June 2007 Archives

Let's see: Since the glory days of Full House, we're well aware of what the Olsen twins have gotten up to, and obviously, we know Stamos (siiiigh) is on ER and married Rebecca Romijn, and then they split up and he became both a yearning bachelor hungry for love and everyone's default guess for just about every blind item  that ever was. (He has since ceded that throne to Lindsay Lohan.) Saget is hosting 1 vs 100 when he's not busy telling you all about how he met your mother, Candace Cameron married a hockey player, and Uncle Joey went up in everyone's estimation when we found out Alanis Morrissette was actually upset when they broke up.

But what of Jodie Sweetin? Well, there was a very sad few years of a meth addiction (we are very happy she kicked that) and a recent sober stint hosting Pants Off Dance Off, which features -- yes -- footage of people dancing in front of music videos while taking off their pants. [I imagine this is a lot like going out on the town with Paris Hilton.]

And somewhere in there, Jodie got these:

I don't know if she can blame the funbags on the drugs, but if she can't, she might want to think about dabbling in a little revisionist history. Those are too big for her. I feel like surgeons probably offer them under the title, "Pammy Jr."

But what's really distracting is how she's showing them off in that alarmingly twee brassiere, which looks like it's ripped from a Playtex line called "June Is Busting Out All Over." Maybe Jodie just hasn't met the shirt that can contain those things. Maybe they broke the zipper on that jacket and burst forth of their own accord. Otherwise... is it possible we're entering an era where people who aren't Britney Spears are using their bras as shirts? Because I don't think I can get behind that.

Unless it's Halloween, and you're in costume as Jodie Sweetin. Or you're in a posse that's going as Britney Through The Ages. Which, by the way, I would love to do, but frankly, it's hard to find a red vinyl jumpsuit these days.

This woman is bravely providing Exhibit A as to why one should never knit one's own clothes while watching Season 1 90210 reruns on SoapNet. It all seems fun at first, but then you find yourself gawking at Brandon's fluffy mullet and screaming indignantly at the galling way Brenda gets upset and climbs onto the moral high-ground when the 25-year old she's been secretly dating dares to be upset that she lied about being of legal age. Then suddenly Andrea is going on about  The Blaze being the top-ranked high-school newspaper in the country (ha!) and Kelly uses the word "dorkmeyer" and Brandon's ex from Minnesota tells him he's a "wonderful lover" and then he becomes a total self-righteous douchebag and you're yelling at the television and rolling your eyes so hard that they quit working and you're catatonic for a few days... and then, you wake up one day and the dress you were slaving over only has half a skirt. And because you've been so immersed in their world and their clothes, you start to see nothing wrong with wearing it anyway, over a pair of cuffed  knee-length jean-shorts, because hey, Kelly wore some over polka-dot leggings and she was still popular.

Don't let this happen to you. Oh, don't get me wrong, you should still watch the re-runs -- I believe today is mother-daughter fashion show at which Brenda learns Kelly's mother is a cokehead. But just don't mix the Walshes with your wardrobe.

Add Eric Balfour to the Big Bad List of Celebrities Who Look Like They're About to SNAP and Murder You:

He looks way crankier at the Pink Taco opening than any man ought to look at the opening of a pink taco. ZING! AND SOMETIMES THEY WRITE THEMSELVES.

Ahem. Sorry. The coffee was overly strong this morning. I mean, really -- a Pink Taco/pink taco crack? What I am, like, a twelve year old boy, who just discovered TastelessEuphamisms.com? I'm so ashamed. Please, look away.

I knew this would happen. In many ways, I hoped it would, kind of like how the best way to make your food come at a restaurant is to get up and go to the bathroom, or the quickest way to get someone to call you is to give up on them and turn off your phone and go sit in the hot tub. And the best way to get Chloe Sevigny to confuse the hell out of you is to tell her you like her orange dress.

Welcome back, Chloe.

I actually sort of like her shirt -- longer, and it'd make a cute vintage-looking white summer dress. But of course, Chloe being Chloe, she would rather wear it with the spawn of a pair of leggings that spent one confusing, sweaty summer night in the barn making frenetic, hay-coated love to a pair of jodhpurs.

That's our Sev. Which would be a nice title for a sitcom based on her crazy fashion antics and the group of saner friends who just sit back and shake their heads in wonder at her inanity -- when they're not busy acting on all the sexual tension, of course.

Peter Saaaaaaaaaarsgaaaaaaaaaaaurd is clearly thinking, "don't ask me about what she's wearing. Don't asking me about what she's wearing. Don't ask me about what she's wearing. God, I hate standing here. Are my pants a hair too short?"

Maggie, Maggie. Leaving aside the issue that your dress is sporting a mock turtleneck(!) and seems straight out of one of those Lifetime movies from the 80s where Meredith Baxter Birney fights sexual harassment in a series of outfits with floppy little lady-ties, what's with the hair? I get that it's probably hot in New York right now, but must you schlep out of the house to these things looking like you just jumped out of the shower and are running down to the Post Office before it closes? You know, even when you don't look actively unhappy, you generally seem so brimming with disdain for these sorts of events. If you hate gussying up and attending things, here's a suggestion: don't. And if you have to go to them for work, maybe pretend you don't hate every single second of it, just so people don't think you're sort of a cranky sourpuss. It's called ACTING, and you're usually much, much better at it.

From a distance, I thought the lovely Angela Kinsey was taking this break from her staid Office character to show a little leg with a miniskirt. And I thought to myself, "Well, the shiny shirt fabric seems kind of casual with that skirt, and the lengths don't go together at all. Which is too bad, because she is so pretty and happy. I wonder what went wrong."

I should have known. What always goes wrong?

It's not a miniskirt. It's formal shorts. It's always friggin' formal shorts. Does your head hurt? It's formal shorts. Got acid reflux? You'll need Pepcid F.S., because it's formal shorts. Wondering why On The Lot sucks so very hard? Yep: Formal shorts. And the host. And roughly 90 percent of the contestants. But we suspect formal shorts are somehow, nefariously, behind the whole nightmare.

So Angela Kinsey had better take one for the Office team and burn those suckers before they do some real damage.

I once read an article about Vivica A. Fox in which she claimed to have decided to us her middle initial professionally so that when people talked about her, they called her "Vivica: a fox!" 

Upon reflection, I maybe would have gone with Vivica A. Huge Goldfinger Fan or Vivica A. Statuette for a Minor But Tacky Awards Show or Vivica  A. Showgirl or Vivica A. Touchstone For All That Is Pure, Chaste, Demure and Understated in This Crazy Mixed Up World of Ours.

Okay, maybe not that last one.

Listen, I understand the glories of having a casual workplace. I'm a blogger. Occasionally I change out of my pajamas in the morning and into a different pair of pajamas. But even a slug like me has a sense of occasion; conversely, I fear that what I imagine to be the grubs-friendly confines of Saturday Night Life might be teaching Andy Samberg some habits he just can't shake.

Honey, not every day is a Lazy Sunday. The very least you could do is wear something to a premiere that you didn't pull out of his laundry pile an hour earlier.

Somebody please buy this kid some nice shirts. And a comb.

At today's announcement of the VERY MUCH ANTICIPATED (at least by us. And George) Spice Girls reunion:

POSH: Oi. My tits are killing me in this thing.

SPORTY: I am just SO HAPPY you guys didn't make me wear that tracksuit!

GINGER: Wait. Is this OUR reunion announcement? Shit. I thought I was going to the photoshoot for the Stevie Nicks tribute band I'm in on weekends. Okay. Just be cool, Geri.

BABY: Baby Spice is HAVING A BABY! Doesn't that make you feel OLD? I'm also wearing a teeny tiny cape. Just for fun! 2 become 1!!

SCARY: SUCK ON THIS, EDDIE MURPHY.

POSH: When this is over, I am calling Karl and telling him never to do this to my breasts again.  Of course, then he'll say something totally surreal like, "BOOB TAPE SHALL BE YOUR HAN SOLO" and what do you say to that?

SPORTY: You know what? I'm not going to do any of those karate-style high kicks anymore, EITHER. It might mess up my cute new hair. Everyone can just DEAL.

GINGER: I hope Mel wasn't serious when she told me to get my Union Jack dress back. I mean, she had to be kidding, right? Those slags at the Hard Rock are totally not returning my calls. 

BABY: Ziga zig AH!

SCARY: Geri better get that Union Jack dress back. If she quits the band again, I swear I'll kill her.

"Hello, earthlings.

My boobs COULD pop out of this. But they won't.  No.  I'm sorry, carbon-based lifeforms. Tonight, Personality Number 16 -- the BORING ONE. Sorry, 16, but it's TRUE -- picked our dress out. She wanted to look "pretty." She's got seven heads on Planet Zolton, so when we beam down to earth, it's like this whole big deal.  And she made me use double-sided taped.  That's why I look so glum. 16 has nice taste, but she's no fun to party with."

Everything seemed to be going so well. The shirt is cute. The pants... might be cute if they didn't make her right leg look like it had sustained a wound from a Star Wars laser blaster.

But the shoes. The SHOES.

Or -- since, with the Dr. Moreau reference, this is apparently Marlon Brando Week here at GFY -- one might gasp, "The horror. The HORROR."

Anything this bad deserves a closer look. I think that's the Second Law of Fuggodynamics.

Well, I suppose it was only a matter of time before Formal Shorts placed a touchy-feely hand onto the knee of The Dreaded Manpri and gave it a loving squeeze.

What's next? We've already seen hints of man-leggings on the catwalk. Will Dress Over Pants be caught copulating greedily with a second pair of pants, giving rise to Pants-Over Pants? Oh, I can't look. It's like The Island of Dr. Moreau over here, except with cotton and no aging, corpulent overlord. And no creepy person-animals.

So really, maybe it's more like the annoying garage chem lab of that girl on Hidden Palms. Either way, I repeat: I am afraid to look... yet cannot look away.

I've looked at this photo of Beyonce for like twenty minutes, and I can't decide if she looks crazy, or AWESOME:

Is it subtle? No. Is it restrained? No. Is it impossible to sit down in? Probably. Could this be one of the costumes from the grand finale of the Xanadu musical? (Warning: that link takes you to possibly the most mesmerizing Flash intro ever) We hope so. And yet, something about how over-the-top it is is also kind of FABULOUS. It's so....shiny. And futuristic. And weird. And ballsy. And probably really hot in the sun -- if you want to hug her, you probably have to wrap a beach towel around her waist to avoid being scalded, like how you sometimes need to use a dishrag to handle your steering wheel during a heat wave.

But this metallic extravaganza is nothing compared to what B wore to perform in:

Much in the way it smiles upon the work of ancient Greek and Roman craftsmen, I think history will look back at Blu Cantrell and revere her as an artisan of fug. Just when you think she can't elevate her game any higher, she straps on a rocket pack and shoots up into the fugtosphere.

Of course, the drawback of the rare place in history she's carved for herself is that our children's grandchildren might look back and think we all wore jeans that made us look like we were either pregnant, or that we bloated ourselves for sport. And I don't particularly want my memory any more tarnished than it already will be by the photos of me in stirrup pants in grade 9.

Still, it takes a special woman to wear something that renders the hideousness of that hat -- and the retina-peeling wrongness of that lipstick -- totally beside the point. I wouldn't be at all surprised if she left the house in a year wearing pants that button at the armpit (assuming her necklaces don't strangle her first), which would a) essentially bind her in a denim bodystocking, thereby contradicting the notion of freedom her shirt purports to advocate; and b) serve as the ultimate "FU" to her body and to the world.

Oh, Kristen Bell. We've had some hard times, no? So I'm pleased to note that this time, we're handing out love nuggets, rather than hate kernels.

Okay, I don't really like the bag, but that's just because it reminds me of one of those huge bows attached to a barrettes that some of us used to sport in junior high (EVERYONE DID AT THE TIME, OKAY?)  But seeing as you're not wearing it in your hair, I'm going to let it pass, and instead give you some props for rocking a summery, flattering dress that is actually not overwhelming your wee little frame. Shall we enjoy this uneasy truce while it lasts? I fear you may show up for Gossip Girl press wearing a fez.

Kelly, we hated the bodysuit tops and the unflattering pants when you wore them while promoting your last two albums. Why must we go through it again?

We love you, but from what we hear, your third album needs a little more help than the others did; wearing a terribly ill-fitting shirt and painting a bird on the crotch of your even MORE terribly ill-fitting pants isn't the best way to convince me to buy it. For one thing, we here at GFY HQ aren't terribly enamored of birds, unless they are parrots sitting on the shoulders of remarkably hot, surprisingly well-showered pirates -- and the parrots are wearing socks. For another, it's making me wonder if those pants are chafing you somewhere you don't want to be chafed. And finally, the shirt looks like it has a tongue that is lapping out over your zipper, which might scare The Children.

However, I'm glad you went back to being a brunette and grew your hair long, because it completely works. I know that complimenting you here might seem incongruous, but consider it a measure of how much I care. Also, I want to flatter you into never wearing those pants again. I hope it succeeds.

EVANNA LYNCH: Oy, Rupert -- thanks so much for the pants and shoes! You're a peach. It's my first movie, and without you to loan me the proper clothes, I'd have had no idea what to wear in the photos. 

RUPERT GRINT: Don't worry about it, I've got plenty of ratty things you can borrow. The key is to look as grubby as possible, yeah? That way women want to hug you and take you home and clean you up.

EMMA WATSON: I look the best! I look the best!

DANIEL RADCLIFFE: God, this is uncomfortable. How am I supposed to smile with all this itchy cotton on? How am I supposed to show off my pelvic bone, then?

KATIE LEUNG: Bjork's new line of tights and matching shoes is SO GOOD. Seriously, Evanna, you should look into it.

EVANNA: No, Rupert told me I should look like a street urchin. Just because you were in the last movie doesn't mean you know as much as he does.

KATIE: At least I brushed my hair.

DANIEL: I mean, Harry's getting older -- isn't it about time we saw more of his manliness?

EVANNA: At least I'm not wearing a glorified drawstring sack, KATIE.

EMMA: No, seriously, you guys, pay attention to me -- I actually look the best of everyone! This is FANTASTIC! I DID IT!

RUPERT: Come on, ladies, don't you all just want to run your fingers through my messy hair and wash my clothes? Admit it.

DANIEL: I wish they'd take my clothes. They really get in the way of promoting your acting roles.

KATIE: Really? Because I actually have a whole second outfit hidden underneath my skirt.

DANIEL: Don't these people want to create buzz? Look, Evanna's dressed like the Artful Dodger. Maybe she can STEAL my clothes.

EMMA: Oh, shut up, Daniel. We're tired of hearing about that thing with the horse.

DANIEL: All I'm saying is, this suit MIGHT be rigged so that if you pull it in the right spot, it all drops off me.

EMMA: No thanks. Everyone already thinks we all fancy the pants off each other. I'm not giving them any picture evidence. Now shut up and smile.

Below, Paz de la Huerta kindly demonstrates the difference between sexy bedhead and BEDHEAD bedhead:

I'm all for the Mussed Tousled I Just Crawled Out of Your Bed And I'm About to Crawl RIGHT BACK IN look, but at least have the decency to attend to the sweaty bangs before you leave the house.

Here at GFY HQ, we're constantly nagging Intern George to get off his firm, well-sculpted duff and do stuff for us: unload the crates of Lean Pockets and Diet Coke out on the dock, rub our feet, or work on the Go Fug Yourself Time TravelR 3000. Once that little number is up and running, we've got a whole list of things to take care of. I'm going to zip back to 1998 and tell myself that Dawson's Creek's Katie Holmes is going to marry Tom Cruise, if only to see the look on my face. Then I'm going further back, to 1996, to tell myself to STOP CUTTING MY OWN HAIR YOU DON'T LIVE ON A COMMUNE, GOD, and also not to go out with that guy with the soul patch in my Poli Sci class.  Then I'm going way, way back, to 1992, to tell myself that, one day, I will be mere feet from Luke Perry at the Chinese theatre, and if I can JUST HOLD ON, it'll be worth it. And finally, I'll stop off in 1997 to inform myself that this Dreamy Ethan Hawke:

Is going to turn into this guy:

DON CHEADLE: Wow, Victoria, I almost didn't recognize you without a shrunken hat on your head!

VICTORIA ROWELL: That's funny -- I almost didn't recognize YOU without the tarnish of that terrible fake cockney accent you were using in Ocean's Eleven!

DON: Hey, I completely toned that down for Ocean's Thirteen.

VICTORIA: Was it at the expense of your eyesight? Because, I mean, those are a LOT of different blues you are sporting.

DON: At least I'm not wearing a baseball cap with a suit.

VICTORIA: I'll have you know I'm going for the sexy pilot/astronaut look, like I just walked out of a really important smart-casual seminar.

DON: At the University of Southern Maine? Did you even GO there?

VICTORIA: No, but I'm at least FROM there, which means I could at least DO THE ACCENT if I needed to -- you know, in case anyone wanted me to play a sneaky woman from Maine in Ocean's Fourteen and they want actual AUTHENTICITY in the performance.

DON: Didn't your soap character just fall off a cliff or something? Did you throw all your wee hats over with her? Is that it?

VICTORIA: Don't dis tiny headgear, pal -- it might actually help distract from all those stripes. Seriously, it's hurting my eyes. What are you, the Snow Meiser's dorky absent-minded-professor cousin? Got a pocket protector under there anywhere?

DON: Relax, it's not my fault you're having a bad hair day.

VICTORIA:  But at least if somebody's bored during your movie here, they won't ask if they can borrow my shirt for a game of Tic-Tac-Toe. I'm just saying.

DON: Yeah? Well, call me the next time you're even in a movie and I'll wear it again. I could make a fortune at a buck a game.

VICTORIA: ... Can I get a cut?

DON: 70-30?

VICTORIA: Done. Nice doing business with you, Poindexter.

Great Britain's Glastonbury music festival looks kind of like a muddy delight, especially considering that most of the music festivals here in Southern California require an acceptance of the inevitability of severe sun/heat stroke.  However, the seriously inclement weather there this year has lead to some intriguing fashion choices.

Kate Moss, of course, somehow manages to look glamourous despite: trawling through metric tons of muck; living in a trailer for days on end; and accessorizing with the Doherty. I have never seen a photo of him where he appears to have bathed within the last six weeks, or with his mouth closed. While her ability to style herself is remarkable (now I kind of want PVC pants, despite knowing with complete confidence that I absolutely can not pull off PVC pants), her taste in dudes is questionable:

What is not questionable is that Shirley "Goldfinger" Bassey is AWESOME:

If you are Shirley Bassey, and you have to wear wellies, damn straight you get them BeDazzeled. Because you are fabulous, and if my cellular provider offered "Goldfinger" as a ring tone, you would now be like .0004 cents richer, because I would have just bought it.  Speaking of buying things, let us all also give thanks that Shirley didn't buy the farm when her helicopter almost crashed this weekend.

And then there's Stella McCartney, lover of animals, maker of allegedly really nice organic beauty products, and virulent hater of Heather Mills. Despite the kajillions of dollars and the famous father and the friendship with Gwyneth, I like to think that Stella is the most Regular Type Girl of the celebrities at Glastonbury, no?

I have to admit, I've always had a fondness for Gwen Stefani -- with a brief time out for the Wacky Footless White Tights and Silent Harajuku Girls as Accessories period. That was just weird. Perhaps it's because we share a love of leopard print, I don't know. But it's hard not to give it up for someone who clearly is really creative about what she wears, even if what she wears is totally nutola. And god knows, it's no secret that Gwen cares about what she looks like. In fact, until about ten minutes ago, I misheard the "What You Waiting For" lyric "I can't wait to go back and do Japan/Get me lots of brand new fans/Osaka, Tokyo/You Harajuku girls/Damn, you've got some wicked style,"  as "I can't wait to go back and do Japan/Get me lots of brand new fans/Osaka, Tokyo/Your hair is sure good, girls/Damn, you've got some wicked style," meaning that, you know, she can't wait to go back to Japan because all the girls there are wearing awesome outfits and have really great hair. This did not seem weird to me. Obviously Gwen would notice what everyone was wearing everywhere she went. She thinks about these things. Which is why I am mildly alarmed by this:

Photo courtesy of Celebrity Babylon.

Why, yes, those are men's briefs poking out from the top of what I presume are Gavin's old jeans, circa "Machinehead." And in the interest of full disclosure, I am pretty sure that I wore the Boyfriend Jeans, tight polo shirt and Birkenstocks look more than once while I was in college (it was the 90s, dude. I woke up every morning to the guy next door warbling that, despite all his rage, he was still just a rat in a cage).  She looks comfortable and cute, in a ratty kind of way, and it all just takes me back -- what can I say? Howevs: what's with the undies?  Unlike in certain other cases, I have full confidence that when Gwen shows us her delicates, she knows she's doing it.  So, much as we all found ourselves looking for our own silent gang of artfully coiffed and wardrobed individuals of the nationality of our choice two years ago, are we likewise about to enter a period where it's trendy for girls to sport men's underwear? Because that seems too much like high school, when I wore boxers all the time. (Not as underwear. As shorts. My actual underwear is none of your business. Okay, except maybe for you -- you're cute.)

Why so glum, Piper?

Your skirt isn't that bad. ... Okay, maybe the hemline is a little funky right now, and the ruffles seem kind of janky and crushed near the waist. And that shirt is hanging really limply off of your torso. And your hair could use some attention (perhaps a volumizer?). Also, those shoes are kind of awful -- and even if I'm alone on that island, at the very least you still shouldn't have worn them with this outfit. To a major movie premiere. And you look like you might be considering a killing spree.

But other than that, what's the reason for looking so snarly? You were in Coyote Ugly! Sure, it's kind of painful to watch sometimes, but you got to dance on a bar and watch Tyra Banks boogie in a diner with Bridget Moynahan back before the latter dieted herself into a man's jawline and then got knocked up during ex sex, and that Adam Garcia sure was kind of cute. So look on the bright side. It's not like you had suffer Adam's fate: following up Coyote Ugly with Bootmen, where he led a bunch of steel workers in a tap-dancing show to try and save the town or the mill or their artistic souls or somesuch.

So, smile a little, okay? Skip the surliness. Stand up straight. Enjoy life, and the fact that you're still invited to stuff. Because until you're soldering metal to the bottom of people's work boots and teaching them to dance on industrial barrels of some sort, your life hasn't gone that wrong.

Here's my question: If you have made the decision that you want Anne Hathaway on your cover, why not make sure she LOOKS like Anne Hathaway?

I'm not saying you can't be avant-garde with the styling, but something about her face in this photo just doesn't seem right. It compels me to take deep breaths every time I look at it, because her expression reminds me of having a cold and being unable to breathe through my nose.

Actually, even worse, it's giving me disturbing flashbacks to when I was young and I would squeeze Barbie's head at the ears and laugh at how her face got all narrow and distorted (I was not a Barbie Girl -- I only had one; my true love was My Little Pony, even if I did sometimes yank their tails out and give them the occasional bad haircut). I guess that bit of dementia made me a bit like an ahead-of-my-time Kids In The Hall sketch, except that guy was crushing actual people's heads only in theory, whereas I was pinching a doll's head for real. And, I've said too much.

So, before I reveal anything else that's weird about a childhood toy, let's sum up: It's not the dominatrix look to which I object, so much as the fact that the photo looks like it's been vertically stretched. Not a great picture, and kind of a distracting choice for the cover. Also, I gave away that Barbie a gajillion years ago, so nobody has to worry about it suffering any more cranial torture at my ghoulish hands.

I know Amy Winehouse is all wacked looking as part of her thing -- you know, with the beehive full of bats and the wild eyeliner and the mad tats and the drinking and the carousing. Her look works for her, and, of course, it helps that her album is really good, since it's way easier to excuse nutty behavior when the person doing the behaving is nutty AND talented, rather just nutty and, you know, nutty. However, you have to draw the line somewhere. And for me, that line is dental in origin:

There's being cracked out stylistically and then there's looking ACTUALLY cracked out. Baby, I don't care if you don't want to go to rehab, but you have GOT to go to the dentist.

What is going on with Lydia Hearst at the EW Annual Must List Party here?

She's beautiful, but man alive does she look a mess, like Tinkerbell on a really serious bender, the kind even the most independent girl might embark on after the charming but self-involved man/child she's been taking care of for years gets all moony over some random English girl who only ever wears a nightgown and drags her brothers with her everywhere.  A word of advice, Tinkerlydia (ooh, that looks like a particularly nasty and rare STD, doesn't it?). Forget the boy in the green and take up with that drama queen with the hook. He's got his own boat.

Tonight, the role of Kid Rock will be played by:

David Spade!

Well, I guess it's nice to see that Leelee Sobieski is continuing to refine her bitchface -- after all, everyone needs a talent, and without it we might not recognize her any more.

However, it is a shame that she is using her Maidenform Body-Skimming Corset in "Blush" as if it were a legitimate top. It's a tad desperate, not to mention fugtacular. At this point I said to myself, "Well, that's that. I don't need to see the rest, because surely wrapping what looks like a bolt of black spandex around a strapless bra is as bad as it gets." 

And yet, as ever, I should know better.

A word to the wise, directed as those of you running so-called "gifting suites," like the ones at which the below photos were recently snapped:

When handing out an item in which you'd like celebrities or quasi-celebrities (like Vida Guerra and Omarosa here) to be photographed, do your best to make sure that it doesn't have a stain on the left breast, as that makes it rather obvious that it's literally the exact same tunic top thing*-- as chosen by you -- rather than an item each woman wore by choice to the event.

In fact, maybe get more than one of the items in question, so that it doesn't get totally stretched out by the end of the evening. If only because it seems really, really unlikely that a stretched out, stained shirt is going to make an appearance in US Weekly anywhere other under a headline reading, "Stars, They're Just Like US: They run to the grocery store in their jammies, too!"

*NOTE: We've gotten lots of email on this already, but before you warm up Outlook: if these are NOT the same (certainly possible -- have I mentioned that I've been drinking?), then what is happening that they have THE SAME STAIN? WHAT IS GOING ON THERE? Is there a sticky-fingered PR master handing out similar items? A jam-eating bandit going around poking boobs at this event? WHAT? I'M ALMOST MORE DISTURBED NOW.

PPS: To those of you who believe this is all due to a spot on the camera lens, I say BOO to your practical, constructive, well-reasoned answers! LET ME SPREAD RUMORS OF A NAUGHTY, JAM-LOVING, STICKY-FINGERED DESTRUCTIVE INSIDER AT THE GIFTING SUITES! It's a FRIDAY -- that's nasty, sandwich-related rumor-concocting day!

Dear Gods of Fashion,

Thank you for rescuing Rachel Weisz from the 70s-style horror of last week.

And while I'm sure you are all quite occupied sending bolts of inspiration to Marc Jacobs or divinely intervening to prevent Mischa Barton from going outside with a plastic bucket on her head or drinking heavenly cocktails with Versace while peering down at whatever Donatella is doing now, if you find yourself with a spare moment, could you make this entire ensemble materialize in my closet? I promise I won't make fun of Chloe Sevigny's outfits ever again.

Love,

Jessica

Remember The Corrs? Winsome band of Irish siblings, one of whom (this one, I believe, in fact: Andrea) allegedly was involved with Bono (despite the fact that the humanitarian sunglasses-lover is married).  Getting mixed up with a married man is rarely a good idea for anyone -- or so I've learned from years of day time dramas -- but you know what else is a bad idea?

Those shoes with that outfit.

I haven't seen much of Kylie Bax in a long time. In fact, apart from her being a model who shares a name with Kylie Minogue, I haven't thought much about her at all.

Apparently, I should have, because judging by that hairdo she's been stuck in a wind tunnel since about 2002. Maybe if someone had rescued her sooner, she would look less waxy and crazy-eyed. Seriously, after seeing this picture, I was stunned to learn that she's allegedly only 32 -- although, the Bingo Night finery she's wearing admittedly doesn't help. But it seems strange that all of a sudden, a model best known for one of the most explicit Playboy shoots in history now appears best suited to being Candice Bergen's stand-in on Boston Legal (which, by the way, I first wrote as Boston Public by accident; got a fetish, there, David E. Kelley? What's next? Boston Diner? Boston Transpo? Or, in an advertiser's wet dream, Boston Pottery Barn?).

Someone should throw Kylie a bone here, given her plight. Isn't it about time for Murphy Brown: The Musical? You'd save a mint on hair and makeup -- it's all right there.

I have such a Love/Hate with Debra Messing. One day, she'll show up somewhere looking like she's wearing a dress specifically designed to effectively drown yourself.  The next day, she'll pop up somewhere looking fantastic. And then there's this:

Debs, Debs, Debs. After all I've done for you this summer, this is how you repay me? I've spent several weeks watching your shenanigans on The Starter Wife -- including a plot line in which you try to decide if you ought to hook up with a HOMELESS DUDE (who is admittedly hot, although possibly also a robot, judging from his line readings) -- and I comment at least once every episode that you have great hair.  But this is just nuts, my dear. You look like you got the bottom of your dress caught in a wood chipper and just barely escaped with your life (and legs) intact.

Kristin Cavallari used to be as omnipresent on The Scene as... well, as Lauren Conrad is now. What Laguna Beach giveth, The Hills taketh away, I guess, huh, Kristin? Maybe there's only room for so many MTV blondes, and now that Heidi got those generic, boring implants because Spencer is manipulative because she felt God accidentally forgot to make her a C-cup, she takes up a bit more room at the table.

And so, we've seen a little bit less of K-Cav in the last six months to a year. Which was probably smart of her, because overexposure is -- like Spencer, I imagine -- a friend to no one. But the problem is, when you're off the radar, you need to come back on with a bang and not a whimper.

Sadly for Kristen, that noise you hear is a whimper, and it's coming from me.

I'm almost speechless. That dress is not good. Good is The Wizard of Oz; bad is looking like a cocktail waitress at the piano lounge where the Wicked Witch of the West goes to get drunk and sing about her problems. In fact, I wouldn't be surprised if we learned the dress was put together by a passel of her flying monkeys. It's badly sewn; her chest looks lopsided and... kind of like a shelf, really, but without the benefit of being able to rest a drink on it; there's a wrinkle in the front that looks like a strange stain; there are crinkles all down the skirt that look like it rode up on her in the limo but good; and it's way too short to be flattering to her generally very nice legs.

And, wow, could her smaller toes be working any harder to get out of those shoes? I think her left foot's littlest piggy foot paid its neighbors to tie up the top two and steal their wallets for a night on the town. I suspect that's going to end in tears.

Joining Ginnifer Goodwin on The Big List of Celebrities Who Look Like They're Thinking About Choking You Out, I present the usually dreamy Shane West:

Seriously, I'm kind of nervous just looking at him. I only have, like, thirty bucks in my wallet, Shane, but you can totally have it if you just go away.  I mean, I don't know -- maybe he's campaigning for the lead in a made-for-TV-movie about Peter Braunstein. But while that's totally the sort of movie I would get sucked into watching (I love poorly made movies about terrible crimes. I once spent four hours watching a mini-series about the Menendez brothers on Lifetime), I do not think it's really a look anyone should be sporting, you know, off the set. TERROR LEVEL: HIGH

Appendix: POTENTIAL SERIAL KILLER TERROR LEVEL CHART: ON-LOOKER ADVISORY VERSION.

No, Lauren Ambrose. No. Nice try, but I won't let you break me. I've been broken before and Intern George needed to pick up the pieces and it wasn't pretty (even if, secretly, it was sort of fun for me to have my pieces picked up by such a... ... um... loyal employee).

So, I will just quietly note that no matter how great you were with Seth Green in Can't Hardly Wait, and as much as I wish that movie had been about you and not that kind of wussy Ethan Embry character, I can't willingly endorse this look.

I don't even care if you're about to deploy jazz hands, or spirit fingers. The pants under the dress, and those shoes WITH the pants, are SERIOUSLY MISGUIDED, lady. ESPECIALLY DURING SUMMER. I just... I mean... it's... I can't...

"Deep breath, Heather, calm down... BE the jazz hands... that's right. Is your pulse slowing down? Good. Because, sweet fugger, I have a cunning plan to save the day, so hop on the Georgie Express and have a listen. Zooey Deschanel owns way too many pairs of opaque black tights, correct? And Lauren Ambrose apparently doesn't own any, or else she might be wearing them instead of her favorite pair of Boyfriend Jeans from two years ago. So, Lauren should just give Zooey a jingle, arrange to relieve her of a few of those 60-denier security blankets, and the world will continue spinning properly on its axis because everything will be in better balance. We all win! Jazz hands for everyone. Let your spirit fingers waggle freely like hug-worms of elation, because it's chocolate martini time."

Sigh. Thank you, George. You are such a comfort. Also, feel free to give the Godiva liqueur a heavy pour. Don't hold back.

I was considering wearing this to my next gynecological appointment, just to cut down on time:

Too formal?

Soledad O'Brien is pretty.

Pretty, and also possibly suffering from what I like to call Dress-Up Drawer Syndrome, which is what I had when I was five and used to try and improve my outfit by making a cape, a train, or a fabulous combo of the two out of any of my Mom's old clothes I could find.

I'll give Soledad props for using a really nice tablecloth instead of an ancient satin nightgown or a button-down shirt, but I feel like she'd have looked plenty elegant if she'd stepped away from the hot glue gun and left the basic dress alone. As it is, it just looks like she's trying to hide something -- and as Jess pointed out with Demi Moore yesterday, the idea of seeking a glamorous equivalent to tying a sweater around your waist is, to borrow from Clueless, a bit like searching for meaning in a Pauly Shore movie: ugly, fruitless, and ultimately not that flattering to your ass.

I get what Gina Tognoni was going for; really, I do.

It's a statement, yes? It's her way of saying, "I was roped into coming here," right? I mean, that's got to be it. Because I can't think of any other good reason to wear a dress that makes your left breast look a good three inches higher than your right.

Okay, I thought of one: Her ugly stepsisters locked her in a cupboard to keep her from shopping, and a cheerful pack of mice had to make her this dress on the fly (which would also explain all the other random pieces of fabric hanging from this thing). But I'm pretty sure that's not the case. I mean, everyone knows the Three Blind Mice don't do awards shows, and they're the only rodent tailors I can think of who would let a girl out of the house in a gown that looks like the right half of it mysteriously shrank.

I suppose it makes sense that Phoebe Price would want to follow in the footsteps of the Peldons and release a...fragrance? (Parenthetically, where are the Peldons? I hope they haven't been kidnapped or something without anyone noticing their absence but me.) 

Or...it might be a lotion, as it's being made by a company called Lotion Glow? Although on the poster it looks like a candle? Or...look, I'm not sure what it is.  After much internet research, I believe it may be a fragrance in candle form. Should this seriously be so complicated? Whatever it is, it's called Phoebe's Phantasy, and according to the website pimping it (which took me seriously a really long time to find. You all need to better optimize something, Phoebe's Phantasy People), Ms Price is the new "face" of Lotion Glow. Quotation marks theirs.  Which I guess implies that she's something other than the face of the brand. I wonder which body part she actually is.

Aw, everybody loves General Hospital's Robin Scorpio!

Everyone, that is, except whoever told her this dress would hang fine if she just cinched the hell out of it. Listen, Robin has enough problems, what with the HIV and that whole befriending-an-alien thing in 1990, and the fact that both her parents have been presumed dead at one point or another in her young life. She really doesn't need people coming up to her on top of all that and gently asking if she's got a hip tumor. Which you can tell the guy behind her desperately wants to do, because he probably also loves Robin Scorpio and just wants her to be healthy and happy. Clearly, he was not there when she was trying on gowns.

I don't know if Demi Moore ever wakes up and feels weird because she's older than Ashton (she shouldn't. I love that someone's flipped the traditional 60 year old dude/30 year old hottie pairing on its ass. Not that you look 60, Demi. Your dermatologist is a miracle worker. Which sort of makes it sound like I'm implying that you actually ARE 60. Which I know you are not. But if you were, you....you know what? You know what I mean. Good on you for snagging a hot younger man, is what I am trying to say here.  Let's all move along).

But wearing a gown that appears to be designed as some kind of trompe l'oeil of the old college girl trick of tying a sweatshirt around your ass so as to make it look smaller is not going to make her feel much better.

There are days when I just have loads to say about a variety of outfits. The references to Judith Krantz and Dynasty and Sweet Valley High fly fast and furious. And then there are times when I simply don't have to say anything:

I mean, seriously.
 

In theory, we're all for celebrities acting like normal people and wearing something more than once. In practice, though, there are things like high-waisted overalls, which fall distinctly into the "Fool me once, shame on you; fool me twice, shame on me" category of fashion.

Such was the affliction I thought had grabbed Fergie in its toxic clutches.

And then, with a heavy heart, I realized this is not the same pair of camel-toe-causing high-waisted overalls. Which means... it's hard to put this in print, because that means it's real... there are TWO types of vagina-crunching, waist-pinching, armpit-encroaching denim overalls in the world. Judging by Fergie's face, this one is particularly likely to have been dumped on an unsuspecting public by the same people who bring you Monistat. [Miss Fergie Ferg must be seriously reconsidering the creative decision to peddle her latest single dressed as a farmhand.]

Unless her apparently misery has to do with how tightly the belt is cinched, at which point the suspenders become merely decorative. Yes, that's right: They're IMITATION lady-cave-spelunking high-waisted overalls. I'm not sure which is the more insidious creation; all I do know is, it just got a little bit less safe for us out there. 

I know we're currently living in an era of Floaty Frocks that prompt on-lookers to constantly wonder if the wearer is pregnant or not (and heck, I own several of them myself: not having to worry about sucking in all the time is awesome), but seriously, is Jill Hennessy pregnant? I honestly want to know:

I don't think she is -- and I'd like to take a moment to note that I like her with her hair pulled back -- but there is a difference between Trendy Floaty Frock (and I do think the longer ones can be kind of fabulous if they don't totally overwhelm you, said the girl who just spent an hour at J. Crew trying to decide if their versions of the Long Trendy Floaty Frock overwhelm her [I think they do. Oh, the trauma, dear readers!])  and Dress Potentially Made From Parachute Remnants.

And with all this parachute-y tragedy duly noted, I just realized that I started watching Crossing Jordan a few months ago, when she was in a coma (or had a brain tumor or something, I don't know) and then I totally forgot to check back in and find out if she's dead or not. Sorry, Jill. I guess I owe you one.

Pop quiz: What is going on here?

a) The photographer has just informed Bai Ling that she is not, in fact, sitting on a toilet;

b) Personality No. 5 and Personality No. 11 got into a raging fight about whether there really is such a thing as an allergy to pants, making the host body extremely woozy;

c) The people at Vitamin Water asked her to stage a "before" shot;

d) Her gynecologist showed up and groaned, "Oh, God, please, not when I'm off duty";

e) All of the above.

It's hard out there for Days of our Lives' Caroline Brady. I mean, the woman was poisoned and died in a church while praying, only to be secretly transported to some terrible, creepy Island of Misfit Characters, where all the "dead" were secretly alive and, in some cases, watching their loved ones back in Salem having sex with other people. As you do.

Unfortunately, having an alter-ego with a rough life doesn't explain why the actress who plays her is wearing a giant scarf that looks like she bought it at IKEA under a sign that said, "HJÅARTEN: $5.99."

Maybe -- even though actually watching the whole Fake Island fiasco was as painful as ripping off my own feet -- the actress secretly yearns for those glory days of listening to Dr. Marlena Evans Brady Black Whatever sob about John and Kate getting it on all over poor faux-dead Doc's sensibly decorated penthouse apartment, if only because it gave her something to do other than pull pints at the Irish pub as a glorified extra. Indeed, perhaps Peggy is sick of dying of boredom now that Caroline is back behind the bar, and would prefer to die of something else. Heatstroke, perhaps? That's the only sense I can make of pairing a long-sleeved ankle-length dress and panty hose with a thickly knit ode to Twister... on a Los Angeles afternoon in June.

So come on, Victor Kiriakis. Take some pity on your bored, overheated former paramour. Put your right hand on red.

Nadia Bjorlin played Chloe on Days of Our Lives, which I watch only sporadically (like when Marlena gets possessed by the devil), but I do recall a rather fantastic couple of weeks when she was skulking around town wearing a cape and a hood, so as to disguise the terrible, terrible disfigurement she'd suffered in some kind of terrible, terrible incident that I didn't catch (car accident? acid bath? tragic oil rig explosion? freak avalanche? big fight with her evil twin? attacked by birds? lava thrown in her face? I don't know).  However, as far as I know, she's not really on the show anymore, so I'm not sure why she was at the Emmys this year:

Other, of course, than to provoke her former coworkers to come up to her and threaten to unwrap her like one of the strawberry bon-bon candies in a Hickory Farms gift basket.

Everyone knows that Heather and I love to read about the shenanigans of English's WAGS (the "wives and girlfriends" of various footballers).  This particular WAG, Colleen McLoughlin, is affianced to Manchester United star Wayne Rooney, and, according to Wikipedia, "regularly appears in the English tabloids amidst accusations of doing nothing but shopping all day and frequently holidaying in sunny locations."

If only she had thought to buy a slip.

Like Heather, I love Ellen DeGeneres. Just  last week I found myself watching Mr Wrong, even.  (It's not good, in case you were wondering, and yet I watched the whole thing.) I love her AmEx commercials. I find her talk show charming, and it never fills me with any kind of rage, the way that Oprah sometimes does (like, you know, the four or five times she told everyone to read The Secret). I would never want her to show up at any event all trussed up in a frock. It's just not her. And yet, I'm not entirely sure THIS is her, either:

While Portia's working her high-waisted pants nicely, I'm concerned that Ellen's been spending her weekends in Headwaiter School with Constantine. I'm not entirely sure what kind of cuisine her establishment specializes in, but I suspect there's a portion of the evening where twirling plates are balanced on sticks. And if there's anything I know in this crazy, mixed-up world, it's that Ellen DeGeneres is too good for prop comedy.

While watching the Daytime Emmys on Friday night, I remarked, "Mario Van Peebles is really aging well! He looks GREAT." And so he does (he's 50!). However, I was so taken by his youthful face that I didn't notice until this morning that he seems to be holding on to the misguided trappings of youth sartorially, which isn't working out nearly as successfully as his skin care regime, whatever it may be. To wit, a sheer gray shirt:

The last time I saw a sheer shirt on a man who was not appearing in the International Male catalog, it was on a file photo of Michael "Sorry About the Daddy Issues, but at Least You Got 'Daughter to Father' Out of It, Right?" Lohan, which I just spent twenty fruitless minutes looking for.  Needless to say, Michael Lohan is the last person that anyone ought to be imitating in any way, and I hope this doesn't mean that the wee Van Peebleses are going to start driving into trees.  However, it could have been worse:

CHRISHELL STAUSE (right): God, I'm cute.

MELISSA CLAIRE EGAN (left): I'm so excited! It's my first Emmys!

CHRISHELL: Yeah, I can tell. I mean, you're LOVELY and all, but look, even that weird muse in Xanadu with the penis hairdo would dismiss your dress as "too disco."

MELISSA CLAIRE: You think so, Vegas bride?

CHRISHELL: Hey, at least I look kind of cool and sexy, and not like somebody gift-wrapped me after burning a copy of Saturday Night Fever and then snorting the ashes. And... I'm sorry, but is that a front panty-line, or is your dress just trying to mess up your photos?

MELISSA CLAIRE: This all seems very uncalled for from a girl who plays the once-unloved, now kind of wussy daughter of Janet From Another Planet on All My Children.

CHRISHELL: Janet is just misunderstood.

MELISSA CLAIRE: She's a psychotic baby-napper who threw her twin down a well; somehow convinced her twin's husband to fall in love with her after the sister went blind, got her sight back in A Christmas Miracle, and then eventually died; and then killed him years later and threw him in a deep-freezer.

CHRISHELL: You're so judgy. And shiny. Did you grease up your chest?

MELISSA CLAIRE: At least MY character is LOVED.

CHRISHELL: By who? Ryan? Please. He was married to a girl named GREENLEE, for God's sake.

MELISSA CLAIRE: So? He's the hero of the show. Every single script makes sure that somebody says so.

CHRISHELL: Well, he should have saved you from that dress.

MELISSA CLAIRE: Whatever. If Ryan's the stud then I am the AMC sweetheart. Suck on THAT.

CHRISHELL: Just don't come crying to me when your tube top starts to chafe. Smile for the camera!

MELISSA CLAIRE: Yeah, you won't smile so wide when I remind you that I am BIG TIME because I was one One Tree Hill once, as a cashier or something... so take THAT.

CHRISHELL: Pshaw. If Chad Michael Murray didn't try to propose to you, it doesn't count.

MELISSA CLAIRE: ... Dammit.

When I was watching the Daytime Emmy Awards the other night -- look, we all know I love soaps, and we all know I REALLY love awards shindigs, so it was a pretty marriage of my favorite things -- I did a double-take when Ellen DeGeneres won for best talk show host. Not because I didn't think she deserved it; rather, it was because when she got up to accept the award, she walked past what appeared to be a giant cake, and high-fived it.

My first thought was, "Wow,  I love Ellen. I mean, if that woman is hanging out with person-sized baked goods, clearly I need to be in her entourage." Then I thought, "No, her Ellentourage. HA!" And then I realized I was a) making bad jokes out loud while totally alone, and b) sitting on the couch on a Friday watching an awards show without any of my bitches around, all of which made it even SADDER when I noticed that the aforementioned cake was not a delicious dessert treat but, in fact, one Miss Tyra Banks.

The good news is, Tyra has found a way to conceal the wig tape.

The BETTER news is that if Lindsay Lohan keeps wetting the bed all over her once-promising career, pretty soon they'll reunite so that Tyra can recycle this dress as the living doll in Life Size 2: Sleeping Booty.

Unless this was a challenge for the next season of America's Next Top Model, wherein the girls had to learn what it takes to be Tyra by hiding under her gown. That skirt could conceal at least ten model-sized people -- nine and a half if she has a fake plus-size person in the group. And that is why we love Miss Tyra. Why wear enough dress for one person when you could wear one the size of Luxembourg?

Kate Walsh is a knock-out, but I think her recent engagement has turned her Wedding Crazy, and now she's just modeling potential wedding gowns for us. Speaking for myself, I gotta say, I am not wild about this particular one:

Something about the neckline makes her look kind of matronly (and weirdly long-torsoed), which...hello, it's Kate Walsh. She's no more matronly than, say, Bret Michaels is. But while this particular bridal extravaganza isn't fabulous from the front, it's particularly troublesome when you learn what kind of wacky tulle-y shenanigans it's truly up to:

Kate, you look so coy. But you also look like you're about to take the runway in a charity fashion show, circa 1987, the theme of which is Judith Krantz Weddings. The best part of Judith Krantz novels, other than the soap-y plots, is the sections in which she describes what her characters are wearing. And whatever they're wearing is clearly meant to be fantastic, but is, in fact, as read in the present day, TERRIBLE. Like this passage, from Scruples Two, which happens to be on my desk for reasons of Never You Mind:

"'I used four minutes to put on my best underwear, a plum-colored pullover....my turquoise cashmere sweater that I got on Orchard Street for almost nothing, my finally broken-in white jeans, my antique silver-and-turquoise Mexican belt that cost a fortune, my favorite silver earrings, my best cowboy boots, a great pink blazer I got on sale, and this eggplant-colored cape that looks as if I stole it from Beau Brummell."

This is an outfit that prompts one of the male characters in the book to want to kiss this particular woman. It is seriously fabulous and delightful (a blazer AND A CAPE!) and also terribly dated and, by the way, the Scruples books are the best beach reading ever, if you haven't already experienced the very 80s joy of them. But while there's nothing better than a Judith Krantz book and a cold, boozy beverage on a hot day, I can not, in good conscience, agree to dressing like a refugee from one.

I'm not sure who drugged Kristanna Loken and then stuffed her into this giant lampshade, but judging by the look on her face, when she finds that person she is going to rip then in half. I kind of want to run away, and I'm not even anywhere near her. I mean, the culprit could at least have rubbed some bronzer on her halter-top tan to even it out; clearly, our wily fashion mugger was as cold-blooded as they come.

I think playing buttoned-up Nicki on Big Love -- she of the high-necked blouses, frumpy skirts, and patronizing smile -- might have been just what the  doctor ordered for Chloe Sevigny, Duchess of Fugville.

See, the less naked she is on TV and the more repressed and wound-up her character gets, the more she wants to knock your socks into next month's laundry pile when she shows up on a red carpet. 

She just looks so good here. That color works really well with her skin, the shoes ought to be sitting in my closet, her hair is simple but sexy, and she even managed to make an otherwise clashing pink croc clutch (which, seriously, why is that not ALSO in my closet?) work with the bright orange by throwing in a funky bracelet that plays off both shades. Why can't she do this more often? Maybe the fake love of a good man and his two other wives were all Chloe needed to wash off the evils of The Brown Bunny and all the sour-faced insanity that came before and after it.

Not that I'm suggesting polygamy can cure your fashion problems; merely that it takes something VERY unusual to cure you of the taint of Vincent Gallo's t'aint.

It was while I was catching up with the shenanigans on One Tree Hill -- my not-at-all-secret-shame -- that Heather informed me we had reached our 2,000th post.  If I were a character on One Tree Hill, of course, I would celebrate this milestone by: accidentally setting a grave on fire, impregnating 2-4 woman at a wedding; driving a limo off a bridge; framing a suicidal teen for murder; or beating the bejeesus of out of the already dead body of Rick Fox (sorry, Rick). Instead, on this most momentous occasion, and to mark the end of teen soap season (Hidden Palms doesn't really count -- sorry, Kevin Williamson), I present to you the one thing that brings relief to me during this long summer without secret affairs with fake virgins, parents with substance abuse problems, or sociopaths posing as long-lost family members:  photographic proof of how very much better off we all are when we don't have to look at Chad Michael Murray's hair, if we can help it.

It is important to remember how Chad Michael Murray began:

Yes, that IS Lindsay Lohan. Remember when she and Hilary Duff were feuding over CMM, right after they feuded about Aaron Carter? As far as Lindsay goes, that behavior was a total harbinger of things to come. But Chad -- Serial Monogamist and, from what we hear, semi-professional douchewad -- at least had the good sense to get away from La Lohan and get a haircut.

Nowadays, CMM looks decent at most events, but on-screen, oh, it is brutal. I would theorize that the show's stylists sided with Sophia Bush after she had to annul their marriage in wake of his allegedly cheating on her with Paris Hilton, but he's looked a mess since the get-go.

Behold:

Socialite Genevieve Jones is notorious in New York for the fact that nobody knows much about how she's famous, or what she does to support herself, aside from a Wall Street Journal article that posited something suspicious about support from a wealthy ex.

What they now know is that she's revered in interpretive dance circles for turning the musical Hair into a sensitive love story about forest nymphs.

And to think people question her talents. Pish.

Actress Mary Elizabeth Winstead is apparently praying that the nation's incredibly lukewarm reaction to Mona Lisa Smile means she can campaign for a Broadway adaptation.

Meanwhile, her grandmother is praying that sticky-fingered Mary Liz returns her favorite orthopedic sandals before Meatloaf Night.

If you're that hungry for sensitive character drama, Mary E., then you shouldn't have ditched Passions. You could be playing a pregnant ex-hooker whose skeezy pimp husband wants to sell their baby. Sure, you're in Live Free or Die Hard, but it can't give you that kind of range.

Justin: So....this is kind of awkward, right?

Cameron: Whatever. I guess so. I don't care. I'm dating like nine men right now.

Justin: I don't know if I would consider Criss Angel "a man."

Cameron: Mee-ow. What do you care, anyway? Aren't you going out with Jessica Simpson?

Justin: ALBA. I mean, Biel. Jessica Biel.

Cameron: Whatevs. I've been looking completely awesome since we broke up and you're dressed like a caddy at my dad's golf club. That keeps me pretty warm at night. That, and someone from the selection of cute boys I've been hooking up with. I don't know if I've mentioned that. All the boys I'm dating. While showing them about six miles of leg.

Justin: I do not look like a caddy.

Cameron: Okay, okay.  I'm sorry.  You look like an actual golfer.

Justin: I am so glad we broke up.

Cameron: You're preaching to the choir.

From the Desk of Leelee Sobieski:

To do:

Put on total bitchface: check

Dig out attractive gown in supremely flattering color: check

Inexplicably lose my shit and attack the bottom of it with shears: check

Debate trimming the hem so that it's a mini: check

Decide to just pretend I did the whole thing on purpose: check

Riddle me this, Fug readers:

Is Brooke Burns (right? I get her confused with Brooke Burke. Wait. This IS Brooke Burke. Hang on)... Ahem, is Brooke Burke wearing a mildly acid-washed denim jumpsuit, or has she tucked in a mildly acid-washed zip-up denim vest into jeans? And which one is the greater fashion crime? These are the questions that keep me awake at night, watching infomercials, pondering the fate of humanity, and then later deciding it's all a lost cause and ordering six Deni Mini Deep Fryers.

Think, Emma. Let's get Method together: How would Nancy Drew solve The Case Of The Footless Female?

First, she might consider whether the giant white belt is reflecting enough light back up into your eyes to blind you to the problem. Then she might throw you a Yellow Pages and let your fingers do the walking -- since, apparently, your feet can't -- straight to the number of a tailor. Case solved!

Now, how to get rid of that wussy Ned Nickerson...

I wonder, do you think Gabrielle Anwar's dress comes complete with an elaborate set of ropes and pulleys concealed beneath it, so she can raise and lower the hemline like the window dressing it so resembles?

Because that might be kind of neat to see in action.

If only the wizarding world were real. Aside from the obvious great things, like being able to cook and clean with the use of my magic wand and the fact that Paris Hilton would be in Azkaban making out with dementors, I would send Rupert Grint a Howler.

It would go something like, "RUPERT WHATEVERYOURMIDDLENAMEIS GRINT, WHAT ARE YOU THINKING, GOING TO A MOVIE PREMIERE WITH HAIR IN YOUR FACE LIKE THAT? AND IS THAT DIRT ON YOUR T-SHIRT? YOU LOOK LIKE YOU'RE WALKING TO THE CORNER STORE TO STEAL SOME CRISPS, NOT TO A NICE RED-CARPET EVENT WHERE JESSICA ALBA WILL BE THERE IN A BALL GOWN. COULDN'T YOU BE BOTHERED TO GET A TRIM AND CLEAN UP? YOU ARE SO GROUNDED, MISTER!" Because apparently in this fantasy world, I am also Rupert Grint's mother.

Confidential to Linzi Stoppard (who is, according to the Interwebs, allegedly the "hottest electric rock violinist in the world," a statement which is probably accurate, in that she is pretty and I also can't think of any other electric rock violinists):

Just because you're attending the premiere of The Fantastic Four: Rise of the Silver Surfer, you're not required to actually go in costume as the titular character.

I have a weird obsession that I have not yet aired in this space (I know, you'd think the thing about how I watch The Ghost Whisperer would have been the very last of the dirty laundry). And it is with the CBS procedural drama Cold Case. Which I do not watch, although I enjoyed how CBS's Sunday programming last year all rhymed, with The Amazing Race, Cold Case and Without a Trace, all in a neat little row. There is one very specific reason that I do not watch Cold Case, despite the fact that I work from home and therefore have a lot of time to watch television, and find procedural dramas kind of relaxing. I mean, you know what you're getting on Law and Order: Whichever.  There will be grousing, and lies discovered as well as bodies, and at the end of it, Sam Waterston will look like he needs a drink. But I have excluded Cold Case from my rotation, for one reason: Kathryn Morris's terrible, terrible hair extensions. I was thinking about picking it up, and then, one summer, I saw the ads for the new season and she'd gone from having Shortish Brainy No-Nonsense Inspector of Murders and Keeper of Terrible Personal Secrets hair to having this hair:

Which is ridiculously fake and ridiculous, full stop. It looked even worse in a CBS CARES PSA that was running for years about...oh, who knows? Thinking of the children, or something. For the last few years, I've been noting to people that Kathryn Morris's extensions are the most tragic I've ever seen and I am boycotting them. Those people would then, of course, roll their eyes and ask me if I had any more gin.

So it was with great glee that I saw that Kathryn Morris has 86ed the old fake hair:

I've been staring at what Marcia Gay Harden wore to the Tony's for a day and a half now, wondering why exactly I couldn't put my horror into words. Her sleeves broke my brain.

I mean... why, Marcia? Why? You are a handsome woman. You are not an elderly society dame. You are not a former silent film star who swans around her tony L.A. mansion smoking cigarettes out of long holders while your manservant irons your turbans, and braying to the young screen-writing lover you've somehow entrapped that eyes are the window to the soul and pictures were better before actors started talking in them. So I can't see any reason why you've chosen to Go There. Especially with sleeves that could double as a young girl's petticoats. Pants are not sleeves, no matter how much they look like it after a few gimlets.

It is our great pleasure here at GFY HQ to announce a Celebrity Terror Watch downgrade, in which a formerly afflicted celeb shows up at an event not looking cracked out, tanned up, bloated, greasy, frighteningly thinner than usual, or compromised in any way that the CDC would need to hear about. Instead, we are extremely  gratified to present to you Jon Favreau, as witnessed over the weekend:

That's a nice suit, Jon.

Allow me to refresh your memory as to how he looked last time we checked in:

At last, an answer to the age-old question, "Could Christy Turlington wear a sack and get away with it?"

And that answer is, "almost, but not quite."

Aw, Lauren Holly looks so happy, with her sassy haircut and her great legs and the plastic Barbie Dream House couch. I guess that's what co-starring with Mark Harmon on one of TV's most successful dramas that nobody you know watches will do to a girl.

But what Lauren Holly doesn't know is that we've switched her regular blue dress with a dumpy satin sack. Let's see if she notices.

I have a tremendous girl crush on Rachel Weisz. I think she is so, so, so pretty. Just not in this:

She looks like an extra from Freaks and Geeks, which I've recently been re-viewing thanks to our friends over at Netflix. And while it is hilarious and poignant, I am NOT watching it thinking, "Sure, Jason Segal is adorable, but can we talk about the CLOTHES??!?"

Although it is just chock-a-block with high-waisted pants, and we all know those are coming back.  Right?

For your viewing pleasure, a exclusive still from the upcoming feature film Ginnifer Goodwin: Portrait of a Serial Killer:

"She always seemed so quiet, " reads the accompanying press release, "but the cast and crew of Big Love should have realized something was awry the night of the show's second season premiere, when the actress's quiet demeanor turned, at long last, to barely concealed hatred. And soon...it would turn to violence. Starring Katie Holmes as Ginnifer Goodwin."

Joanna Krupa is sort of... professionally naked. She's one of those girls who shot to fame because her abs and boobs are very popular on the Internet and in magazines like FHM and Maxim, and indeed, she was a "juggy" on The Man Show for a while, which meant (from what I understand) that she spent a lot of time jumping up and down and wiggling around -- er, sorry, "dancing" -- in a bra.

So I should probably not be surprised that she showed up to the Spike TV Guys' Choice awards thingamy dressed in something Jeannie would've had in her honeymoon trousseau when she married Major Anthony Nelson.

Because, really, only someone who practically counts a bikini as her work uniform would look at this and say, "Well, there's netting on it -- really, it's practically PRUDE."

Jamie Lynn Spears has seemingly done the impossible, looking sort of charming and fresh in a... shorts jumpsuit:

This is, of course, the second shiny shorts jumpsuit to make an appearance on GFY in the last week or so. It may, in fact, be the exact same jumpsuit as previously modeled by Michelle Trachtenberg, just in a different color and more appropriately accessorized. And while everything in me cries out against the shorts jumpsuit as a concept -- everything! Every organ, every beat of my heart -- I must admit that this iteration of it is rather cute.  Is this like the fashion equivalent of how even a stopped clock is right twice a day?
 

Clearly, tween-set actress/singer Aly Michalka is in love with Christopher Walken. It's the only explanation I can come up with for the following:

I mean, why else wear an outfit that so loudly cries out for more cowbell?

Elisha Cuthbert has had a rough go of it when it comes to clothes. Maybe all those years being chased by tigers and killers and psychos on 24 -- while her father skirted death, then actually died one, then came back because he was still totally under contract with FOX and they'd already killed or planned to kill/maim everyone else at CTU -- has messed with her head for real.

I mean, seriously -- there was this, and this, and this, and let's not forget the time those pants ate her feet, or the time she got eaten by taffeta.  You get the gist.

So it was a thrill to see her working it like God intended.

Beautiful.She kept it simple with the dress, which works because her makeup and hair and earrings are all classy and lovely, and her face positively glows. Listen, I know she was friends with Paris for a while there, but seriously, maybe La Hilton finding out that "being behind bars" does not mean "being a bartender" -- however brief that stint tragically was -- brought out the best in Young Hollywood for one sweet, if short, moment in time. Almost as if the air was purer, the Diet Coke colder, and the mirrors clearer. Even all the way in New York.

Sniffle. Yes, times were better back then -- back when prisoners got sent to the infirmary, rather than to their own homes, when they got rashes; back when we still thought we might get to see a picture of her with overgrown eyebrows leaving the slammer with no hair extensions. Those were the good old days.

Dear Rosario Dawson,

Thanks so much for being self-sacrificing enough to demonstrate in public why girls with boobs on the ampler side are not necessarily well-served by tent-dresses. Seriously, that was really brave.

Loved you in Josie and the Pussycats!

Cheers,

The Fug Girls

I just KNEW Kimberly Stewart was going to try and take over for Paris and Lindsay while Linds is in rehab and Paris was plotting her prison break. But I never thought she'd go THIS FAR:

Kimberly, no matter HOW sparkly and wide your headband is, it will be a cold, cold day in hell when Karl Lagerfeld helps YOU out of a plane.  If you start sending poorly spelled screeds to the media via Blackberry, Lindsay is going to burst out of the program just to kick your ass.

Now that my new issue of Entertainment Weekly is (theoretically) about to arrive on my doorstep, I can finally chuck last week's -- which is a relief, because the cover photo of Katherine Heigl was giving me a severe case of what doctors call "the creeps."

Not that this is Heigl's fault. She's turned into a terrific actress, for one thing, and she's also completely adorable. To all those haters on message boards who say she's fat just because she isn't a twig like Ellen Pompeo, I say, A POX ON YOU. That is CRAZY TALK. We should all be so lucky as to be as "fat" as Katherine Heigl, what with her perfect curves and her pretty face and her completely NORMAL, healthy body (not to mention the fact that she's probably still a size 4 or something, because this town is totally dysfunctional).

Just look how nice she looks inside EW:

See? She's cute! She's playful! Her eyes are open! She looks sober, or at the very least, mildly buzzed enough that she's still fun but not in danger of drooling on the pavement and flashing her privates before accidentally deigning to go home with Calum Best like everyone else does!

You'd think those last two wouldn't be important distinctions, but they are when you consider the photo they used on the actual COVER of EW (a really unfortunate acronym for the mag, come to think of it, but also sort of apt in this case).

Okay, true confession: There is one very specific time in which I might be caught with a dress on over pants. See, sometimes, when I go shopping, I quite pathetically realize I forgot to wear shoes that would be easy to kick off -- ergo, in the sweet, warm cocoon of a store's dressing room, I will often decide I'm too lazy to bother removing my shoes and jeans unless the dress fits my top half and appears to be worth a proper look.

However, and this is important, I will never actually exit the dressing room that way.

And while stage actress Lauren Pritchard was correct to assume this dress didn't merit a proper pantsless look, she presumably only did so because she fell into that other trap: thinking it worked just fine as a shirt because it matched her Vans.

I think we've officially reached the phase where these things should come with warning labels. We are at DressCon 1.

So, after like months and months and months of blah blah blah about Sarah Jessica Parker's clothing line, Bitten, it's FINALLY available in stores (well, in Steve & Barry'ses, which I don't think even exist on the West Coast) today. See, here's SJP at the...launch, or whatever you call it:

I presume she is wearing all her own work, yes?  It's....you know, fine.  She looks...you know, okay. Totally...totally okay.  And...you know, serviceable. And it's completely...oh, f' it. Those pants look mad cheap.  And I know that they ARE mad cheap, and that is theoretically awesome -- there's a reason Forever XXI does so well and god knows, I buy all kinds of crap there practically weekly -- but when wee little Sarah Jessica Parker's pants are totally pulling at the crotch (I'M SORRY I LOOKED AT HER CROTCH. IT HAPPENS), then said pants are going to be wildly problematic for the rest of the known world.

I quite like both the American and British versions of What Not to Wear. But I find it interesting that Trinny Woodall, the former host of the British version, often turns up places in ensembles that I would think she would advise others, you know, Not to Wear:

There is something about this that sort of seems like it stemmed from a Project Runway challenge wherein the contestants were tasked to make evening gowns from items purchased at a store called Primarily Picnics.

This dress definitely makes socialite Byrdie Bell look tall.

And her DNA makes her look like she has a movie role ahead of her as the younger sister to Amanda Peet and Evangeline Lilly. Now that Studio 60 has gone to the big network in the sky -- where it will probably likewise get cancelled down to purgatory -- maybe Peet and Bell can hook themselves up with a Lost flash-forward in which it's revealed that Kate had two sisters in a DIFFERENT Dharma hatch somewhere the Caribbean.

But, that's neither here nor there, unless you are hankering for a pun about how the dress makes Byrdie's boobs look... wait for it... lost.

Seriously, don't they look weird? Squished. Almost pellety. Like oversized horse pills laid side by side on some fabric. Shouldn't a good gown -- like a good man -- support, fluff, and flatter, rather than totally bumming you out and making you wonder where your youth went?

Maybe if this had been the back of the dress, it would've worked.  As is, though, they apparently need to go to couples therapy together.

So... do we think Lisa Snowdon's enormous lingerie-blouse is what drew George Clooney to her, or what pushed him away?

I mean, I'm pretty sure I have relatives who wore shirts like that in the '70s, but they were probably polyester and patterned like a discount-bin rug rather than being sheer and lacy. Nice legs, though, but seriously -- in that thing, a stiff breeze could be her gynecologist. (Or her lover.)

Let's ask the man who was once one of those things -- and possibly both; he does seem to be a George of All Trades. So tell us, Intern George, what do you make of that outfit?

"Look, Jann Carl, just say it, okay? What are you waiting for? You've already asked if meringues are my favorite candy. You've already said you have a sudden craving for a cone of vanilla soft-serve. You've asked if I've lost any bets recently, if I blacked out this morning for any period of time, if I've heard any "scoop" about more Mad Max movies, and if Ben's too busy being a father to sit me down for a long chat. I know what you're thinking, Jann. So why don't you just GET TO THE POINT? Just say it -- just SAY IT ALREADY: YOU THINK I SHOULD GIVE UP SUGAR. Man. Next time, just SPIT IT OUT, please, so I can go inside and CRY INTO MY JUNIOR MINTS. Thanks." 

Oh, McKenzie Westmore. Listen, I know your alter ego Sheridan has had it tough lately on Passions, what with love of her life, Hot Luis, being in prison facing the death penalty; Hot Luis falling in love with a girl named Fancy (who, I kid you not, apparently has a sister named Pretty); Sheridan trying to win him back by greasing up her hair, slapping on a goatee, and posing as his male cell mate; Luis's brother in the cell across the way (of course) catching those two making out and thinking Luis was exploring men (when, in fact, the bisexual on the show is Chad -- who  impregnated a girl he later found out was his sister, except of course after she'd been in a convent for a year they found out they're not related); having to shower with the other inmates while Luis and Miguel sheltered your boobs from the other prisoners; and having to protect poor old blind Father Lonigan from The Mysterious Masked She-Man, who is terrorizing him with a gun and blackmailing half of Harmony while wearing a crazy-bad wig and an outfit that's half girly and half manly, sewn together vertically down the middle.

So yeah, I get it. Times are tough.

But not this tough -- not dress-over-pants tough. It's summer! Why not wear that dress as, you know, a dress? Are you jealous of the She-Man's split wardrobe, ham-handedly trying to achieve a similar effect on a horizontal axis? Because it doesn't really work -- much like that whole storyline where you had amnesia and married to Luis's long-lost brother, only to regain your memory back in Harmony just in time for Antonio to go blind from a brain fog that meant you couldn't tell him about your past with Luis or else his head would blow up. Although it was hilarious in theory, it's not good when a story about a cuckolded dying blind man makes me want to punch the aforementioned cuckolded dying blind man in the nose.

Much like wearing a dress over pants is not good. Which brings us right back around on topic. How nice.

For some reason, I get Nia Peeples confused with Sheila E.  There is no good reason for this. They have very little in common. I think it must be all the similar vowels in their names, and I guess they look sort of alike,  say, if you only have one eye (for what it's worth, I am not so afflicted). Of course, I also get Sheila E confused with Sheena Easton. Basically, it's a wonder that I ever leave the house in one piece.  But despite my confusion and ignorance regarding 80s musical acts (did you know that Nia was Liberace's opening act in Vegas? Neither did I, until just now), I am pretty sure that NO ONE -- not Nia, Sheila, or Sheena -- should be wearing this to any event that didn't include the words "belly-dancing lessons" or "dress code: sequined beachy" on the Evite.

HEIDI: No, really. Do I ever look bad? Even when I show up on Project Runway wearing lederhosen and, like, a pumpkin as a hat, don't you just look at me and go, "yeah, she pulled that shit off."  I mean, look at me.

DEBRA: And I? Well, let's be honest. While I got fugged last week, I bounced back pretty well, didn't I? SUCK ON THAT, YOU BITCHES. I am WORKING THIS HOT DRESS.

HEIDI: I  am married to Seal, and we seem to be really happy together.

DEBRA: I'm married to...some guy! And we seem...no one has heard otherwise!

HEIDI: I have got some cute kids.

DEBRA: My child is also cute.

HEIDI: My television show is a huge success.

DEBRA: My new mini-series is....well, let's be honest, Heidi.  People may be watching it because nothing else is on TV right now, but once they do, they're finding it surprisingly entertaining.  No, really. I'm really kind of charming in it!  And did I mention that I look great tonight?

HEIDI: I have great hai --

DEBRA: Don't even go there.  You can wear a pumpkin on your head and no one bats an eye. My hair is all I've got sometimes, okay?

HEIDI: Well, it is pretty.

DEBRA: Thank you, Heidi.

HEIDI: Aw, so needy. You're welcome, liebling.  But shouldn't we be inside at the bar already?

DEBRA: At last, you've said something I don't feel that I need to rebut.

Oh, Posh. Truly, you are magic.

A Hooker With An Animal Fetish costume is one thing, but now she's prancing around in something that looks like it was never intended to see the light of day unless she has windows in her dressing room. It's just such an unnecessary bid for attention. How many other people as famous as she is -- with as many designer connections -- would feel the need to show up at a "Woman of the Year" event wearing a repurposed body-shaper? Oh, Posh. "Victoria's Secret" does not refer to you. On so many levels. You are a pretty bad secret-keeper.

Zooey Deschanel is really pretty, no doubt, and as Jezebel wisely pointed out yesterday, she's just overflowing with quirky adorability.

But, as we've said before, sister has got to can the black tights. Listen, no one loves black opaque  tights more than I do. I wore them all through high school, while I listened to a lot of Depeche Mode and pretended that I wasn't totally in love with Jason Priestley. And I wear them ALL THE TIME in the winter. They're sleek and warm, and make too-short skirts possible. But, listen, kiddo: IT'S JUNE. The time has come to warmly embrace your black tights, bid them a fond farewell, and tuck them into your sock drawer until October, when you can orchestrate a romantic reunion. Because black opaque tights on an incredibly sunny June day, paired with a summery white frock...well, I can feel the sweat rolling down the back of my knee just looking at you.

Judy Reyes is awesome on Scrubs, although most of the love I have for that show is funneled directly toward Donald Faison, if only for his Bel Biv Devoe routine.  However, I feel like maybe she needs to SEE a nurse, instead of just playing one on TV:

That is some kind of wicked skin condition you've got there, Judy. People aren't supposed to be sprouting scales like that, you know? Did you eat some weird fish somewhere? Did you maybe -- I'm sorry to be indelicate -- make out with a fish? Because, whatever this is, it seems like it might have been....you know. Sexually transmitted. And I don't judge you for loving marine life! I don't. Who doesn't have a place in her heart for Finding Nemo, for one thing? But your scales seem really aggressive.  At the very least, maybe you should talk to a veterinarian.

I would like very much to comment on Emma Watson's dress, and how it looks like a set of mischievous Weasley Twins fireworks went haywire and blew up a bird sanctuary.

But, I'm afraid to say anything. Hermione Granger is the best wizard in her class, see, and Emma looks like she'd enjoy nothing more than to summon the wits of her alter-ego and blast me with some sort of disfiguring charm that makes me grow Alec Baldwin's body hair, Owen Wilson's nose, and Paula Abdul's brain. All of which I could cope with, except for the part where I'd be telling people their talent smelled like the perfume of a pegasus on the wind. Nobody should have to live like that.

Be careful -- don't make any sudden moves. It's very rare to see a Pussycat Doll on its own in the wild, and we don't want it to get scared and run until we've made careful study.

Its name is allegedly "Kimberly," and based on the shoes and the fact that it is treating corsets like they're the new layering tees, I can only conclude that this species of Doll is part-elf, part-Hot Topic spokeswoman.

It also apparently missed the memo about formal shorts -- perhaps because it was too busy looking inward to try and find the inner confidence that inspires sexiness, or the inner sexiness that inspires confidence, and trying to decide when in that equation is the right time to just give up and flash more boob. Yes indeed, it's hard out there for a Doll -- which I believe is the logline for Hustle & Flow II: Bitch Crazy.

I had hoped that maybe Tichina Arnold was attending a costume party in this unfortunate get-up, but no. It was just an afterparty for the MTV Movie awards.

Therefore, she has no excuse for those tragic, tragic shoes. They remind me of those those Uggs with removable toes that my brethren in cold climates have recently been exhorted to wear to their winter-month pedicures. (Which I suppose, though hideous, do serve a practical purpose.)  And, while these would be HARD-CORE pedicure booties, with the snakeskin and all, I don't BELIEVE she's leaving the party for a pedi.

Although perhaps she was mid-DIY-Day of Beauty when she realized that she was really, really late for this shin-dig and raced out of  her house and right to the event, which would explain why she's still wearing her I'm-Just-Lazing-Around-the-House-Screwing-Around-With-That -St. Ives-Cucumber-Masque-That-Peels-Off tunic.

Hi, Michelle Trachtenberg? Have you got a sec?

Did you just come from dance class? No? Oh. Are you wearing this color as homage to your titular role in Harriet the Spy, like as a sartorial shout-out to Harriet's beloved tomato sandwiches (although, and please forgive me, I don't remember if that detail made it from the book to the movie. Which you were actually quite good in, though I didn't at first think you would be believable as a kid who'd climb into a dumbwaiter to spy on her neighbor. Man, that book really made me want to talk my parents into installing a dumbwaiter. And to become a spy. And to eat a tomato sandwich)? No? Oh.  Are you....did you.... is this....? Man. I can't think of another reason to be wearing a shiny red shorts jumpsuit over tights and what look like tap shoes. OH! Got one: are you actually working the casino floor there at the Hard Rock? Because if you are, doll, I'd LOVE a gimlet.

So, I was reading Entertainment Weekly this weekend, as you do, and they had an interview with Katherine Heigl in which she discussed all the parts she almost got before she landed her role on Grey's Anatomy. And one of them was as "Michael Vartan's evil wife on Alias."  (I always like to hear about what parts actors were considered for, and who eventually got the role, and how it would have worked out the other way. I just think it's interesting. Is there a book about that? I'm sure there is. But if not, one of you should write one. Thanks!) And Heigl herself said that if she'd gotten the role of Evil Crazy Lauren Vaughn, she never would have been able to do Grey's blah blah blah everything works out for the best.  With which I must agree. Because, if you believe in that whole The Flap Of One Butterfly's Wings In Zanzibar Affects The Amount Of Lampshades On Sale At Target in Culver City idea, then had Katherine Heigl gotten that part on Alias, maybe she would have been the one wearing these seriously heinous (and surely very pricey) shoes with a wrinkly, puffy-sleeved pillowcase, rather than poor afflicted Melissa George:

She really did dodge a bullet there.

Excitingly, we here at GFY have received some Sex and the City movie spoilers.

Apparently, when we pick up with our gals, Samantha -- aching to explore her more creative side after an accidental turn on a potter's wheel teaches her its unique sexual benefits -- will be taking refuge in the soothing confines of an adobe hut in New Mexico, where she will have made a name for herself fashioning belly chains, naughty toys, and dominatrix gear out of just turquoise and silver. But after a long, naked meditation in a sauna and some peyote, Samantha realizes she really misses the cool comfort of hanging upside-down from ankle cuffs made of actual leather and metal, and returns just in time to give Carrie a set before her wedding. So touching! You bring the hanky, Samantha will provide the panky.

I just experienced Meagan Good's performance in Stomp the Yard on Saturday, so her fresh-faced good looks are, er, fresh in my mind.  Which why this feels particularly tragic:

She looks like a cocktail waitress (complete with pockets for your swizzle sticks) at a 50s-by-way-of-the-80s themed diner -- the kind with lots of neon accents --  and I think I might be able to maybe see her nipple.

Welcome home, Lil' Kim.

Yes, she's been out of the pokey for a while now. But she's been looking pretty consistently covered and cute since her prison stay, to the point where I'd almost started to believe the fug had been slammered right out of her.

Oh, me of little faith. I should have known she'd return to form eventually. I mean, this is Lil' Kim. If you offer Lil' Kim a sheer mini-robe two sizes too small, a belt that looks like a skin infection, and glittery pasties shaped like Texas, she is going to take them and run. That's like dangling a sloppy-haired foreign shipping heir in front of Paris Hilton. Lil' Kim is only one woman; she has only so much will power, and so very much history of being as naked as possible.

I blame the Pussycat Dolls. Lil' Kim was a judge on The Pussycat Dolls Barely Showed Up Enough To Quality As Presenting: The Search For The Next Faceless Bandmember, and while it was awesome to hear her be all, "You think staying up late to rehearse is hard? Girl, I went to PRISON," I do also suspect all that semi-nude writhing made her miss her glory days of being America's most reliably exposed torso.

At the MTV Movie Awards this weekend, we saw a few egregious changes that we would do well to investigate. To that end, let's play a fun game called BEFORE AND AFTER, the rules of which I would happily explain, except I think they're pretty obvious.

We'll begin with Heidi Montag of The Hills. My disdain for Heidi's douchey boyfriend Spencer has been well-illustrated, and you can imagine what a great idea I think their "engagement" is. But, hey, who DOESN'T have an ill-advised first marriage in her past? Just get it out of the way, Heidi. Then you can arrange for MTV to create a reality show called Getting Over Spencer Pratt, a Bachelorette meets Flava of Love type show in which other Hollywood scensters compete to be your next husband. It will be hilarious!

Anyhoodle, in case you don't watch as much of The Hills as I do, this is what Heidi used to look like:

And this is what she looks now, a year later:

New fiance, new nose, new boobs, new lingerie-inspired wardrobe. Now, while I get that the girl wants to show off her investment -- and her new breasts ARE sort of mesmerizing -- I am pretty sure that she's ACTUALLY wearing lingerie. Like, not lingerie-inspired. Lingerie-lingerie. Wow:  the more you type the word "lingerie," the weirder it looks.

Anyway, I just hate the idea that, in one short year, the kid went from being sort of fresh-faced and natural looking to...you know, wearing lingerie as a dress. I blame Spencer.

I also blame Spencer for Amanda Bynes's new look.  I doubt the two of them have actually met, but I am sure he is somehow to blame. Behold, the new Amanda:

You know we love us some Posh. We couldn't be happier that she walks among us in Los Angeles, because it significantly increases the odds that we can bump into her at somewhere kind of pretentious, like the Urth Cafe, and convince her to go shopping with us so that we might better understand how her mind works. Because right now, we're in the dark, and we suspect that borrowing Edward Furlong's Terminator 2 haircut and bleaching the hell out of it might have scrambled her brain.

We haven't deluded ourselves into thinking Posh's taste is always upscale. I mean, the woman's blood type is O-Tacky. But a plastic-looking zebra-print dress with a hot pink bra deliberately showing? Vicky, Vicky, Vicky, that is so Latter-Day Britney of you (although we appreciate the omission of fishnet tights that are slowly rotting around your thighs).

Are you trying to call out to Britney? Are you trying to imply that you have much in common, and yet still much to teach? Are you going to take her under your wing and help her grow an equally outdated short coif so that she stops with the cheap weaves? Because honestly, I could get behind that. If Angelina Jolie is still too busy figuring out how to adopt Lindsay Lohan, then I can't think of another celeb whom I'd rather see yank Britney up by her bootstraps and slap some sense -- or at least, some different crazy -- into her. Can you imagine? They'd eat at The Ivy (or, in Posh's case, just sit there and stir a salad), they'd shop, they'd go to David's L.A. Galaxy games wearing giant sunglasses and cut-up tank tops, and they'd write a book together called The Sister I Never Had, forgetting of course that they both have sisters.

But, Vicky, be careful: Please stop short of hooking Brit up with one of Becks' teammates. We don't need her naming her next batch of children things like Beverly Hills and Sunset Boulevard and Hamlet.

I know, I know,  I'm supposed to be spending most of my time concerned about how skinny Nicole Richie is again, and I promise you, I AM.  Just today, in fact, I poured out some McDonald's special sauce for her.  That being said, I must admit that -- her serious inability to drive  and concerns about her scrawny little bod aside -- I find Nicole rather amusing. As we've mentioned before, her "novel," The Truth About Diamonds is kind of awesome and totally mean, and, while sister has hardcore problems, she would probably be the most entertaining of the Paris/Lindsay/Mischa/Nicole klatch to be stuck in an elevator with, as long as you didn't mind reading about how functionally retarded you are in her next novel, Lies About Sapphires.

However, while her hair extensions look good again, I am pretty sure I last saw those heinous glasses gathering dust on the rack at the BP station between Los Angeles and Fresno in 1987.

*Please note: I feel that I need to clarify the "82 pound" option, as I've received some emails indicating that I wasn't clear enough in writing the poll, and I can't edit the poll and blah blah technical blah.  What I was going for was, "Wow, when an outfit kind of requires that you be super, incredibly weensy to pull it off,  it's going to be MAD TROUBLESOME to the rest of us: HIGH-WAISTED SHORTS AND BODYSUITS: DON'T DO IT!"  Not, "let's all go on a diet!" I would never tell you to go on a diet. Have you seen yourself? You're spectacular.

Oh, poor Girl Who Is On Hidden Palms as the Joey Potter character, I can not cosign those boots with that dress:

I actually kind of like the dress -- casual, but not messy! etc! -- despite the fact that this color and texture of fabric often puts me in the mind of cotton jersey tee shirt sheets. Which is actually not a complaint.  God knows I would wear nothing but clothing fashioned from sheets if it were socially acceptable. But white pleather boots really only work if you are a go-go dancer or a stripper whose professional persona falls into the Naughty Nurse category.

Maybe this moderately inept pairing is a subtle nod to how totally inept Hidden Palms, sadly, is. I'm sorry, Show Featuring People Who Were Better on The OC.  I wanted to enjoy you. And yet, you are too preposterous, even for me, a girl who watches One Tree Hill (a show which, this season alone, has featured the aftermath of a secret brother-on-brother-murder; a boy posing as a long lost sibling who turns out to be a stalker/kidnapper/nutcase; three people potentially drowning [in a limo which careened off a bridge after a wedding] who are saved [maybe] by the ghost of the dead guy; the dead guy visiting Chad Michael Murray from beyond while CMM was in a coma that happened after he neglected to take his heart medicine so that he could help his half-brother shave points in a basketball game at the behest of Rick Fox who then ran down the half-brother's pregnant wife with a car and wrapped said car around a tree; four potential and two actual pregnancies; a sub-plot involving Stephen Colletti and a club full of virgins; the brother-murderer setting his victim's grave on fire accidentally;  a girl stamping her rival's prom dress with the word "whore" so that it would show up under the prom's blacklights [they made up after getting locked in the basement together by the stalker/kidnapper/nutcase and having to destroy him together using cheerleading moves]; a nerd getting thrown into and making friends in prison, from which he was picked up by five other characters who hitched a ride to Texas, where he was being jailed, on Tyler Hilton's tour bus; and several girl-on-girl punching incidents).  I've heard Hidden Palms improves after the pilot, and as the highlight of the pilot involved a girl wailing like a banshee while running through the sprinklers, I certainly hope so -- this poor child needs the shoe budget.

Apparently, Paulina Rubio has forgotten one of the first rules of being a girl.

Before you leave the house in a wee little dress made of old leather jackets whose spirits have moved on to that giant biker bar in the sky, you check EVERYTHING. Can you sit in it? Can you jump up and down in it without it falling down or off? If you lean over someone's table, will things turn pornographic? Are your boobs secure? And most importantly, if you're prone to waving your arms in the air like you just don't care, will that come back to bite you in your hot-pink panties?

Girl needs bigger mirrors. OR SOME PANTS.