSLY WORKED OVER HAIR, he didn't seem like a bad kid:

Wow. I mean...wow. That hair look some WORK. There is a LOT of product in there, and I'd be interested to know how many CHI ceramic flat irons lost their lives in the heroic struggle to get it to stand up like that. Anyhoozy, you'll be interested to know that Mr Cabrera has -- perhaps due to an incident in which his mother and manager staged an intervention along with Ryan's close personal friends from Robinson Beautilities --  abandoned this labor-intensive look for something more....natural:

Undeniably, regardless of how he has since violated certain pieces of mid-priced furniture, Tom Cruise has had a great career. A young actor like Sean Faris could certainly do worse than emulating it. I mean, poor old Sean was most recently on your TV screens as a paralysis-faking dipwad in the awesomely terrible Reunion, in which each episode flashed back to another year in the lives of a group of friends and consisted entirely of wretched wigs and winking exchanges like the following:

GIRL: Ew, why are you in that grungy flannel?

GUY: EVERYONE in Seattle dresses like this!

GIRL: Ha! That will NEVER catch on.

So we can completely understand why Sean would try to take a page from Cruise's book. We just wouldn't have advised ripping it out of the chapter entitled, "Me & My Flowbee: A Love Story."

LINDSAY: So wait... where am I again?

KARL LAGERFELD: Imagine an astral Woodstock, pet. A DIFFERENT PLANE.

LINDSAY: Uh, dude, I'm getting on ANOTHER plane? I just got off this one.

KARL: No, I mean an EXISTENTIAL plane. Where are you? No: Where AREN'T you? I need to feel your elbows NOW.

LINDSAY: What the hell am I wearing?

KARL: What AREN'T you wearing, you PISTOL of GLORY! A dolphin, that's what!

LINDSAY: Why did I trust you to staple a sequined trash bag around my waist? God, I look so bloated in it.

KARL: Bloat is for sad people. DANCE!

LINDSAY: I can't. There's a bike chain on my head and it's giving me an f'ing headache, dude.

KARL: Then tighten it and climb inside. You're FASHION, darling! BE the bike.

LINDSAY: What I would like to BE is lying down on the astrology plane or whatever you said before, and NOT auditioning for the new Hell's Angels ballet. I think this is turning my forehead green. And the gloves itch.

KARL: It's like I told Michael Jackson: "If you can't love your glove, then GET OUT OF MY SIGHT, and also, only floss with real unicorn hair."

LINDSAY: Mom! MOOOOOM! Oh, wait. She's NEVER awake before midnight. God, I feel so alone.

KARL: Like an owl, she flies only at night...

LINDSAY: Hey, I actually understood that!

KARL: Well, accidents are the blueprints of fashion, luscious. Now SMILE before I staple a beak to your face.

You know how sometimes, there's like a really awkward pause in conversation? Like when you comment that you really hate clowns and your boyfriend shirtily informs you that HIS PARENTS ARE CLOWNS! And then no one knows what to do and everyone just stares off into middle distance and feels offended and/or embarrassed and just generally at a loss? And you're just desperate for something else to talk about? Anything? Why don't you bring up the fact that Katherine McPhee and Hilary Duff seem to be turning into each other, and ask your clown-raised lover which of them ought to be more concerned about it?

Chanel, of course, is a classic, and there's something fabulous about the composition of this shot: 

I just wish Posh hadn't gone for something SO madly 80s. Cropped aqua jacket...and cropped leggings? Plus her Duran Duran hair? I get it, but it feels so costume-y to me. It's like, I look at her and just smell Poison (the perfume, not the band. You really don't want to smell like Poison The Band, if you can help it. I presume they smell like Aqua Net, cigarettes, hard liquor and bologna). If I were her, I would have swapped out the leggings for a pencil skirt or  proper trousers, or something. And then I would have scampered into the other room to fondle Becks's muscles and giggle. And then I would have called Geri Halliwell to scream "SPICE UP YOUR LIFE!" into the phone.  And then I would have done a series of pirouettes (Victoria is a classically trained dancer, doncha know?) and admired all my expensive handbags. But I would NOT have worn those leggings with that jacket. No, not at all.

Poor, poor, poor Jessica Simpson. Seriously.  She went from being America's ditzy sweetheart to having her picture on the cover of Star with the headline, "JESSICA SIMPSON: IT'S NOT A FAT SUIT" splashed across it.  That's rough, dude.  And then she and John Mayer broke up (again) (maybe he LIKES fat suits?) and then allegedly she and Ashlee had a fight about how Ashlee is hot or something now? (I don't remember what they're fighting about, but supposedly they're feuding.)  And while her ex is rolling around the Bahamas with his girlfriend, she's at Cannes having fully completed her transformation into Depressive Dead Eyed Wax Figure:

This is usually the place where I say something like, "she's a beautiful girl, but why does she look so monochromatic?" But actually, I suspect that I know why she's so monochromatic: she's in the middle of going from brown hair back to blonde, which is why she currently looks beige all over. (Though that doesn't excuse how lank her extensions look. Has she also broken up with Ken Paves? The loss of a girl's gay OR her hairdresser can be more traumatic than losing her boyfriend, so in the interest of preventing J Simp from having a Britney-style melt-down, I sincerely hope she has not lost the both in one) So instead I will ask why she's dressing like a 50 year old extra from that episode of Dynasty where they go to the Carousel Ball and hang out with Gerald Ford. Her jewels are beautiful, of course, but overall, she looks like the human version of a Judith Leiber bag.

Listen, girl, there's no lost love between us, but you're REALLY YOUNG still. And single. And in France. And I know you're probably sad that you're in France with your weird Dad and not some cute boy, but you've got to man up and work it right now. Star magazine insinuated that you were so fat that you might be COVERED IN LATEX (which is patently absurd, albeit hilarious).  So DO NOT leave the house dressed like a handbag. Just don't.

At first glance of this, I assumed Raquel Alessi's bra was showing -- and although I appreciated her respect for the mighty brassiere, the dress is essentially built like a towel tied around her boobs, so she probably wouldn't have needed the support. But, I couldn't decide; perhaps it was part of the dress.

Then I realized that the dress itself is one we've seen before. Specifically, I believe it's this dress, but in purple and with one other key difference: Eva Mendes does not have swirly black netting crawling out of her cleavage. I'm forced to conclude one of the following:

a) Raquel Alessi needs a new strapless bra, preferably one that does not make it appear that the villainous goo from Spider-Man 3 is spreading from her nipples;

b) Raquel Alessi's stylist got drunk after a bad date, cut up the last little-black-dress she wore, bitterly super-glued a piece to the bodice to make a statement that MEN are PIGS, and then woke up the next morning with a raging hangover and the job of lying to her client that everything was just fine and it all looked really great;

c) Raquel Alessi's dress comes in two versions, one for events where you want the dress to enhance you (movie premieres, church) and one for parties at which you want people to stare at you and think only about your underwear;

d) Raquel Alessi is pimping her new book, Raquel and the Terrible, Horrible, No-Good, Very Bad Idea;

e) Raquel Alessi added the Confusion Netting herself just to get people talking about her. Her Fox series Standoff was quietly dumped by the Fox Network sometime last season, and her next project Summerhood entails her playing a person named Cinnamon, some other dude playing "Fetus," Christopher McDonald headlining as a character called -- I kid you not -- Ass Director, and a tagline that reads, "Camp. No Parents. No School... No Parole." Obviously, this is a cry for help, because she wants someone to employ her and rescue her from  movies that appear to have been written by an ambitious bunion Pauly Shore cut off his foot sometime in the mid-90s.

So... we're talking. If "e" is the answer, then it worked.

We've posted before about how much we love the ongoing spat between British tanorexic tart-witches Jordan (nee Katie Price) and Jodie Marsh. It's a priceless feud between two balloon-breasted tabloid doofuses that we pray will never have a winner, thereby lasting until the end of time.

Since our last post, Katie Price (who likes to refer to her alter-ego Jordan as if she is a fictional character of her own making) might have gotten the upper hand over Jodie. After meeting breathy crooner Peter Andre in the jungle on I'm A Celebrity, Get Me Out Of Here!, Katie-Jordan has managed to get a documentary crew to film their lives; sold a batch of footage to E! that they just cobbled together as a six-episode train-wreck series about their engagement and which includes the precious detail that Katie-Jordan hand-cuts all her skirts to a length of nine inches, TOTAL; designed a pink wedding based on Barbie dolls and paraphernalia she and Andre found at the store; got hitched in a wedding dress that resembles a giant spool of cotton candy and arrived in a glass-enclosed carriage pulled by pink-feather-adorned horses; and made the band that played at her wedding commit unspeakable fashion atrocities.

Not to be outdone, Jodie got engaged after an 11-day courtship and then got dumped when her fiance complained that she was a boozer who didn't bathe enough, and bounced back by convincing MTV to film a reality show entitled Marry Me Jodie Marsh in which she seeks a husband from a pool of men. Seriously, these are two brilliant, confident role-models -- why aren't they Pussycat Dolls yet?

And based on the promotional pictures Jodie's been taking, these men are in for a seriously classy and low-key ceremony trimmed with all the romance and gentle glamour one can expect of a woman who wrote in her autobiography that she once participated in a five-hour, six-person mixed-gender orgy in a barn.

I've covered before the awesome forces of testosterone present on Friday Night Lights (which got renewed after its flawless first season, temporarily restoring my faith in the universe). But the women on that show are totally my bitches also, the adorable and talented Aimee Teegarden among them.

Unfortunately, at the Maxim Hot 100 party, Aimee chose to emulate another actress who was once adorable and talented, and who is now a cracked-out punch line: Lindsay Lohan.

Seriously, Lindsay would have worn this about a year ago while staggering out of Hyde, or out of someone's motel room, or on her way into her trailer four hours late for work. And then Dina would've shown up in it somewhere else around town trying to pretend she borrowed it from her "sister." These are not good mental associations for us to make, Aimee. Rescue yourself from the Lohan Leggings Curse. Make your TV mom, Connie Britton, take you shopping -- I bet she can help you nip this in the bud. Also, please ask her what moisturizer she uses, and report back. Thanks.

Here, I could digress for a long time about Maxim, and the wisdom of putting our sad, scandalous Lohan at No. 1 as opposed to, say, almost anyone else on the list. Not that she's not pretty, and you know we're all pulling for her over at GFY HQ even if Intern George is still a little disturbed that both she and her mother have allegedly tried to sleep with him. But the hottest woman in the world?  Really? Over Jessica freaking Alba? Or Halle Berry?

And also, can we discuss how scarring it must have been for Mary-Kate Olsen to see her not-technically-identical-but-who-are-we-kidding-they-look-almost-exactly-alike twin sister ranking at No. 37, while she herself was left off entirely? There was no room at ALL in the other 63 spots on the list -- one of which went to something called "The Avatars of Second Life," words that mean nothing to me and I don't want them to mean anything to me, but presumably, it refers to FAKE PEOPLE -- to throw the poor, troubled twin a bone? Preferably one with a lot of protein-heavy meat on it? I'm too distraught on poor M-K's behalf even to let fly a snicker that Jessica Simpson placed 25 spots below Ashlee. That's how much The Plight Of The Homeless-Looking Twin is affecting me. For shame, Maxim.

If you'd asked me to show up at a photocall for my new movie, I would have assumed that a) hell had frozen over, b) you were totally drunk off your tree, and c) I should wear clothes.

But I don't have Bai Ling's vision and moxie.

Only Bai Ling could get away with being this naked and insane for a professional event. Oh, sure, she's wearing a "shirt" --  a repurposed cape stolen from Personality #7's last boyfriend, a dark marauder who wore it while slithering through the streets pillaging blood from the necks of any innocents in his path. And we're fairly sure that in her world, those drawstring leg warmers are "pants," even though they only cover 30 percent of each leg and their primary function in life appears to have been acting as a Christmas gift bag for wine bottles. But, see, that's her vision, and it takes moxie, or a hell of a lot of hallucinogenic drugs. Still, it can't be denied. When she shows up and says, "Today I am a spy impersonating Santa's Krav Maga teacher, and I want to hump a picture of myself," the world has no choice but to listen and let The Crazy romp free.

What is going on with these two?

Page Six reported that old Anne here got totally tanked at this particular party and... well, not to cast aspersions, but if that story is based merely on this photo, I kind of see where they're getting it. Being trashed would also explain what's happening with James Tupper's outfit. Dude, are you planning to go undercover at a paper bag factory, and this is your camouflage?  Are the two of you using your summer hiatus from Men in Trees to form a two-person band called The Monochrome Twins, singing  "Black or White," "Red, Red Wine," and  "Blue Suede Shoes"?  Or are you just being a good boyfriend and dressing like a sheet of that wide-lined, recycled-looking newsprint we all learned cursive on in elementary school (the green shoes, of course, representing the lines) so as to distract everyone from all the messy drama that's going on in Anne's life (again)?  (Seriously, next time you find yourself having a wine-fueled Woe Is Me moment about your own life, think of Anne's string of hook-ups, break-ups, and cracks-ups and you will feel much refreshed.) Because while that is admirable and sweet, I wouldn't go TOO out of my way for her. Sure, sure, right now you're The Love She's Been Waiting For Her Whole Life and Her Everything and The Man The Aliens Told Her About and all that, but, honey, look at her track record. She's a surprisingly effective actress, but as a girlfriend, I suspect she kinda sucks.

Oh, CLAIRE. (Sorry, Lauren Ambrose. You're either Claire Fisher, or your character in Can't Hardly Wait who had sex with Seth Green when you got locked together in a bathroom at a party. Parenthetically, if you watch that movie now, you'll realize that EVERYONE IN THE WORLD is in it.)

You're so pretty and yet you look so bedraggled here. Everything on you is droopy: your hair, the neckline of your dress, that sweater (which I was actually wearing in black, this morning...over my nightie, as I made coffee and sent up a prayer of thanks to the sweet gods of caffeine). I just want to run over to you and yank everything up and/or back. And give you a cup.

Back in the day, when I was but a child, I was totally obsessed with Punky Brewster. That primary-color-loving little orphan's moxie was captivating. And while, even at a young age, I found  Punky's occasional tragical whining about how her mother abandoned her at the supermarket tiresome, who could possibly resist the charms of Cherie, Margeaux, and Brandon the dog? Plus, I think we all learned something from the episode where Cherie gets stuck in Henry's old abandoned refrigerator and almost dies, and that something was: don't play in abandoned refrigerators. I spent much of my formative years worried that I would be trapped in a refrigerator that I was hiding in to escape the killer bees that that television also kept telling me were on their way to Los Angeles. And how would I be able to read Harriet the Spy for the 9th time if I were trapped in a large kitchen applicance?

It seems, however, that Soleil Moon Frye (a name I COVETED as a lass. Come on? SUN MOON FRYE? Awesome!) was a girl who didn't fret about being unable to read while locked inside a Fridigaire, but instead spent her formative years afraid of the tailor:

Girl, you are all torso and feet, like a little wind-up child's toy. What happened to the rest of your legs? Did I miss a Very Special Episode where Punky's legs are tragically amputated? Because I feel like I would have remembered that one. Get this thing shortened and show us a little leg, my dear.

There's definitely something to be said for taking a risk, and in that vein, Devon Aoki's edgy dress is a pretty interesting gamble.

And yet, part of me -- okay, almost all of me -- is thoroughly disturbed by how the bodice of this dress evokes silver-dipped lederhosen. It also doesn't look like it belongs with the rest, as if her stylist a) misplaced a more fitting, coordinated skirt and improvised with a threadbare slip, or b) flat-out borrowed the whole thing from Bai Ling.

I'm also sort of distracted by how much the skirt reminds me of the ruffly number Miss Piggy wore in the Busby Berkeley/Esther Williams tribute scene in The Great Muppet Caper, in which Kermit and Charles Grodin serenaded her with, respectively, sweet green charm and impressively burning passion. I almost feel deprived of my Grodin fix now, as if I can't handle seeing this many ruffles if he's not there also, lip-synching his baritone longing for Miss Piggy's caress.

In case you were wondering, yes, Avril Lavigne does still appear to be sleepwalking her way through being Avril Lavigne.

Except here, it seems like she might actually be doing it in repurposed pajama pants.

I had this whole bit prepared about how Gabriela Spanic here has appeared in some awesome sounding telenovelas, one of which involves twins switching lives and faking paralysis, another of which involves a woman falsely imprisoned for murder, who escapes jail and goes on the lam, where she falls in love with the brother of the dude she allegedly didn't kill (also known as The Paris Hilton Story, 2012). But I'm just getting so sleeeeeeepy:

So very very sleeeeeepy.

Country singer Sarah Buxton is very cute:

For the most popular girl in school, circa 1986.

I wonder if she's going to regret leaving her Swatches at home, though.

I know, empirically, that I need to accept that this really is Faith Hill and Tim McGraw. But the more I stare at this photograph, the more it feels like these are just poseable wax replicas yanked from the Madame Tussaud's exhibit down by The Venetian and propped up on the red carpet. Because... well, first, I wouldn't be at all surprised if we learned in about ten years that Tim McGraw is actually a recluse who only leaves the house to perform live, leaving the rest of his public duties to a host of stuffed, animatronic, or plastic facsimiles. He always looks the same and holds himself the same way, like someone shoved a memory chip into the back of a Cowboy Ken doll, all beefcake on the outside but with none of the hidden sausage.

Faith Hill, though, just looks... off. She looks stiff and misshapen, kind of like the aforementioned bastard children of the waxworks museum that are near enough likenesses to look familiar, but far enough off to be completely creepy and inspires me to run away. That dress makes her boobs look malformed. And I'm pretty sure that Faith Hill is supposed to be hot, and not like the product of a novice pulling an all-nighter on the wax wheel (okay, so probably the Tussaud's people don't make things on wheels, but it's more fun to imagine that a Demi Moore type was staying up late to try and finish Faith Hill's torso and got distracted by the ghostly caress of her tragically deceased man-bitch, which I guess means one possible theory for Faith's misplaced lady lumps is that they got kicked around by some wicked coitus).

So in sum, I have no idea what I'm talking about, except that something is awry here with country music's favorite couple. But we'll know soon enough if my wax-replica theory is correct -- wearing what appears to be the family turtle around her neck will either result in Faith's head being slowly sawed off, or a rapid application of healing salve when the chafing on Flesh Faith's neck makes her crazy.

Bai Ling is back!

I would be tempted to say that she is better than ever, but it looks like she had a pretty bad car door/hem incident on the way over.

Usually, as Jessica mentioned already, we are all over Google when it comes to the Country Music Awards and the spangly, nameless figures who scamper along the red carpet in a blur of eye-shadow. But I had no need to look up Laura Bryna. I know exactly who she is.

Meet the founding officer and current treasurer of the Texas Hairdressers' Association Big-Time Family Fun Marching Band. She also leads the baton-twirling corps -- that is, when she's not needed to fill in on the piccolo.

Before I did my Magic Google Action on Tiffany Fallon here, I assumed that she was a lower tier country singer I hadn't heard of. In fact, it turns out she was Playboy's Playmate of the Year in 2005, and did some sort of Miss USA-type thing. So...I'm not entirely sure why she's at the Country Music Awards.* But she is, and equally perplexingly, she's dressed like Vanna White circa 1987. But nakeder:

I would say that women best known for being naked are maybe at more of a loss when presented with an event that requires clothing, but I suspect that Tiffany here maybe just really loves both Wheel of Fortune and Roman history, and therefore has gotten herself a dress that combines the two in one spectacular blinged-out, toga-fied mish-mash. This is a dress suitable both for a Roman orgy AND for patiently waiting for someone to buy a vowel already. It would appeal both to Pat Sajack AND the Roman Emperor. It allows the range of movement required to gesture gracefully at a sailboat (I miss the Wheel of Forture prize packages. Remember when the winners got to pick out, like, table lamps from a revolving turntable o' prizes? That was awesome) and to vigorously give a sub-par gladiator the big thumbs-down. In fact, I would venture to say that the versatility of this ensemble is probably being wasted at an awards show. I mean, I don't really watch the Academy of Country Music Whatevers (sorry, Host Reba McEntire. It's not your fault. I love you. I'll never forget the time I got drunk with some people and we ended up at the Kinko's on Wilshire because one of my drunk friends needed to photocopy something and Kinko's was closed, and as my friends stood and stared into the darkened Kinko's trying to figure out why the hell it was closed, since Kinko's are supposed to be open late, that being the whole point of Kinko's, I just sat down on the bus stop bench in front of the building and stared out into the street. And then a Porsche pulled up to the stoplight right in front of me and Reba McEntire was in the passenger seat and, because I was drunk, I stared at her and yelled at my friends, "It's Reba McEntire!" very subtly and she totally read my lips and then she smiled at me really big and gave me a huge wave. It was awesome.) but I imagine there are no gladiators or word games involved.

*Apparently, she's married to one of the dudes in Rascal Flats. Our readers know all kinds of things!

Riddle me this, fugsters. Would you wear this outfit under ANY circumstances other than "I'm desperately trying to prove to the world that I didn't reveal my true face as the Dark Lord's televisual handmaiden yesterday"?

We get it, Grey. You're fighting for the powers of truth, justice and goodness, NOT frantically battling your destiny as Satan's medic. In fact, you're angelic! (The big shirt hides the wings.) I'm just saying, Grey's would be a lot more interesting if you went evil. Like, Evil evil.  Think about it. The bad guy parts are always the best, after all, and the special effects where you shoot fiery beams out of your eyes to fry, oh, say, George, would be AWESOME.

And while your All White Super Virginal Totally Sweet outfit may scream, "I'M TOTALLY ONE OF THE GOOD GUYS" (while giving you a little heft -- duh, in the good way) it's obvious from the neck up that you HAVE made a deal with the devil. Because your hair and make-up having been looking GREAT lately, and, frankly, there's no other explanation.

The 2002 Big Brother UK winner Kate Lawler has had a lot happen to her since she emerged victorious: She was a Capital Radio DJ for more than a year, she briefly co-hosted a morning show on TV, she participated in Love Island 2, and she competed in a show called Celebrity Wrestling as "The Brawler" on a team called "The Warriors" -- sadly, not an homage to the fine film of the same name, as far as I can tell.

Which is a real shame, because given her current walk on what appears to be the wild testosterone side, I'd enjoy seeing the Baseball Furies take on Kate's posse of similarly androgynous, tanorexic 80s glam-rock party people. They could stick their fingers in vintage bottles of Tab and clink them together while hissing, "Come out to PLAAAAAA-aaaaaaay!" And then promptly pitch a barrage of sharp disco balls at the Furies' poised bats.

There's nothing like a heavily costumed gang squabble to enliven the summer, Kate, so get on that ,since you're already dressing the part.

Lately, it feels like anything I pick up in Forever 21 is of that weird length where I can't tell if it's intended as a longish shirt, or a really short and potentially genitally thrilling dress. And then yesterday I walked past a Bebe store and realized the people who work there are having similar problems, and just chucked stuff on the mannequins both ways to cover their bases.

Melora Hardin may have been gripped by a similar dilemma.

This satiny scarf thing is billowing along that blurry line between dress and shirt, and I feel for Melora, because I bet nobody really had an answer for her as to which it's meant to be. I suspect I'd have gone with "shirt," because I generally don't love wearing things that make me afraid to sit down, for fear of catching something. But if I had decided my legs were ready for extreme public consumption, I'd probably have ditched the plastic-looking red slides in favor of some better, hotter-looking shoes.

Mostly, though, I think our choices with this outfit would have diverged right at the beginning, in that I would have run screaming in the other direction from this cruel, garish fabric version of a Rorscharch test. Simply put, it frightens the bejeesus out of me, and generally speaking, I would prefer to hang onto my bejeesus whenever possible. All I see when I look at this is an angry hot-pink bunny with Satanic fury burning in his one red eye while her belt tries to choke him out, and all that makes my brain start hurting. Melora is way too pretty to be skipping around with a garroted Lucifer Cottontail on her chest, trying desperately to buy a few last souls before being sliced in half. And I am way too wussy to want this image cavorting through my nightmares. Let's pray she burns it.

Now, I actually like Ellen Pompeo.  I know that certain segments of the Grey's watching population (including several critics) can't stand her: she's weak, she's whiny, she's self-involved, she's annoying. Etcetera. Whereas I sort of feel for poor Meredith Grey. She has a lot of problems! Her mother did a number on her and then died. Her father ran out on her and then came back and smacked her. Her kindly step-mother just kicked it. Her dreamy boyfriend didn't tell her that he was married and then he went back to his wife and then he was wishy-washy and then at one point he called her a whore, and then they were happy and now they're having problems again. Some of her friends are making INCREDIBLY ILL-ADVISED relationship decisions.  She's got a lot going on, is what I'm saying. And I actually think Ellen Pompeo is good in the part, and her hair's been looking great lately. So I freely give poor dark and twisty Meredith Grey the thumbs up.

But this outfit is all thumbs down, all the time.

I get what she's going for, but Ellen is wee, and this is overwhelmingly grim on her. She looks like she's in costume as the Grim Reapette, come to take us all to Hades, and unfortunately, the shiny shiny face and no lipstick isn't helping, because instead of "glowing," she sort of appears to be sweaty from the fires of hell she's so recently been attending.

Although, honestly, if we found out next season that Meredith is actually the Princess of Darkness, it would be sort of an interesting supernatural twist to a show that's already kind of sliding off the rails. Imagine the angst attendant on Meredith's learning that her destiny is not to be a surgeon, but rather to serve the Dark Lord by causing chaos and pain at Seattle Grace, and plucking the occasional soul for her Master's collection. What an extreme moral and ethical quandary for our heroine!  Her destiny is to be Satan's maitre d',  but her heart wants her to choose the path of the healer. Talk about dark and twisty.

Regular readers know that I have many, many secret shames, but one of the least secret and MOST shameful is that I regularly watch The Ghost Whisperer. I can hear you laughing, but I promise you there is nothing  more soothing on an early Sunday evening than a TiVoed episode of Jennifer Love Hewitt bouncing around sending people into the light, and a glass of wine.  The show is formulaic, but actually kind of addictive: J Lo Hew is refreshingly non-scrawny and her boobs and her hair and her fake eyelashes and her endless supply of fantastic nightgowns are seriously entertaining.  Plus, the dude who plays her husband is super hot. Anyway, it's definitely not operating at levels of Heroes-like watchability, but it's worth it for J. Lo Hew's outfits alone, because they are INSANE. She has worn nightgowns as dresses, giant peplums on tiny coats, and vintage ball gown after vintage ball gown (during the day, of course, like, while at the grocery store). This past week was the show's season finale, and we were treated to some truly awesome (in all senses of the word) costumes.  For example, this seems fine, right?

Kind of boobtacular, and a whole lot like a nightgown and not really something I would wear to a meeting with Julian Sands about Mysterious, Possibly Psychic Child Survivors of Terrible Disasters (that's the back of Julian's head there, and, yes, he needs a new agent. Julian, yours was the first manjunk I ever saw on the big screen, in A Room With a View, and a classier and more romantic introduction to cinematic male anatomy probably does not exist. I loved you deeply, and still have pretty much that entire movie memorized. What are you doing on CBS Friday nights? I guess I should be glad you're just a troubled (para?)psychologist here, and not an evil lunatic like you were on 24).

But then she stands up:

Erm, sorry about the quality of that picture. My kitchen window is not actually part of her outfit. ALTHOUGH SHE'D HAVE ROOM FOR IT UNDER THAT SKIRT. Also, why does Julian have so many clocks?

Anyway, just when you're thinking that this Ghost Whisperer will be the most sartorially heinous of all Ghost Whisperers, this happens:

Oh my god, she's so cute! Like That Girl, if Marlo Thomas could talk to the dead!  At last, the Wardrobe Bitches have forgiven her for that time she played Audrey Hepburn and put her in something that works on her curvaceous bod. NOW I can concentrate on the show:  are they going to kill off Jim, J Lo Hew's dreamy and constantly supportive husband, whose scenes are all conveniently set just post-shower, while he is wet and shirtless? Please God, no!

But then something worse than the death of the man-candy occurs. And I have placed it after the jump, so as to spare your delicate retinas.

According to Variety, the scribes behind the Borat movie just got signed to make a comedy film about the Eurovision Song Contest.

To that we say: Oh HELL yes.

We're not entirely sure there needs to be any kind of parody -- just turn the cameras on, and the funny seems to write itself -- but that doesn't mean we're not thrilled that this bastion of musical lunacy will get a big-screen tribute. The clothes will be a marvel. And we can only pray that the freedom of being able to create fictional countries will bring the glories of Moldavia back from its post-Dynasty hiatus from existence. Maybe Joan Collins can play the musical act representing that fine fake nation, performing a stirring tribute -- complete with interpretive dance, a lion, some jugglers, and of course Carrot Top -- to the tragic wedding-day massacre after which the entire Dynasty cast almost took an eternal dirt nap. [Thank god beautiful Steven Carrington lived, because without him, we would have no Horned-Rim Glasses on Heroes, and that would be the real tragedy.]

Hopefully the movie will drum up interest in broadcasting the original. Not that we don't want the film itself to be awesome. Clearly, we will try to procure some work as extras by shooting audition tapes of ourselves wearing aluminum foil, or carrying swords made of red-velvet cake, or slapping people in the face with slices of bologna -- you know, typical Eurovision backup-dancer stuff -- to prove that we're qualified. But mostly we just want BBC America to realize that nobody will get the movie unless they have watched the show in all its neverending, arduous, pervy glory. We need to hear Terry Wogan getting progressively drunker while being asked to commentate for the BBC's telecast, and without having to stare at our laptop screens.

I confess, I have no idea what The Cheetah Girls are all about. If pressed to guess, I would have to admit like they sound like they might be a gang of well-waxed young ladies who take their clothes off for money. And although Wikipedia tells me that they are, instead, a Disney-sponsored singing group based on the TV films of the same name, I would gladly pay Cheetah Girl Sabrina Bryan to take this off:

And put something else on immediately. She's violating two very important rules:

1) The poor child has no neck in this, alarming both Tyra Banks and vampires everywhere

2) She's also wearing something seemingly made of something nicked from the sale bin in K-Mart's Home Accessories department. Is it a shower curtain? A tablecloth? A bedspread? That I can not tell you. But I can tell you that it is doing her no favors, unless her goal was for people to say, "Is that from the Rue McClanahan Duvet Collection? Right on!"

My beloved style-troubled Kelly Clarkson, this time, is actually providing a public service:

THAT'S why not everyone can pull off skinny jeans, especially with a tucked in shirt. Our girl Kelly would have looked so much more proportional in either looser, straighter-legged jeans or if she'd paired these with a more tunic-y top.  As it is, she's just emphasizing the middle of her body (especially with the stripes! and...are those suspenders? Oh, KELLY) and hardly anyone wants to do that -- unless they've got the kind of life (and trainer) that supports doing 1000 sit-ups a day. Which, really, who has that kind of time for ab work? I myself am far too busy reading US Weekly, watching One Tree Hill reruns on SoapNet (seriously, there are a few episodes there where I'm pretty sure Chad Michael Murray is LITERALLY wearing a wig made of hay) and experimenting with new sandwich combinations. Today, I'm going to put leftover lasagna on a baguette and call it the Carb Lovers Sandwich.  And Kelly is more than welcome to come over and join me -- we could talk about boys! And make fun of Jessica Simpson! And discuss facial regimes (I know she likes Proactiv, but I'm all about Dr Murad! Maybe we could have a brief but stimulating argument!)! -- as long as she leaves that particular outfit at home.

It's that time of year again: time to wonder with a hefty dose of bitterness, and more than a trace of righteous rage, why we are missing out on all the fun just because we live in America.

I am referring, of course, to the Eurovision Song Contest. Just because we're not invited to the party -- just because we're cursed with geographic undesirability -- doesn't mean we shouldn't be allowed to press our flushed, thrilled faces against the window and gawk at the delicious theatrical, colorful, cross-dressing antics happening inside. Why, this year alone, the semi-finals featured sword-wielding backup dancers, male nudity, a rock opera called "Vampires are Alive," and a man who started chucking his own underpants around the stage. And while many of us simply call that "Tuesday," there are still loads of people for whom this is a glorious, intriguing novelty.

In my heart, it's impossible to top the brilliance of last year's winner, Lordi, a man disguised as a monster whose battleaxe conveniently shoots off fireworks. Indeed, this year's winner -- some short-haired balladeer who resembles nothing so much as an androgynous Winnie Cooper-- neglected to give good photo. Blessedly, the second-place finisher, transvestite singer Verka Serduchka (a.k.a. a man named Andriy), stepped up to the plate in honor of his/her native Ukraine.

I desperately hope our Ukrainian readers are sitting up tall in their seats going, "Yes! If I ever have to explain the essence of Ukraine to American bitches, THIS is the way!" Were Elton John to perform in Oz, these hybrids between the Tin Man and the Village People would be his entourage. No. 18 up there looks in serious danger of splitting his mylar pants. But who would notice? There's a gold-dipped man in knee-socks playing a sparkly accordion and a human disco-ball with a star hat singing lead vocals. Who's even paying attention to No. 18's trousers?

Danish delight Drama Queen, also a cross-dresser, went with a more understated approach.

It's not often that we print reader mail -- well, that Intern George isn't answering, anyway. He's really very possessive of his job. But I know he'll forgive me for sharing with you the following, which is not the only one of its kind we've received here at GFY HQ.

Subject Line: More Boys

I know, boys outfits are harder.  There's usually a lot less going on that can go horribly, horribly wrong. However, *I* need to know what [not] to wear!

We feel your pain. Boys' outfits ARE harder. But, brave e-mailer, there is a light and the end of the tunnel for you and all your ilk. That light is Bam Margera, for whose existence we should thank the sweet Lord above. And while I'm sure that phrase has never been uttered by another living, dead, or purgatory-dwelling soul, I stand by its surface insanity.

Why?

Because he makes my job easy. Thanks to Bam's Brillo chin, junior Fedora and general aura of homelessness, all I need to do is say, "See that? Don't do it."

* Apologies if you're reading this for a second time; for a string of really stupid reasons, we can't figure out if this posted yesterday and then disappeared due to a technical burp, or just never went up at all because one of us -- okay, me -- never has any idea what the date is. It's a boring story, all this drama about whats-her-face down there, but the net effect is that we're posting it now just in case by accident nobody ever saw it earlier. So here you go: Either a fug, or a fug redux, which is like acid reflux, only with less burning and fewer attendant drugs.

This isn't the first time we've featured actress Jenny McShane, of the hit films Furnace and of course Tales of the Kama Sutra 2: Monsoon.

But it is the first time we've featured this much of her.

[Source: Daily Celeb.]

I'm thrilled that she's happy with her underwear. Seriously. Every girl knows the satisfaction of wearing a really comfortable pair that also makes them feel fabulous. Congrats, Jenny. But the producers of the Egyptian-themed soft-core porn epic Attack Of The Sphinxter might be really upset to find out that you raided their costume racks without asking. It's just not nice.

It also doesn't seem like the most apt attire for the event she's actually at: The 2nd Annual Sober Day Convention. Of course, the organizers of this ode to clean living did make the unintentionally amusing and slightly unfortunate move of inviting two girls whose names happen to be Caroline Bacardi and Candice Coke. True story. So maybe they didn't even notice Jenny's nipples.

I love the fact that poor Eva Mendes here is being photographed in front of a totally cracked-up wall. It looks like a big rig smashed into the thing earlier that day and they didn't have time to fix it. At the very least, they should have scooched La Mendes over a little bit, because right now it kinda looks like she's walking into a crack den. A crack den that just happens to be hosting the premiere of a Luke Wilson movie.

Now, as for Miss Eva herself, dear readers, I am torn. On one hand, I really wish she hadn't gone for the nude lip. It makes her look a bit washed out and unfinished. On the other hand, there's something about her here that looks rather J Lo, and I mean that as a compliment, because I feel like J Lo has been looking AWESOME lately.  I like the color of the dress, and I dig that the cut is simple and bloat-friendly without looked like giant yellow sack. On the other hand, there's something about it that's kind of reminiscent of a bath-towel. In the accessories category, I love her shoes and bag, but I feel like the lack of jewelry is reinforcing the whole "I just got out of the shower. Hang on a sec and then we can go. I KNOW, I KNOW. We're not going to miss our reservation! I just need to throw on a dress and put on some lip gloss and then we can go, GOD" aspect of the whole thing.

Please tell me how to feel, seriously. It's Friday. My head hurts. I need you.

If things don't work out with that whole "acting" thing, LiLo can always transition to a gig working as a cocktail waitress at the sports-themed bar Referees.

Which doesn't exist until I open it, but in my vision, the waitresses wear this, plus a whistle around their necks. And in addition to serving drinks, they interfere when drunken patrons get out of line. You know, like, "[TWEET!] SIR! You're OFF-SIDES! Please take your hand off this woman's ass!" or "[TWEET!] ILLEGAL BLOCKING! Ma'am, please let your friend chat up this dude," or "[TWEET!] Ineligible receiver!  This individual is clearly wearing a wedding ring!"  It's all about fun in a controlled environment.

I have no idea how tall Iman really is. Well, okay, I do, she's 5'9" according to IMDb -- but my point is, I had to look it up. She's just always seemed like this mile-tall graceful goddess to me, lean and sophisticated and totally fab. And hell, not only is she married to David Bowie, but she was the last woman to kiss William Shatner in his role as Captain Kirk. How many women can say they broke off a piece of both those guys in one lifetime? It makes her even more of a badass.

And yet... because, as we've covered before, there is always an "and yet."

I am pretty sure someone in my Sunday School class wore this to her first communion. We were eight. And though Iman is many wonderful things, eight is not one of them.

What bugs me the most overall, though, is how ... regular this makes her look. She is sacking up, ho, in an alarmingly literal way (except for the "ho" part; in addition to not being eight, Iman is also demonstrably not a ho). That thing a poofy mess of a sack that's stumpifying her and stupefying me. Instead of focusing on her amazing face, I'm wondering if I remembered to make the bed, and whether crisp white bed linens would be refreshing for summer, and then deciding no, because there's no way I could eat in bed without ruining them. I mean, let's not pretend I don't like to lie in bed on a Sunday eating breakfast and catching up on episodes of The Closer and rediscovering the joys of 10 Things I Hate About You. Sometimes, a girl just has to throw down her granola in the comfort of her own duvet, you know?

Dammit, Iman! Do you see what you did here? Your dress made me say too much. Please do not show up in anything Mannequin-themed, EVER, because I don't want those floodgates to open.

I actually rather like Ciara's dress here. There's something about it that's very 1954 I'm Going to Set This Lattice Top Boysenberry Pie Right Here On The Window Sill To Cool, Then Hang Laundry Out On The Line In The Backyard of My Adorable Home in an Unspoiled and Bucolic Small Town, While My Sweet Children Ride Shiny Red Bikes and My Hot Husband Fights the Ever-Present Threat of Communism. And I like that.

Except one thing: it's a leetle short, don't you think?

Ciara certainly realized it once she got inside:

Darling readers,

Heather, Intern George and I cherish you.  We would love nothing more than to arrange for you to be enveloped in George's loving arms. But we have something almost as delightful for you: a reader's survey!  Yes! It's true.

In all seriousness, though, it would really help us if you could take a moment and fill this sucker out. Come on, it'll be fun! You don't even have to answer every single question! If you do it while you're supposed to be working, you can just think of it as a way to stick it to the man.

So put on your super sexy reading glasses (as pictured below) and rock it!

Thank you!

Love,

The Fug Girls

Cameron Diaz has heard it from us in the past. But she has been hitting it out of the park this week,  with the exception of her tragical braided romper. Maybe she's just got better taste as a blonde? Or maybe the Justin Timberlake break-up fueled rage has finally faded and she's seeing clearly now, and what she sees is that there is no better way to stick it to your ex than showing up somewhere you know he's going to be, totally rocking your hot legs, looking generally like since he's been gone, you can breathe for the first time.

I just love this. I love the color, I love the pockets, I love how slim it is through the shoulders while still being very flattering in the bustral arena. I love her shiny, slightly slutty shoes (and I mean that in the best way possible -- moderately trashy yet expensive shoes are the best way to keep something this sweet from being too terribly saccharine). It's perfect for a daytime premiere, because she doesn't look like she's trying too hard but she's also avoided looking like she doesn't give a shit. Basically, I am longing for someone to knock this frock off so I can buy it in red and black and grey and blue and white. Like, immediately.

Dina Lohan, if you want to be the next Oprah or the next Ellen or the next Rosie, or whoever it is you said you wanted to be (I don't listen to you much), you've got to do one thing. Okay, two things. First: step in and fix your kid. If Lynn Spears could manage to band together with Kevin freaking Federline to get Britney into Promises, I feel like there's got to be some way you can prevent Lindsay from being photographed snorting blow. I mean, at the very LEAST convince her to do it in private. The girl is ruining her career AND her septum. The other thing you need to do is throw out your culottes:

I have a pair of those. They are SHAMEFULLY comfortable, but I would wear them in public only if my house burst into flames. I got them at Urban Outfitters three years ago. And I think it's safe to say that if college girls have stopped wearing something to 8am classes, you need to stop wearing that something on the red carpet.

Or people are going to look at you like this:

We still question the wisdom of an already incredibly slim woman losing more weight just for a role, which is evidently what Cate Blanchett's game has been. But we're pretty sure she's going to do it no matter what we say, on account of the fact that we don't know her, have never talked to her, and suspect she hasn't had time to play around on the Internet since back when it was called the "information superhighway" and we were all making hilarious acceleration, speeding, and traffic puns.

Ergo, I'm at least pleased to see Cate finding some work-arounds that downplay the fact that her collarbone is about a day away from breaking skin.

With her shoulders covered, she looks distinctly less like a starving alien who's come to Earth to feast upon our amusingly primitive blood. It's much more relaxing.

Amanda Peet wants you to know that her baby weight is OFF, bitches.

Unfortunately, she has chosen to communicate that sentiment by proving she can still fit into the dress she wore to her classmate's quinceañera in 1987 -- at which she was irreparably bruised by fallng ass-over-teakettle while trying to reach for a fallen napkin, causing her to modify this satin insanity by sewing a matching one to her lap. Sly work, Amanda. Now just conveniently find a way to lose Aaron Sorkin's number and you'll be on your way to Mensa candidacy.

Ellen Barkin, you sexy bitch, what happened?

By matching your ensemble to the red carpet so exactly, you've become a kind of Floating, Smoky-Eyed Head, much like Adrian Zmed was when he appeared on Passions as...um, a floating head. He could foretell the future, though, and as far as I know, that's not part of your skill set. Which is a shame. Could you foretell the future, I imagine that you would have foreseen that I would find this a sort of tragically wrinkled and moderately unflattering choice for you, and that I would bemoan what a shame it was, because you usually look super-hot while still being age-appropriate. You also would have known that at some point, I would mention the rumors that you hooked up with Intern George, and that he would give a stern "NO COMMENT" from deep inside the supply closet, where he is currently color-coordinating our Post-Its. Finally, if you could tell the future, you would have known that while trains on coats are most daring in a sort of Maitre D' On Crack kind of fashion, they can be dangerous indeed at an event as crowded as this one. Also, maybe you could tell me if How I Met Your Mother is going to get renewed, because I really want to know.  I mean, if you had that kind of ability. Which you clearly do not.

It's really a shame all around.

DAMIAN FAHEY: Okay, Cameron, we're going to take off your blindfold now! Are you ready to see what crazy thing you chose from the closet?

CAMERON: Yes, I'm... wait, what?

DAMIAN: That's right! Remember how we agreed to blindfold you and put you in a closet of loony outfits and then surprise you with what you put on?

CAMERON: What are you talking about? You put the blindfold on me backstage after I was already... OW!

DAMIAN: Damn, sorry, did I jab you with my elbow? My bad! I was just trying to untie this blindfold. WHICH WE TIED ON BEFORE YOU GOT DRESSED. 

CAMERON: Dude, I havent...

DAMIAN: ... you haven't laid eyes on this outfit yet! I know! It's hilarious!

CAMERON: If you're talking about the romper thingy, I wore it to the studio today.

DAMIAN (whispering): Would you keep it down? Your publicist paid me $100 to pretend you didn't have sight on your side when you put this on. Now GET WITH THE PROGRAM.

CAMERON: Look, man, haven't you heard? I'm on a roll! I can do no wrong!

DAMIAN: I'm pretty sure a denim halter-neck that looks like you braided it in the camp craft tent counts as wrong.

CAMERON: Oh yeah? Well, my pal Drew told me I look like the kind of rainbow that can only come from a pure heart.

DAMIAN: Listen, I'm going to put this in terms you can understand: Dressing like an unpopular 12-year old is not going to bring your sexy back.

CAMERON: Oh NO you DI-INT, bitch. You did NOT just drop some JT on my ass. I'm'a snap you like a TWIG, you visionless twerp.

DAMIAN: No, YOU are the one who was visionless... when you... because, the blindfold... oh, never mind. I give up. But I'm keeping the $100.

Dear Shoe and Handbag Princess Kate Spade,

I know that it's probably considered hopelessly fashion backward to enjoy your work in the accessories department, but you know what? Screw it. I have a slouchy orange patent hobo bag of yours that I love and your shoes are cute. There's nothing wrong with having something pink or patent or preppy floating around and for embracing all of the above, I salute you.

I am a bit perplexed by this, though:

Yes, I know that the ball's theme this year was Poiret and he was all about the sack dresses and whatnot, but you kinda look like you're wearing an ACTUAL sack. A fancy one, but a sack nevetheless.  And while I am all about wearing something that will allow you to sneak bottles of booze home from the open bar (after pointing the bartender in the direction of Lindsay Lohan, obviously), this all just sort of gives the impression that you are wearing a black and white cookie.

Great, now I'm hungry. Thanks.

Anyway, maybe consider wearing something slimmer on top if you're going to go for something GINORMO on the botton, or vicey versey, is what I'm saying. You can figure it out, I'm sure. I have to go track down a cookies now.

Love,

Jessica

PS: Dig your cocktail ring.

I guess singledom is the new black -- it's been flattering on just about everyone in Hollywood lately. Well, except for La Lohan, but these days, nothing is going to work too well for her -- except perhaps being locked in Dr. Phil's house for a month, at which point she will become so hypnotized by his braying voice and disapproving mustache that she'll stop putting things up her nose and learn to love her liver for a little while, and then go on a Very Special Oprah in which she weeps about how the Winfrey Empire has saved her life while Oprah sheds a tear and then brings Rachael Ray on to cook some Recovery Cheesecake. So come on, Terrifying Life Experts (and Rachael): We're counting on you.

Back to the matter at hand: Hot single people. When Rosario Dawson was with Jason Lewis, she went through a phase of unfortunate bangs and frequently looking a little unshowered, not to mention that she paraded around in a lot of ill-fitting clothes.

So while I'm sure it was a tough breakup, I'm pleased to see her coming out of it looking generally much better.

The skin is great, her bangs have grown in nicely, and I'd like to buy her shoulders.

Unfortunately for her, she chose a great color on a really boring dress -- and while we'll take boring over, say, giant cut-outs over the ass in the shape of the Oakland Raiders logo, poor ol' Rosario had the misfortune of stepping into this thing on a night when Cameron Diaz did it better. While I have nothing against Rosario (except perhaps the movie Rent, but that wasn't really her fault; people, grow up and pay your freaking rent and stop whining), I think you'll agree that Cam took this concept from average to totally awesome.

One thing I really love about Kirsten Dunst is that she's a lot like me when it comes to shoes: She finds a pair she loves, and she wears the hell out of them. For about three years she wore the exact same pair of heels -- in either black, red, or camel -- with every outfit, and they looked sexy, and clearly they were comfortable, so she just kept doing it. There's none of that lunacy with wearing them once and never daring to be seen in them again.

This is the second time I've seen her in these little beauties, but I'm sure it won't be the last.

However, I do hope it's the last time we see the dress. I'll be honest, I struggled with this one, because she looks so cute when she's happy, and the color is great, and I applaud her for how often she tries unusual things. But it all seems a tad... disorganized, and untailored. And, look: I know it's the Costume Institute gala, but no one else is in costume, so maybe she... misinterpreted the invitation? She looks like an eager Girl Scout who, and in the face of the rampant unpredictability of a New York gala, is clinging to the beloved "be prepared" motto. Here, she's ready for: a funeral, a wedding, a funeral-wedding, a camping trip (the gown would sleep two, no problem), a square dance with the cowboy man-child, an all-out socialite catfight with hurled drinks and torn clothes (she could make three other dresses on the spot from her train), an emergency skydive (the parachute is built in!), or an assault by a crazy head-slicing, brain-stealing supercriminal who has an itch to blow up the city (that headband is blocking his favorite cutting zone).

In that sense, I applaud her constant vigilence. Otherwise, I'm just ready to see where she takes the shoes next. Preferably, it'll be someplace where they can shine, away from miles of satin and a headband that appears to have attracted two dead bugs.

Or, it will be to my house, where she will leave them in my closet. Either one.

So, let me see if I've got this straight. In addition to styling herself kinda like the beige version of something you'd see on top of a child's music box, ScarJo also decided to do up the Met ball in essentially the exact same dress Kiki Dunst was just wearing around town for kicks a couple of weeks ago:

As I have been given to understand the intricate ins and outs of the tapestry of celebrity -- a vast tapestry, yes, like those of yore, just with more exposed ladyparts -- wearing something to a major event that someone else has already been photographed in is kind of like wearing your school uniform to your own wedding: both shocking, and weird. She does seem awfully pleased with herself, though, so maybe ScarJo just doesn't care about the admittedly rather stringent rules of celebrity red carpet dominance, though she maybe should consider that the 2/3s of the face of the man in tennis shoes behind her looks APPALLED, and HE'S wearing SNEAKERS.

Or maybe this is just the first volley in a way we'll later dub ScarJo Comes After Kiki's Sloppy Seconds, and the next move will involve Jake Gyllenhaal. And then it will be ON.

It's not the dress, per se.

The dress is fine. It's certainly no surprise to see Cate Blanchett in a very unusual yet very metallic frock, but hey, the lady knows what she likes, and usually she has me dripping with envy. That skin! Those eyes! The clothes! Fab.

Today, though, she has me dripping with sandwiches. There's something off about her in the dress, and I can trace it to her weirdly emaciated torso. It makes me immediately want to slather with Jif any carby material I can find -- French bread, Ritz crackers, a throw-pillow -- and shove it into my mouth. Her left shoulder is particularly odd, the way it doesn't quite fit with the bodice.

Take a closer look. If you dare. Warning: may cause zombie paranoia and/or an immediate craving for potatoes.

Julianne Moore, what gives?

This is a prime example of someone with SO MUCH right about her -- pretty red hair! Creamy unblemished skin! Dimples! Talent! The ability to somehow make people forget that she was in both Nine Months AND that terrible movie where David Duchovny decided that the best way to make people stop thinking of him as Agent Mulder was to appear in a film in which he's investigating aliens with the help of a small redhead! -- who goes SO VERY WRONG.

Let's have a frank moment, you guys. I love Julianne Moore. You love Julianne Moore. I'm sure Julianne Moore's parents and friends and husband and neighbors love Julianne Moore. But she's wearing essentially an ill-fitting pea coat over tights. This works only if you're about to rip it off and burst into something originally choreographed by Bob Fosse.  And while it's true that I wasn't actually AT the Met Costume Institute Gala Ball Party Bus Beer Boat or whatever it's actually called, I am pretty sure that no one made Julianne Moore perform.

I so wish I had been a fly buzzing around Anna Wintour's champagne flute when she first spotted Jessica Simpson at the Met's Costume Institute Ball Gala hoo-ha last night. Because, honey, it seems that while our backs were turned, J. Simp went a little overboard. On everything:

This is one of those dresses that someone with small boobs could fully rock, and I like the brown hair, but overall the effect kind of veers into Blow-Up Doll category, which is really both rather grim and also not entirely unexpected when you consider the source.  But when you're carrying around that kind of (real and admittedly spectacular) rack, you can't just strap 'em in and bounce off like that, especially to a formal event. What if the right one makes a run for the border, in front of everyone? What if the Power of the Cleav mesmerizes the cater waiter and he walks into a pole, dropping caviar everyone and giving himself a black eye, therefore totally RUINING his upcoming audition for All My Children?  What if the left one is done permanent damage by the pressure of being wedged in like that and never lies down properly in a bikini top again? What if one of them pops out and hits Anna Wintour right in the bob? A girl could NEVER live that down. Hasn't Jess been through enough already?

However, I've got to give John Mayer props for working a Johnny Depp-type thing:

I wonder if Kate Moss made a play for him over the crudite.  Can you imagine the tabloid headlines?  Can you imagine the catfight? I've got five bucks on Jess. She is NOT going though another messy public break-up if she can help it, and if that requires hair-pulling, I think she's got the chops.

Jeanne Little is apparently a very-well-known Australian personality. (Today is the day that I make assumptions about Australian celebrities based on small blurbs I read on the internet, so mark your calendars.) The words I have encountered about her most, so far, have been "beloved" and "zany."

I can see that:

You sort of have to hand it to a woman who's so clearly stoked by her ability to fashion a ruff out of one of those sun guards you unfold and stick across your windshield.

The deeper we probe Bai Ling -- in a distant, fully clothed, frightened kind of way -- the more unusual personalities we find. We have reason to believe this one is #14, a.k.a. "A shot of Scotch Frisky."

[Source: Daily Celeb.]

She really puts the "tart" in Tartan, don't you think? I'm greatly excited for her sponsorship deal with the 3M Corporation, in which they put out a special commemmorative Bai Ling tape dispenser that starts purring every time you rip off a piece.

The Logies are, as far as I can tell, the Australian version of the Emmys, with a heavy splash of The People's Choice Awards, as it seems that many of the awards are fan-voted. (Thanks, Wikipedia!) All I know is, I would like to vote for Allison Cratchley (who, it seems, appears on All Saints -- the Aussie soap, not the girl group -- as  Dr Zoe  Gallagher) in the category of Most Egregious Misappropriation of Art:

Though if you think this is bad, you should see her Mona Lisa culottes.

Karma is a bitch. So is Paris Hilton. So it only makes sense that the two would crash together, with unspeakably awesome results. There is NOTHING more fantastic than Kathy Hilton ranting about how much they spent, NOTHING as satisfying the long arm of the law finally reaching out and choking somebody with no redeeming qualities, and NOTHING as awesome as imagining Paris having to sleep on an uncomfortable cot underneath a burly, hygienically challenged, tattooed, pierced, and lightly mustachioed cell mate named Bertha. Today, even if it feels kind of bad for flashing its bitchpants, the world is full of glee. VICTORY IN OUR TIME.

[Photo courtesy of Daily Celeb.]

Poor P. Pooooooooooooor little P. Prison clothes don't come in leopard, sweet pea. And you probably won't get to use all that makeup, either, but it's just as well, because it makes you look like a wax figurine. As for Josh, don't worry -- he disappeared before your hearing, although I'm sure that was PURE coincidence. But just as a tip for the future, girlie, sometimes guys get sick of dating girls who just can't seem to remember to stop drinking and driving.

Also, seriously, DON'T DRINK AND DRIVE. For real. And don't then keep driving without a license. How hard is that to remember? Maybe you can sweet-talk Bertha into tattooing it to your arm.

At any rate, refill all your prescriptions, Men of Hollywood, and leave no ointment or salve behind. Paris has a month left before 45 days in the clink, and you know she will spend it throwing as many bratwursts onto the grill as she possibly can.

When I was little, I loved Sarah Brightman. Loved her. Primarily because I was a musical-theater nerd who didn't really care about the actual quality of the musical (hence: saw Cats three times), and I saw Sarah as the original Christine in Phantom of the Opera, which then-hubby Andrew Lloyd-Webber wrote just for her, and I loved it because she was so pretty with her hair and the costumes and the yearning and all that. Plus, in England they often (or at least used to) release songs from hit musicals onto the pop charts. So in addition to being on the West End, Sarah was also all over my very favorite show EVER, Top Of The Pops (rest in peace, little buddy), and I was constantly presented with opportunities to watch the video of the musical's title song, in which a masked man boats a beautifully dressed Sarah across a dry-ice river while they sing about how the Phantom of the Opera invades your mind. It was all very romantic. Never mind that the boater was a man in a mask that was a) strangely not the same mask they use in the musical, but some sort of red and gold full-face version that would be more at home in my nightmares, and b) said masked man was psychotic and wanted to lock her up in a basement. Although when you're 9, there's also something very romantic about being locked in a dungeon while you happen to look gorgeous and can make a man weep with your perfect voice, while the rest of the world ceases to turn on its axis until you are found. Hot.

Ahem. Anyway. There are still things I love about Sarah Brightman. Like, I'm pretty sure she's had some good plastic surgery over the years, and she divorced AL-W after getting what she needed out of him, which is good because otherwise she might have been associated with things like Sunset Boulevard.

But what I find most charming about her is her modesty and sense of occasion.

Oh, Chandler Bing, I love you. I will never not love you.  Could I love you more? No. You were the best thing about Studio 60. Okay, and a lot of Amanda Peet's wardrobe was cute.  But mostly, for me, that show was all about you, at least until my blood pressure would rise precipitously due to some cockamamie plot twist  and then I had to change the channel.  It was a happy day indeed when I remembered that Friends is on like 95 times a day and I could wallow in all the Matthew Perry I wanted, without being lectured about: medieval Italian comedy; how reality television is tearing America apart at our poorly-educated, dim-bulb seams; or the way in which being a coke addict is actually totally not that big a deal when compared to drunk driving so why don't you all LAY OFF?

But I'm sure Matthew Perry wasn't thrilled when Studio 60 went on "hiatus" and then sort of stopped being talked about, and is now... I don't know. I think they're burning off the last episodes this summer? I stopped paying attention. But even if he IS bummed, that's really no excuse for showing up places looking like Crockett and/or Tubbs:

Though, when it comes right down to it, I would be very interested in seeing him grab Matt LeBlanc and scamper down to Miami to fight drug traffickers with snarky witticisms, sandwiches to the head, mighty Foosball skills, and, obviously, a well-trained team of drug-sniffing chicks and ducks.

Katherine Jenkins is some sort of opera singer. I say "some sort," because I'm unsure what opera contains an Italian version of Bryan Adams' "(Everything I Do) I Do It For You," and yet the clumsy strains of that rendition greeted me when I Googled her and got to her Web site. Although I will say this: The song being in a foreign language does a lot for it, because it distracts from how idiotic the lyrics are. If only somebody would translate "Have You Ever Really, Really Really SERIOUSLY Really For Reals Totally Really Really Loved A Woman" into Italian, maybe it would no longer make me want to go on a killing spree.

However, none of the above has distracted me from Katherine Jenkins' jumpsuit. Or pantsuit. I go back and forth. One piece, two pieces... it doesn't matter; it's fugly whichever way you stitch it.

This is really violating Bryan's glorious, sacred message of loyalty. It "Cuts Like A Knife," if you will. Clearly, (everything she does) she is NOT doing for me, or you, or anyone else; were that honestly the case, she would return this thing to Chico's Cache of Cocktail Pajamas -- assuming she didn't outright steal them from Joan Collins' trunk marked, "Dynasty: 1982: Clothes For Romancing Dex Dexter" -- and put herself in something slightly more flattering.

Then perhaps she can trill her way back into our hearts with a spectacular aria interpretation of B.Ad's "Please Forgive Me." I'm not saying this shameless attempt to curry favor would work, but I'd be lying if I said I didn't want it to spark a magical mystery tour through his discography that goes straight through an operatic "(I Wanna Be) Your Underwear" and lands squarely at a touching foreign-language "Summer of '69." I hope she refuses to rest until she's reimagined every last one of hits -- especially the ones off that 1991 album that has no fewer than 9 songs with titles of six words or more.

He is a delight. I don't know how this became about him, but apparently all roads lead to Bryan Adams, master of the parenthetical and court jester of the written word. Bless him.

Long ago, when I was but a very youthful college student, I had a minor obsession with Ralph Fiennes. Oh, did I love him.  (This was circa Quiz Show, which I think was the apex of his hotness. I was not running around lusting for him in Nazi gear. I mean, when he was in Nazi gear, in Schindler's List. Though I have to point out VERY VERY STRONGLY that I wasn't wearing Nazi gear at any point EITHER.) But, verily, did I love him. I had an extensive shrine to him in my dorm room, one which included rare photos I got by actually researching Ralph Fiennes in the microfiche department, as these were the days before the interwebs made it super easy to track down obscure photos of the celebrity you were totally obsessed with. My friend Katherine and I spent many a happy hour attempting to use the color copier to make giant prints of his spread in People's 50 Most Beautiful People. In fact, my shrine was so well-done that several years post-shrine, when I was subletting my apartment for the summer, my subletter turned to me at one point and said, "Oh my God, you're the girl with the Ralph Fiennes shrine!" I had never met her before. It was sort of like the collegiate version of the moment when the guy at the liquor store calls you by name.

Needless to say, I realize this makes me sound like a complete lunatic, and, of course, I was. I think many girls go through a brief but intense fictional love affair with a celebrity, often coinciding with a period in their lives when the boys they actually know are not bending sufficiently to their will.

At some point at the height of said obsession, Ralph Fiennes married his long-time girlfriend, Alex Kingston, who was totally unknown in America at that point other than to people who were totally obsessed with Ralph Fiennes. And I had the typical fangirl reaction, namely: "WHATEVER."

But lo and behold, the years passed, and I grew out of my obsession with Ralph Fiennes and he turned into kind of a crazy sex addict, all leaving Kingston for a woman ten years older than him and then leaving HER and then nailing flight attendants all over the airways, and Alex Kingston got a role on ER and seemed generally sort of talented and lovely and I decided that I quite liked her, at least partially because girlfriend has a BAD ex story, with the leaving her for his co-star after years together. So I am sorry to present this very unfortunate scrolldown fug:

Oh, Alex. Seriously? I'm not crazy about the pattern on pattern, but at least I can see where you're going there. But then, really, jeans, and those totally mismatched shoes? You're a grown-up. Why are you running around dressed like a little kid playing dress-up in her mother's closet? Do you REALLY want to run the risk of this picture ending up relegated to the corner of some poor kid's Alex Kingston shrine? Because you know every time that kid has people over, those people are going to look at the shrine and be like, "dude, what is she wearing in this one?" and then the kid is going to have to defend you. If you don't care about yourself, at the very least, won't you think of the children?

If they remade Sondheim's ode to pointilism Sunday In The Park With George as a teen romp, this girl would totally be one of the main characters. As it is, she and her hugely bright rainbow tutu-dress are mostly just making me hungry for sandwiches and potato salad eaten from a really cute basket on a sunny day. While wearing huge sunglasses. And possibly with a champagne-and-strawberries chaser.

In some ways, Natasha Henstridge is to be commended -- after all, in a world where celebs eschew the benefits of underwire, she is at least wearing a bra.

Unfortunately for her, it's showing.

And doubly troubling for her, she actually may not have needed it, given that the bodice of her sheath is modeled eerily accurately after an 18-Hour Bra. In fact, I almost expect to see this image as part of a Playtex commercial in which she: wakes up in the morning and has a hilarious accident with her coffee maker; breaks a high heel walking into her office; debates issues in a very important meeting with her agents that includes, randomly, a lot of Power Point slides and some very intellectual-looking glasses; runs down the sidewalk to meet a bland-looking man in a suit for lunch and giving him a kiss under an umbrella while they laugh and laugh and laugh and LAUGH;  shooting something very dramatic on a set, until the director calls cut and there is more laughter and merriment; then changing into a dress that evokes nothing so much as a very expensive, unflattering, wrinkly cocoon and attending a very important Gala Dinner at which she is either speaking or accepting some kind of award. All while a soothing lady voice-over basically tells us that her very busy breasts have remained gallantly supported throughout.

Maybe if her pilot Eli Stone doesn't work out, she should give the exciting world of bra-peddling a whirl.

The Avril Lavigne World Boredom Tour continues, as the -- what does she call herself in that one terrible but sort of evilly catchy song? The "motherf%^##%ing princess"? Okay, then. -- as the mother%^$&#$ princess hits China. Tell me, would you buy anything from this girl?

"Whatever, China.  I'm sleeping with my eyes open right now."

Or this one:

"I can't believe they're making me do this press tour. I am boiling over with resentment right now, and not in the cool punk way. In the Bratty Star Doesn't Want to Fulfill Her Professional Obligations way."

Or this one?

Photography, at least in The World According to Tyra Banks, is all about angles. [Supplementary cautionary texts for the lesson: All my personal albums.]

So in theory, for a magazine cover shoot, one would want to find the best angle possible on the subject's face, so that when the photo is blown up on a cover and gazing at the masses from newsstands everywhere, the aforementioned masses do not immediately become huddled masses yearning to breathe free of the fearsome visage of Celebrity X.

Unfortunately for Fergie, I think the Seventeen photographer who shot her for the June cover flat-out gave up on her.

First, though, consider the Rolling Stone cover she graced last fall:

I actually like this picture -- yes, the hand positioning looks really unnatural and uncomfortable, like a finger-gun she's about to lock and load, but overall she looks kind of dirty-hot. Her nose looks delicate. She's pouty. She's got the smoky-eye thing going on, and her hair looks fantastic. In all, it's a pretty solid effort, and she makes me wish I had cause to wear tiaras more often.

Now have a gander at what Seventeen did to her.

Anatomy of a Random Fug.

Step One: Find photo of random walking red carpet in something questionable:

Step Two: Hit Google, Wikipedia and the like to find out who we're dealing with. This particular subject is identified by our photo source as "singer." Must make sure she's not actually some semi-famous New York bad-ass punk who always dresses like this, thus saving myself several emails informing me that she's, you know, a bad-ass punk who always dresses like this OH MY GOD HOW DID YOU NOT KNOW THAT? Etc.

Step Three: Discover a distinct lack of information on our subject. Her official site has no "news," no "bio," and no "discography" information.  I don't know who she is, but her people seem to be falling down on the job.

Step Four: Google informs me that she has attended events with Britney and Andy Dick... and that she used to play keyboard Ashlee Simpson's  "band." So... probably not an awesome underground rocker known primarily for eschewing conventional standards of dress, often via leggings that appear to have done hard time wrapped around the brake pads of a cross-town bus, right? PS: I might own Ashlee's first album, so I'm not judging.

Step Five: Reassured that I'm not accidentally mocking someone who's devoted her whole life to the avant garde or who is ACTUALLY seriously blind, I feel totally free to point out that she's literally wearing my gym shorts from high school.

Step Six: Hit "publish."

This young lady was, according to Google, Miss Australia 2006.

Her talent was cardio-funk, and boy, is she proud of it.

Tobey Maguire: Hey, I'm just a regular guy! Totally regular! Like Peter Parker!

Kirsten Dunst: Why am I here? I could be buying the Kate Moss line at Top Shop right now.

Topher Grace: I'm ALSO just a regular guy! But between you and me, I'm cuter than Tobey, right? I thought so.

Bryce Dallas Howard: I can't believe how big my boobs are after having my baby. My rack looks awesome.

Thomas Hayden Church: Aw, shit.  I forgot to tuck in my shirt.

James Franco: I'm hot, even if I am dressed kinda like Dylan McKay: The Heroin Years.

Damian Fahey: None of the girls in the audience today even care about me. DAMN YOU FRANCO.

Tobey: That guy you dated last year totally had these shoes, didn't he? I'm so relatable.

Kirsten: I'm not sure how I feel about my shoes. I know they're sort of trendy, but I feel like an extra in Gladiator: The Funeral.  I wonder if I can talk Bryce into getting a drink with me later.  I'm SO BORED.

Topher: I wonder if I could hook up with Kiki after this. She looks bored. I bet I could talk her into it. I'll ask her to go for a drink.

Bryce: On second thought, I don't really like the hem on this dress. But on the whole, I look awesome. My red hair is great. I just had a baby, bitches! Suck it!

Thomas: Am I too old for MTV?

James:  I wonder if they'd ever remake 90210. I would act the shit out of that story arc where Dylan finds out that his dad DIDN'T die in a fiery car bomb, but instead was in the FBI Witness Protection Program.

Damian: Is this hour almost over?

There are some people who might argue that Susan Sarandon, being a kick-ass actress and something of a legend, can do whatever the hell she wants with her clothes. Up to and including finding somebody to create a pair of sneakers that matches her coat.

And that's all well and good; I would just request that she give the sunglasses to us so that we can better cope with her choices.

Perhaps she should travel with a bag of them, tossing them out to the masses like candy -- or better, get a t-shirt cannon, lock and load that sucker with some shades, and fire. Everybody loves a bazooka that shoots goodies.

Okay, so this is the part where I admit that the line between reality and fantasy is occasionally very thin for me.  Like yesterday, for example, I heard something about Kristin Cavallari filming some kind of reality show about her journey though Lasik surgery. But I had to think about that for like twenty minutes this morning, because I convinced myself that I MUST have dreamed it. I mean, that idea is both boring and surreal, much like many of my dreams. But apparently, it's true. Which makes me relieved in the sense that my subconscious is not, thank God, making up stuff about the medical history of Laguna Beach stars, but at the same time, the fact that this is actually true is very disturbing. I mean, what's next? Am I going to have to sit through webisodes about, like, Carmen Electra's teeth cleaning? Or tag along on Mandy Moore's trip to the podiatrist? Because while I love some celebrity news and gossip, I can barely work up a head of steam about my OWN doctor's appointments, much less anyone else's.

At any rate, I don't think she's had the Lasik yet, because look:

I mean, she's cute blah blah blah blah but come on, how boring is this? You could seriously wear this down to the mall for an afternoon of Iced Blendeds and shoe shopping. This a televised program she's attending (right? I presume the Australian Video Music Awards are televised, you know, in Australia). Mix it up a BIT, Kristin. Also, watch out with that top: I myself have the urge to walk up behind you and tug on the straps of your shirt until they garrote you and while my garrotage would be a fun, faux garroting, I imagine there are some bitches in Hollywood who would actually happily choke you out. Don't lend them a hand.

Ginnifer Goodwin has presented me with a tiny conundrum here, in that I am pretty sure I'm not wild about what she's wearing as a whole, but certain aspects of it, I like.

The bodice is kind of cool -- it evokes the good parts of Xanadu, like when they're at the Franchise Glitz Dealer engaging in a dangerously colorful music montage while Gene Kelly tries on ritzy stuff to wear to the funeral of his dignity, or when Sonny Malone and his attention-whore nipple (yes, only one of them seems to crave the spotlight) roller-skates right through the Muse Mural and lands in their strange netherworld full of neon, or the final number in which Olivia Newton John makes three costume changes without leaving the stage and then gets sucked up into the sky by a neon light and nobody seems at all fazed by this turn of events.

But generally, as a woman with hips, it's anathema to me to wear something that makes them significantly bigger. Especially if I am in the mood to slouch a little and shove my pelvis away from the rest of me, which Ginnifer is doing, as if she's mad at it and wants to get it away from her immediately. It only enhances the widening that the dress is already doing. Don't get me wrong -- I'm not anti-hip. Curves are important. I just sort of feel like, a girl should rock what she's got the best way she can, without any weird fabric unnaturally and unflatteringly embiggening things (thank you, Jebediah Springfield, for the verb "embiggen").

So that puts me on the "fug" side of the eternal Fab or Fug debate. Unless she's using those fabric folds to sneak in a few hip flasks, in which case, this dress moves from ill-conceived to ingenious.